Cold Dish (19 page)

I had a date. My first date in . . . since before I was married. Wine, I had to remember wine. The only place that would be open was the Sinclair station’s liquor annex. Somehow, I didn’t think they would have the vintage I was looking for. If I could catch Henry at the bar, he could supply me. I backed out and headed for the Wolf Valley.

 

When I got to the bar my mood deflated a little; the lights were all off, and there wasn’t a vehicle in sight. Henry often closed up if no one was around. I suppose he figured that nursing the drunks through the nights when they were there was one thing, but anticipating them was another. I swung around and headed back home. I thought about continuing on out to his place but figured I would just call him at the Pony tomorrow. I looked over at the lovely fish resting on the passenger-side floor mat and tried to think of how to cook them without messing them up. I relaxed a little when I caught a flash of reflected taillight as I pulled up the drive to my little cabin. I looked in at the powder blue Thunderbird convertible with its top down and at the pristine white interior as I gathered my assortment of things.

Henry’s father had bought the car new in Rapid City back in 1959, about three months before he was diagnosed with “the” cancer. That’s what they called it back then, “the” cancer, like “the” winter, or “the” Black Death. I leaned over the door and read the odometer: 33,432 miles. When the old man passed over, there had been a great deal of controversy in the family as to who would get the T-bird. Henry ended the debate by fishing the keys out of the old man’s last pair of pants that lay crumpled beside his deathbed. Henry started the Thunderbird, drove the old girl forty miles, and parked her in an undisclosed garage somewhere in Sheridan. None of them ever asked him about it again, ever. He called the car Lola.

“Hey, get away from that car.” The deep voice had come from the darkness, somewhere under the new porch roof. I walked up the slight grade to the front of my newly transformed log cabin. The porch ran the entire length of the house, and the smell of the freshly cut redwood was enchanting. The roof consisted of two-by-six tongue and groove; the green tin surrounded the edges and joined seamlessly with the already existing roof. It was a really good job, even I could see that. The rough-cut six-by-sixes gave the place a look of permanence, the look of a home. There were a couple of concrete blocks stacked on the ground at the center, which allowed access between the railings.

I stood beside the blocks and leaned against one of the upright timbers. “Damn.”

“Not bad, huh?” He sat by the front door and leaned against the wall with his legs crossed and stretched out in front of him. His worn moccasins translated the print of his feet through the moosehide. He reached down and plucked out a bottle of beer from the holder and tossed it to me; it almost slipped, but I caught it. “You were going to be able to have three, but then it got late. Now, you only get two.”

I opened the beer and took a sip. “They do good work.”

“They are going to be back tomorrow to finish the railings and put some steps in.”

“They know it’s going to snow tonight?”

He shrugged and straightened his shoulders against the log wall. “Not until after midnight.” I looked out at the convertible and hoped he was right.

I took another sip, wandered down the porch, and nodded toward the car. “Special occasion?”

“Last hurrah. I do not suppose I will get a chance to drive her anymore this year.” His eyes stayed on the car and, in the flat moonlight, it looked very pale; another ghost pony for Henry.

“Slow night at the bar?”

“Yes. What is in the tinfoil?”

“Couple ’a browns.” I stuck out a hand and pulled him up. “You want help putting her top up?”

He looked past me to the hills across the valley. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I laid the fish on the counter by the sink and tossed the feather packet over toward the edge. He went to the refrigerator and pulled out a carton of milk and eggs he must have brought Sunday. He opened the carton and sniffed. “Do you still have the cornmeal?”

I went over to the lower cabinet by the door and retrieved the cardboard container; the corner was already eaten through. I shrugged as I handed it to him. “Sorry.” He shook his head and cracked two eggs in a bowl, whisking them with a fork and adding some milk. He retrieved the frying pan from earlier in the week, checked it for mouse shit, turned on a front burner, and dropped a dollop of butter onto the slowly warming iron. He was fun to watch in the kitchen, his movements easy and smooth. It dawned on me that I should ask, “Anything I can do?”

“No, I prefer my trout meuniere sans poopi.” He opened the tinfoil and admired the fish. “Beautiful. Where did you get them?”

“What makes you think I didn’t catch them?”

He didn’t honor this statement with a response but dumped out a bed of cornmeal in a dish and whisked the batter some more. Finishing this, he picked up his beer and started to take a sip. “I don’t suppose you have any peanut oil, parsley, or white wine?”

“No, but I have a date tomorrow night.”

He nodded, extended his arm, and poured part of his beer in the batter. He coated the fish, layered them in the cornmeal, then took a dish towel hanging from the drawer pull under the sink and tilted the handle of the frying pan. “Good.”

“I need some help.”

He watched the butter slide down the inside of the pan, added a little more, and rested it back on the burner. “Yes?”

“Wine?”

“Yes, wine is a good thing.”

He didn’t see the sarcastic look I was giving him. “I need help picking one out.”

He stared at the fish. “Dinner is in her home?”

“Yes.”

“What is she serving?”

“I don’t know.” He slowly shook his head and took a sip of his beer; I was driving him to drink. I took a swig of my own and smiled, putting a good face on things. “She didn’t say.”

He nodded, spreading his hands over the repast. “Red with beef, white with fish, or cheap beer with everything.” He leaned against the counter and braced his weight on one arm. “Is this to be a gift or to accompany dinner?”

“Does it matter?”

“Yes. If it is to accompany dinner and it is white, then it must arrive chilled. If it is a gift, then it should not.”

“What if I just don’t let her touch the bottle?”

He nodded sagely. “Are you going to let her drink any?”

“Oh, there is that.” He finished off the abbreviated beer and pulled the last one from the cardboard carrier. “I thought that was mine?”

“You do not deserve it.” He opened it and took a swig before I could grab it away. “Then there is chicken.”

“What about chicken?”

“It can go either way.”

“I’ve heard that about chickens.”

He shook his head some more. “According to how it is prepared, it can go with either red or white. The whole idea of wine is to complement the meal. There are dry wines, moderately dry wines, dessert wines, aperitifs, sparkling wines, fortified wines, sherries, and ports . . .”

“Mad Dog 20-20?” I was trying to be helpful.

“There are an infinite number of both white and red wines: sauternes, chardonnays, pinot grigios, sauvignon blancs on the white side; bordeaux, burgundy, beaujolais, pinot noir, zinfandel, shiraz, merlot, syrah on the red side; never mind the vineyards themselves and the vintners. The wine of the year is a cabernet blend from the coastal region of Bolgheri. Antinori planted sixty percent to cabernet sauvignon, thirty-five percent to merlot, and five percent to cabernet franc. Then there are the appellations—St. Emilion, Margaux, Barolo, Barbera, and Chianti . . .”

“Which ones come in cartons?”

He nudged the empty carrier with the punt of his bottle. “How about a nice six-pack?”

“I’m trying to change my image.”

“Yes, I am trying to change it, too, but it does not seem to be working.” He took two of the fish and plopped them in their reflective image in melted butter; they sizzled and settled in as he returned the skillet to the stovetop. There was only room for two of the fillets at a time.

“What about the chenin blanc she drinks at the bar?”

“That is a good choice, along with a merlot. Just in case.”

“You can hook me up?” A term I had picked up from Vic.

“Yes.”

I went ahead and ate while thinking about which subject I wanted to raise first as he prepared the next brace of trout. “Things really that slow at the bar?”

He flipped his own dinner onto a plate and joined me at the counter. “Slow enough that I could get out of there this evening.”

“Ever get tired of it?”

“Every day, but then I look at my bank account and get over it.” He started on his dinner, and I let him eat for a while before I disturbed him with another question. I knew why he owned the bar, why he had gravitated to it. A sense of community. In a way, it was why we both did what we did. It was a way of looking after things, making sure everything was all right. “How is your fish?”

I guess that meant he was ready to talk. “Great, thanks.”

“Hey, they were your fish.”

“Jim Ferguson’s, to be exact.” He was like that, always making an attempt to put everyone at ease. “Roger Russell come out to the bar a lot?”

He thought about it. “No.”

“That time the other night, the only time he’s been in?”

“Yes.” His head rolled to one side, and he leaned back a little to keep his hair out of his food.

“He’s on Omar’s short list of shooters.”

He continued eating. “Who else is on the list?”

I told him, and his face carried nothing. “Comment?”

He grunted. “I am not sayin’ nothin’, shamus, till I talk to my mouthpiece.” We talked about the list for a while, his assumptions riding alongside mine. He didn’t spend enough time in town to make any real connections to the group. The only one he was interested in, for obvious reasons, was Artie Small Song. “He has worked for Omar.”

“Yep, Omar said.”

I watched the air fill his lungs and admired the way the weight of his chest didn’t force it out. I would never be built like Henry, capable of fight or flee. I was stuck with fight, but maybe I could be a little better at it. I could still feel the dull ache in my legs, and somewhere, down deep, I could feel a slight twinge at my stomach where most people had abdominal muscles. I readjusted my weight on the stool, and his eyes came up. “Artie was in the bar the day Cody Pritchard was shot.”

Shit. “At the same time, before, after?”

He nodded his head ever so slightly. “Before.”

“How much before?”

“About an hour before, left when Cody came in.”

I sat my fork and knife down, as I rapidly lost my appetite. “You see which way he went?”

“No.”

We sat for a few moments more. “I need you to tell me what you’re thinking.” He got up and walked over to the window with his hands on his hips and looked out at the wind picking up and at his car with the top down. “You want me to help you put the top up on the T-bird?”

He didn’t turn, and his voice sounded far away. “I told you, it is not going to snow until after midnight.” I waited for what seemed like a very long time. “You must understand that this puts me in a very uncomfortable position.”

“How about I just call Billings or Hardin?”

“How about you just put your questions in a bottle and float them up the Powder River? Same result.” I waited some more, watching him breathe.

“I’m perfectly willing to be turned down.”

“Yes, you are, and that is one of many reasons I would do it.”

“Think he’ll be cooperative?”

“No. Not if he has any suspicions.” I didn’t like using Henry like this, but I convinced myself it was for a greater good. I was sure that the same thought was going through the back of the head at which I was looking.

“Know him very well?”

“Well enough.”

I changed the subject in my usual subtle fashion. “Know of any Sharps out on the Rez?”

There was no pause. “Lonnie Little Bird has one.”

“What?”

He half turned and smiled. “Lonnie has one.”

I leaned back on my stool and crossed my arms. “You know, for a relatively rare firearm, the damn things are popping up all over the place.”

His hands gravitated forward and into his pockets. “It was given to him by my great uncle, many years ago.”

“Where’d he get it?”

“From his father, who got it from a white man.”

“Dead white man?”

“Eventually.” He was still looking at me from the side of his face.

“.45-70?”

“Yes.” He looked back out the window, and I turned back to the counter. He could see me plain as day in the reflection of the glass. I was getting tired of looking at people’s reflections, and I was damn sure I was tired of them looking at me. “You are going to have to talk to Melissa Little Bird’s family. I will go with you.”

“I’ve got something else to show you.” I picked up the envelope from DCI, tossing it to his side of the counter. He turned and looked at me. “Yet another reason I have to go onto the reservation.” He came back and sat down, opened the cardboard envelope, and pulled out the cellophane-wrapped feather. His eyes narrowed a little, but that was all.

“Turkey.”

“How the hell could you tell that so fast?”

He laughed and looked down the length of the feather like the sight on a gun. “Bend.” He held it up straight between us. “Turkey feathers have a wicked bend to them, this one has been straightened, over-bent, then flipped over, and bent again.”

“How?”

“Household iron, light bulb, or steam, but steam is more difficult.”

“Why bother?”

“Eagle feathers are straight.” I thought about the feathers on Omar’s rifle scabbard; they were straight. “There’s also a deeper ridge on the spline. Can I open the plastic?”