Black Cherry Blues (20 page)

The amphibian made one pass over the beach, gunned its engines and banked into the cloudless sky over my head, then made a wide turn and came in over the top of a cherry orchard and a sailboat dock, flattening out and touching its belly and wing pontoons down on the water in a spray of white foam and mist from the back draft of the propellers.

While Clete cooked and attended to the elder Dio, who sat sullen and wrapped in a shawl with a glass of red wine in his hand, the others took rides on the plane. I was amazed at the carelessness of the pilot and the faith of those who flew with him. They lifted off the water and into the wind and cleared the pines by no more than thirty feet, then climbed high into the sun, banked at a sharp angle, and came back between a cut in the hills, dipping down over beachfront houses in a roar of noise that made fishermen in outboards pull their anchors and turn in to shore.

I watched them for two hours. They smoked dope in the lee of the van, drank wine and canned beer out of a washtub filled with crushed ice, ate bleeding steaks and tossed salads off paper plates, swam out breathlessly into the lake and climbed laughing into their yellow raft, their bodies hard and prickled with cold. The girls were pretty and tan and good to look at. Everyone was happy, except maybe Clete and the elder Dio. The Tahoe crowd were the kind of people who knew that they would never die.

The sun had moved into the western sky, which was absolutely blue above the green hills, and the light must have glinted on my field glasses because I saw Sally Dio look up suddenly and squint at the pine trees in which I knelt. I stepped back into the shadows and refocused through the branches. Dio stood by Clete and his father and was pointing in my direction. Clete stopped cleaning up paper plates from a picnic table, glanced up briefly at the cliff, then resumed his work. But Sally Dio and his father looked as if they were staring at an angry dog that was running against its chain. The elder Dio’s mouth was wide when he spoke to Clete again, and Clete flung a handful of picnic trash into a garbage can, walked down to the water’s edge where the swimmers had left the raft, dragged it up on the sand, and began pulling out the air plugs. Then he loaded the hampers, the washtub of beer and wine coolers, and the elder Dio back into the van.

I could have gotten out of there, I suppose, without being seen. But sometimes self-respect requires that you float one down the middle, letter high, big as a balloon, and let the batter have his way. I walked through the trees back to the road. The air was cool in the shade and heavy with the smell of the pine needles on the ground. Bluebirds with yellow wings flew in and out of the smoky light at the tops of the trees. I walked up the shoulder of the road, got in my truck, put my field glasses inside their case, put the case inside the glove box, and started the engine just as Dio’s van and Clete’s jeep turned out of the entrance to the public beach and headed toward me.

I saw Sally Dio’s face through the wide front window of the van, saw the recognition and anger grow in it as he looked back at me and took his foot off the accelerator. Clete was slowing behind him at the same time.

Dio stopped opposite my cab and stared at me.

“What the fuck you think you’re doing, man?” he said.

Through the bubble side window of the van I could see people sitting in leather swivel chairs. Their faces gathered at the window as though they were looking out of a fishbowl.

“Wonderful day,” I said.

“What the fuck you doing up in that woods?”

“What do you care? You’re not shy. Come on, Dio. That air show was first-rate.”

I saw his nostrils whiten around the edges.

“We told you the other day you don’t come around,” he said.

“You’re not a cop. You seem to have confusion about that.”

I turned off my engine and clicked my nails on the window jamb. He turned off his engine, too. It was silent on the road, except for the wind blowing through the pines. The western sun over the lake made his waxed black van almost glow with an aura.

“I heard you like to take off parts of people,” I said.

“You heard what?”

“The Sal the Duck story. It’s the kind of stuff they enjoy at the DEA. It brightens up a guy’s file.”

He opened the door and started to step out on the road. I saw his father lean forward from the back and try to hold his shoulder. The father’s lips looked purple against his gray skin; his goiter worked in his throat and his eyes were intense and black when he spoke. But Sally Dio was not listening to his father’s caution, and he slid off the seat and stepped out on the road.

I set my sunglasses on the dashboard and got out of the truck. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Clete standing by his jeep. Dio had put on a pair of Levi’s over his bathing suit. His denim shirt was open, and his stomach was flat and ridged with muscle. I heard the van door slide open on the far side, and a sun-bleached boy and girl walked around the back and stared at me, but it was obvious they intended to remain spectators. Through the trees I could see the sun click on the deep-blue rippling sheen of the lake.

“You’ve got a serious problem,” Sally Dio said.

“How’s that?” I said, and I smiled.

“You hear an Italian name, you think you can piss on it. A guy’s been up the road, you think he’s anybody’s fuck.”

“You’re not a convincing victim, Dio.”

“So you keep coming around, provoking a guy, bothering his family, bothering his friends.” He touched me lightly on the chest with three stiff fingers. There were small saliva bubbles in the corner of his mouth. His duck tailed hair was the color of burnt copper in the slanting light.

“It’s time to back off, partner,” I said, and smiled again.

“And it don’t matter you been warned. You get in people’s face, you got no respect for an old man, you got no respect for people’s privacy. You’re a jitter bird man.” His three stiffened fingers tapped against my chest again, this time harder.

“You get off hanging around swinging dicks, ‘cause you got nothing going on your own.”

His face came closer to mine and he poked me in the chest again. The looped scar under his right eye looked like a flattened piece of string on his skin. I slipped my hands into the back pockets of my khakis, as a third-base coach might, and looked off at the sunlight winking through the pine trees.

“Let me run something by you, Sal,” I said.

“Did you ever ask yourself why you have a certain kind of people hanging around you? Hired help, rummy musicians, beach boys with rut for brains. Do you think it’s just an accident that everybody around you is a gum ball When’s the last time somebody told you you were full of shit?”

I could hear his breathing.

“You got a death wish, man. You got something wrong with you,” he said.

“Let’s face it, Sal. I’m not the guy with the electronic gate on my driveway. You think the Fuller Brush man is going to whack you out?”

He wet his lips to speak again, then suddenly one side of his face tightened and he swung at my head. I ducked sideways and felt a ring graze across my ear and scalp. Then I hooked him, hard, between the mouth and the nose. His head snapped back, and his long hair collapsed over his ears. Then he came at me, swinging wildly with both fists, the way an enraged child would. Before I could hit him squarely again, he locked both arms around me, grunting, wheezing in my ear; I could smell his hair tonic and deodorant and the reefer smoke in his clothes. Then he released one of his arms, bent his knees, and swung at my phallus.

But his aim was not as good as his design. He hit me inside the thigh, and I brought my elbow into his nose, felt it break like a chicken bone, saw the shock and pain in his eyes just before I hit him again, this time in the mouth. He bounced off the van’s side panel, and I hit him hard in the face again. He was trying to raise his hands in front of him, but it did him no good. I heard the back of his head bounce off the metal again, saw the genuine terror in his eyes, saw his blood whipped across the glass bubble in the panel, felt my fists hit him so hard that his face went out of round.

Then Clete was between us, his revolver drawn, one arm held out stiffly toward me, his eyes big and glaring.

“Back away, Dave! I’ll shoot you in the foot! I swear to God I will!” he said.

On the edge of my vision I could see cars stopped on the road in each direction. Clete was breathing through his mouth, his eyes riveted on mine. Sally Dio had both of his hands pressed to his face. His fingers were red in the sunlight through the trees. In the distance I heard a police siren. I felt the heat go out of my chest the way a hot-eyed, hook-beaked raven would fly out of a cage.

“Sure,” I said.

“I mean it, all the way across the road,” he said.

I held up my palms.

“No problem,” I said.

“Don’t you want me to move my truck, though? We’re blocking a lot of traffic.”

I saw the sun-bleached boy and the girl walk Sally Dio around to the other side of the van. A sheriff’s car was driving around the traffic jam on the edge of the road. Cletus put his revolver back in his nylon shoulder holster.

“You crazy sonofabitch,” he said.

    The holding cell in the county jail was white and small, and the barred door gave onto a small office area where two khaki-uniformed deputies did their paperwork. The cell contained nothing to sit or sleep on but a narrow wood bench that was bolted into the back wall, and no plumbing except a yellow-streaked drain in the center of the cement floor. I had already used the phone to call the babysitter in Missoula to tell her that I would probably not be home that night.

One of the deputies was a big Indian with a plug of chewing tobacco buttoned down tightly in his shirt pocket. He bent over a cuspidor by the side of his desk and spit in it. He had come into the office only a few minutes earlier.

“They already told you Dio’s not pressing charges?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“So it’s just a disorderly conduct charge. Your bond’s a hundred bucks.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Write a check.”

“I don’t have one.”

“You want to use the phone again?”

“I don’t know anyone I can call.”

“Look, guilty court’s not for two days.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it, podna.”

“The judge’s already gone home or the sheriff could ask him to let you out on your own recognizance. We’ll see what we can do tomorrow.”

“I appreciate it.”

“You came all the way up here from Louisiana to stomp Sally Dio’s ass?”

“It sort of worked out that way.”

“You sure picked on one bad motherfucker. I think you’d be better off if you’d blown out his light altogether.”

For supper I ate a plate of watery lima beans and a cold Spam sandwich and drank a can of Coca-Cola. It was dark outside the window now, and the other deputy went home. I sat in the gloom on the wood bench and opened and closed my hands. They felt thick and stiff and sore on the knuckles. Finally the Indian looked at his watch.

“I left a message for the judge at his house. He didn’t call back,” he said.

“I got to take you upstairs.”

“It’s all right.”

As he took the keys to the cell out of his desk drawer his phone rang. He nodded while he listened, then hung up.

“You got the right kind of lady friend,” he said.

“What?”

“You’re cut loose. Your bail’s your fine, too. You ain’t got to come back unless you want to plead not guilty.”

He turned the key in the iron lock, and I walked down the wood-floored corridor toward the lighted entrance that gave onto the parking lot. She stood under the light outside, dressed in blue jeans and a maroon shirt with silver flowers stitched on it. Her black hair was shiny in the light, and she wore a deerskin bag on a string over her shoulder.

“I’ll drive you back to your truck,” she said.

“Where’s Clete?”

“Up at Sal’s.”

“Does he know where you are?”

“I guess he does. I don’t hide anything from him.”

“Nothing?” I said.

She looked at me and didn’t answer. We walked toward her jeep in the parking lot. The sheen on her hair was like the purple and black colors in a crow’s wing. We got in and she started the engine.

“What’s China pearl?” she asked.

“High-grade Oriental skag. Why?”

“You knocked out one of Sal’s teeth. They gave him a shot of China pearl for the pain. You must have been trying to kill him.”

“No.”

“Oh? I saw his face. There’re bloody towels all over his living room rug.”

“He dealt it, Darlene. He’s a violent man and one day somebody’s going to take him out.”

“He’s a violent man? That’s too much.”

“Listen, you’re into some kind of strange balancing act with these people. I don’t know what it is, but I think it’s crazy. Clete said he met you when you drove Dixie Lee all the way back to Flathead from a reservation beer joint. Why would you do that for Dixie Lee?”

“He’s a human being, isn’t he?”

“He’s also barroom furniture that usually doesn’t get hauled across the mountains by pretty Indian girls.”

She drove up the east shore of the lake without answering. The trunks of the aspens and birch trees were silver in the moonlight, the rim of mountains around the lake black against the sky. I tried one more time.

“What does it take to make you understand you don’t belong there?” I said.

“Where do I belong?”

“I don’t know. Maybe with another guy.” I swallowed when I said it.

The scars on the backs of her hands were thin and white in the glow of moon- and starlight through the window.

“Do you want to take a chance on living with me and my little girl?” I said.

She was silent a moment. Her mouth looked purple and soft when she turned her face toward me.

“I won’t always be in this trouble. I’ve had worse times. They always passed,” I said.

“How long will you want me to stay?”

“Until you want to leave.”

Her hands opened and then tightened on the steering wheel.

“You’re lonely now,” she said.

“After we were together, maybe you’d feel different.”