An Obvious Fact (11 page)

“I've known him my whole life, so a few times, yes, but not many.”

She turned the tarnished gold eyes back to me. “You are now free to embellish.”

“I don't know.”

“Walt . . .”

“I grant you, there is a resemblance.”

“They look exactly alike.” She shook her head. “If you were to go to the Henry Standing Bear Store and they were out of Henry Standing Bears, they would offer you a slightly more diminutive Bodaway Torres.”

“Why would she wait this long to tell him?”

She sipped her soda and postulated. “I don't know; she's nuts?”

“There's that.” I slouched in the corner of the booth and poked my boots out the end. “Working on the supposition that you're right and there is a connection, maybe she didn't have any intention of telling him, but then this happened and she truly is desperate.”

She shook her head at me.

“What?”

“You are such a goofball for women.” She set her glass down and leaned in across the table. “I know this is going to come as a surprise, but there are women out there who are capable of doing anything as horrible as a man can do and worse.”

A large shadow suddenly darkened our table. “What are you two talking about?”

Vic scooted over so that Henry could have a seat, since there was more room on her side. “Um, nothing.”

I gestured toward the half a pie. “Want some pizza?”

“I am not hungry.”

“I would offer you something to drink, but that led to your being a fugitive.”

“But I like pizza.” He picked up a slice and took a bite, grabbed Vic's wineglass to spite me, and took a sip.

Vic and I looked at each other. “So, what are the chances?”

He took another bite and chewed, obviously hungrier than he had thought. “I do not know.”

Vic leaned forward, looking at him and maybe making an aesthetic analysis. “He looks like you.”

“Yes.”

“Has Lola ever said anything to you?”

“No, I have not heard from her in over thirty years.”

Vic ventured a question. “Um, not to put too delicate a point on this, but can you remember the last time you and Lola . . .” He turned to look at her. “I mean a date, time of year?”

“No.” He stared at her. “I did not keep a diary.”

“Gimme my wine back.”

He handed it to her. “I am saying it is improbable. I am not saying it is impossible.”

She sipped. “I'd like to see a photo of the Delshay Torres of record.”

I looked up at a clock on the wall and noted the time. “If we get back to Hulett before Chief Nutter closes up shop, we can ask him to take a look on the National Crime Information Center database. They've probably got a photo of him.”

Vic watched the Bear. “You really don't think he's yours?”

“I do not know.” He pulled his own phone from his pocket.
“I have received a text from Jamey saying he has Dog in his truck and is wondering where you would like him deposited.”

“If he doesn't mind Dog-sitting, he can just hang onto him till we get back. Dog doesn't like being in the motel room alone.”

“I will text him.” He did and then returned the phone to his pocket. “What do we do now?”

“We were thinking that was your call.”

He nodded and reached for Vic's wine again, and this time I could see where the skin had been stripped from his knuckles. “Why would the ATF be so interested in the distribution of guns?”

Vic barked a laugh. “Because it's illegal, and because their jurisdiction is alcohol, tobacco, and—let's see, what's the last one? Oh, yeah—firearms.”

The Cheyenne Nation shook his head. “When we met Agent Post in the motel room, it seemed like more than that.” He glanced at me. “Almost a year of undercover work to infiltrate one of the most violent biker gangs around just to locate some random hardware?”

“What are you thinking?”

He shrugged and then turned his head, watching the sun start to make its own escape behind the Black Hills. “Something that would fit on a motorcycle.”

“So, smaller than a bread box?” They both looked at me. “It's a box you put bread in.” They continued to look at me. “So, do you want to go get what may or may not be the mother of your child out of jail?”

“No.”

“Okay.” I pulled out Bodaway's phone and looked at it
again. “You said seventeen calls from Chloe Nance, a couple from the 310 area code, thirty-two from Mom, nine from a number with a Phoenix area code but no ID, twenty-one from The Chop Shop, and three from this pizza place.” I sipped my tea and glanced at the waitress behind the counter. “So, let's start with the easiest.” I gestured to get her attention. “Miss, could I get some more iced tea?”

She hurried over. “Sorry, I was folding napkins.”

I watched as she filled my glass and then looked at Henry. “Would you like something?”

“No, I am fine.”

She studied him, and I asked, “Miss, we're looking for my friend here's son and was wondering if you'd seen him. Bodaway Torres?” I quickly added. “B-way?”

She smiled a dazzling grin toward Henry. “I was just thinking he looked like you.” She stuck out her hand. “I'm Tiffany. I'm sure he's told you about me?”

The Bear matched her grin for grin, enveloping her hand in his. “Tiffany, of course he has.”

“You tell that dirty bird I'm mad at him; he hasn't called or anything for days.”

I redirected the conversation. “He's been kind of tied up lately. As a matter of fact, we've been having trouble tracking him down ourselves. You wouldn't happen to know who he's been running with these days?”

She thought about it. “There's that guy with the do-rag and the tattoos.”

“Tall with a goatee?”

She nodded. “And the broken nose, yeah.”

I glanced at the others. “Brady Post.”

“Yeah, that's him. I remember him saying his name.”

“Anybody else?”

She stepped back, and the smile died; I guess I was pushing a little too hard. She looked at Henry. “You are his dad, right?”

The Bear broadened his grin, displaying stunning white ivories against his sun-bronzed skin. “Far as we know.”

She relaxed and punched his shoulder, but withdrew her hand and wiped it on her jeans, just now realizing his jersey was torn and had blood on it. “Um, there's Billy ThE Kiddo. That's the only other person I ever saw him with.”

“Billy the Kiddo?”

“No Billy ThE with a capital E. You've never heard of him? He's got his own TV show—
Billy ThE Kiddo's Chopper Off?
It was huge till he punched some producer and they canceled it. Word is he's in negotiation with another cable network, and they're gonna have another series based on him.” She shrugged. “At least that's what they say. He's originally from here and has a custom motorcycle place just down the street called The Chop Shop.”

“The Chop Shop.” I shook my head. “Do you have an address?”

“Oh, you can't miss it.” She glanced at Henry again. “You tell B-way to text me, okay?”

• • •

We decided to call Sheriff Engelhardt to ask him to check on Torres Senior, and after the Cheyenne Nation apologized, Irl agreed to message a photo of the man as soon as they found one. As a precautionary measure, I had him look up Billy ThE Kiddo, just so we'd know what we were up against.

“Kiddo? That's his real last name? Shit, I'd get a nickname, too.” Vic parked the Challenger across the street from The Chop Shop, which was housed in a remodeled corner gas station still replete with old-fashioned pumps albeit modern neon.

The Pennington County sheriff read to me over the speakerphone. “Oh, he is a real piece of work, Walt.” I glanced at the face on the screen and then held the phone for the others to see. Irl continued, “Behold Billy ThE Kiddo, six foot two, two hundred and twenty-seven pounds. Over a dozen cases of aggravated assault, two domestic violence charges, one assault with a deadly weapon charge, and once even choked a K9 unit dog unconscious in Orange County, California.”

Vic studied the mug shot. “He's got a mullet.”

Irl laughed. “It's a nice one, isn't it? I doubt he hears much with that party going on in the back of his head. He can build bikes though. Started over in Sturgis at those build-offs and somebody from Hollywood saw him and figured he was a genuine American outlaw and gave him his own reality show. He was living out there in Los Angeles, but something happened and he's back here with a couple of those motorcycle places set up like franchises.”

Henry turned the phone his way and looked at the photo, and at the multitude of tattoos and piercings. “I do not think he is the president of Rotary.”

“Originally from Rapid City and a good family; it's undisclosed exactly where the poor little lamb went astray.”

Vic opened the glove box, took out her Glock, checked the magazine, and slapped it back in the 9mm.

Irl interrupted. “Excuse me, but was that the sound of a
semiautomatic pistol's magazine being expertly reintroduced between the weapon's grips?”

I made a face at my undersheriff. “Nope, just the glove box.”

“Walt?”

“No trouble, I promise.”

He continued, “We've had a number of zoning problems with this jaybird and a few charges for dumping harmful chemicals into the local water system. You want me to send a few guys around to back you up?”

“No, we're just going to ask him a few questions about the kid that got hurt. I guess they knew each other.”

“All right, but don't shoot anybody.”

I assured him. “Right.”

“Vic?” Evidently he was not assured.

“What?”

“What are we not doing today?”

She climbed out, flipping the seat forward and allowing me egress as she took the phone and began making squelch noises with her mouth. “Schweeesclerbleee, swurchscwerch, scweee . . . can't hear you, Irl, you're breaking up. Schweeesclerbleee, swurchscwerch, scweee scwch scwch.” She made a few more noises into the phone, then hung up and handed it back to me.

“I just want you to know, I'm never falling for that one again.”

She curtseyed as she stuffed the Glock in the back of her jeans. “Sure you will.”

As we walked across the street toward The Chop Shop, the music of air wrenches drifted out to meet us, along with the sound of an acetylene torch turning metals into liquids.

It was one of those vintage gas stations with a rounded
glass-block front and vaulted canopies that covered the old pumps and stretched out toward the street. The building was painted black, and there were a multitude of outrageous-looking motorcycles to match lined up everywhere, in different stages of disrepair and assembly. Through a door in the work area were a few young ladies in skimpy outfits and smoking cigarettes, loafing in what must've been the office.

One of them looked up as we walked into the bays. “Hi. Welcome to Billy ThE Kiddo's Chop Shop. Can I help you?”

I smiled. “Do you have to say that every time somebody comes in?”

“Pretty much.”

“Is Henry McCarty, aka William H. Bonney, around?”

She pushed off the edge of the desk and abandoned her companion. “Huh?”

“Billy ThE Kiddo.”

“You got a bike problem?”

She was talking to me, but she was looking at Henry, not that I blamed her.

Henry saved us by speaking up. “I have got a shovelhead rebuild that I am doing, and I am past the wrist-pin alignment and the pistons are ready to go in. Now I know the ring gaps should never be in line with each other or placed on a thrust area of the bore. The major thrust area is the rear of the cylinder wall and the next minor thrust area is the front, but will the oil ring expander come in contact with the cylinder bore or the oil ring scraper rail gaps?”

You could see the struggle as she thought about bullshitting the Bear but then thought better of it. “Um . . . maybe you should talk to Billy.”

The Cheyenne Nation showed some teeth. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

The dishwater blonde threw a thumb over her shoulder toward the bay where all the noise was coming from. “He's welding, so shield your eyes.”

She left us, and we ambled toward the back where a very lithe-looking individual was crouched down working on the gas tank of a bike that looked as though it had undergone a great deal of modification. It also looked like a death trap.

As we waited, I glanced around the shop and noticed a very heavy security door led to the back and had to admit that it was an impressive operation—a little grimy but impressive.

“What do you want?”

I turned around and discovered that The Chop Shop's chief cook and bottle washer was holding the brass nozzle of the torch away from his work and had nudged the dark glasses up onto his rooster-like platinum hair.

“We're looking for Mr. Kiddo?”

“Billy—people call me Billy ThE.” He stood, closed off the acetylene, and turned to face us, and I'm not sure if I'd ever seen that much defined muscle on one person before. He had the easy smile of someone who was used to getting what he wanted, and I was betting we were seeing a good seven thousand dollars' worth of dental work; then there were the diamond earrings, which probably cost a couple thousand more. He hung the nozzle on the rack with the tanks, pulled a red shop rag from his back pocket, and wiped off his long, tattooed fingers. “Well, you found him. Now what?”

“Do you happen to know a young man by the name of Bodaway Torres?”

“Yeah, I know B-way. What about him.”

“Do you mind telling us what your dealings with him might've been?”

He studied the three of us. “You guys cops?”

I gestured toward Vic and myself. “Two out of three.”