Cripple Creek (6 page)

MY FATHER'S UNIFORM hung in the back of a closet at the front of our house, in an unused bedroom. I found it there one rainy
Saturday afternoon. It smelled of mothballs—camphor, as I'd later learn. Again and again I ran my fingers over its scratchy,
stiff material. Dad never talked about his army time, what he'd done. In my child's mind I had him traversing deserts in Sherman
tanks or diving fighter planes that looked much like Sopwith Camels through air thick with gunfire, smoke, and disintegrating
aircraft. Much later, after his death, Mother told me he'd been a supply clerk.

I was, I don't know, twelve or so then. It was a couple of years after that that Al showed up in town.

He'd been in the service, people said, some place called Korea. Before, they added, he'd been the best fiddler in the county,
but he'd given that up. He worked at the ice house, swinging fifty-pound blocks of ice off the ramp with huge tongs and all
the time looking around, at the sky, at broken windows in the old power plant across the street, as though he wasn't really
there, only his body was, doing these same things over and over, like a machine. He always had this half-smile on his face.
He rented a room over the ice house but went there only to sleep. The rest of the time he was out walking the streets or sitting
on the bench at the end of Main Street. He'd sit there looking off into the woods for hours. Pretty soon after I met him,
when the ice house shut down, he lost his job. They let him stay on in the room, but then they tore the building down and
he lost that too, so he lived out in the open, sleeping where he could. Later I'd get to know a lot of people like Al, people
damaged deep inside, people whom life had abandoned but wouldn't quite let go of.

How did we meet? I honestly can't remember. I just remember everyone at school talking about him, then there's a skip, like
on a record, and we're together throwing rocks into the Blue Hole, which everyone said had no bottom and half the world's
catfish, or walking through Big Billy Simon's pasture with cows eyeing us, or sitting under a crabapple tree passing a Nehi
back and forth.

It wasn't long before my folks heard about it and told me to stay away from him. When I asked why, Mother said: He's just
not right, son, that war did something to him.

But I went on seeing him, after school most every day. That was the first time I openly defied my parents, and things got
tense for a while before they gave up. Many subsequent defiances took place in stone silence.

I was fourteen when Al and I met; a couple of years later I was getting ready to go off to college, first in New Orleans then
in Chicago, little suspecting that but a few years down the line I'd be crawling through trees not unlike the ones Al stared
into every day. In the time I'd known him, I'd grown two feet taller and Al had aged twenty years.

I was sitting outside the tent one day taping up my boots when mail came around. I was on my third pair. In that climate,
leather rotted fast. The French had tried to tell us, but as usual we didn't listen. They'd tried to tell us a lot of things.
Anyway, it was five or six in the morning—you never could sleep much after that, what with all the bird chatter—and Bud chucked
a beer my way, giving out the standard call, "Breakfast of champions," as I settled in to read my letter. Mom had written
two pages about what was going on back home, who'd just married who, how so many of the stores downtown were boarded up these
days, that the old Methodist church burned down. Newsreels from another world. Then there at the end she'd written: I'm sorry
to have to tell you this, but Al died last week.

I grabbed another warm beer and went out to forest's edge, remembering that final summer.

For as long as I could remember, there'd been an old fiddle tucked away in the back of a closet no one used, in a cracked
wood case shaped like a coffin. It had been my grandfather's, who played it along with banjo. I asked Dad if I could have
it and after looking oddly at me, since I'd never shown much interest in music before, he shrugged and said he didn't see
why not. This was late in his life, after the sawmill shut down, when he mostly just sat at the kitchen table all day.

I put some rubber bands around the case to hold it together and took it to Mr. Cohen, the school band director, who played
violin in church some Sundays. Looked to him like a German-made fiddle from the 1800s, he said. He put on new strings and
got the old bridge to stand up under them and gave me an extra bow he had. Not a full-size bow, only three-quarters, he said,
but it'll do.

That afternoon I walked up to Al with the fiddle behind my back.

He eyed me suspiciously. "Whatchu got there, boy?"

I laid the case down on the bench and opened it. To this day I don't know what to call the expression that came over his face.
I think maybe it's one of those things there's no word for.

"It's for you," I told him.

His eyes held mine for some time. He took the bow from under its clip. Al's hands always shook, but when he touched that bow
they stopped. He weighed the bow in one hand, felt along its length, tightened the hair and bounced it against his palm, tightened
it a little more.

Then he reached out with his left hand for the fiddle.

"It's all tuned up," I said.

He nodded, tucked the fiddle under his chin and sat there a moment with his eyes closed.

I don't remember what he played. Something I'd heard before, from my father or grandfather, one of the old fiddle tunes, "Sally
Goodin" or "Blackberry Blossom," maybe. Next he tried a waltz.

He took the fiddle out from under his chin and held it against one leg, looking off at nothing in particular, smiling that
half-present smile of his.

"It's just an old, cheap instrument," I said.

"No. The fiddle's fine," he said, putting it back in the case, clipping in the bow, carefully fastening the hooks. His hands
were shaking again. "The music's in there. It just ain't in me no more."

We sat a while, hearing cars and trucks pass behind us, looking out into the trees. Towards sundown when I was getting ready
to head home, he said, "Reckon we won't be seeing much of each other for a time."

I nodded, too desperately young—soon enough, that would change—to understand good-byes.

After a moment he added: "Appreciate what you did, boy."

I picked up the case. I'd put on a new coat of paint, shiny black. In lowering light it looked like a puddle of ink, a pool
of darkness. "Sure you don't want this?"

He shook his head. "Didn't mean about the fiddle, but I appreciate that too." Holding out his hand, he said, "Like you to
have something. Got this when I was overseas, what they call in country, and it's been with me ever since. Want you should
take it with you. Be your good luck charm."

A tiny cat carved out of sandalwood.

DAWN BEAT ITS PROUD pink breast as I and Chariot chugged to a stop. International news on the radio, a couple of ads for car
dealers, now suddenly Jeremiah was a bullfrog, joy to the world.

Another mansion on the hill. Two cars, Mercedes, Lincoln, in a garage remarkably free of clutter. Ancient weeping willow like
a bad sixties haircut outside, smell of fresh-brewed coffee from within. Older man in a terrycloth robe sitting at a table
just inside glass doors from the patio. Wineglass of orange juice, possibly a mimosa, before him. Basket of bread, bowl of
fruit. Scatter of woven rugs on what looked to be Saltillo tile and spotless. Mexican furniture in the room beyond. Lawn sprinklers
went off behind me as I peered in.

Snooping about, I found a breachable window in the utility room and took advantage. Stood just inside listening, then slipped
the door and listened some more before stepping through. No footsteps or other sounds of movement. Soft ersatz jazz from a
radio out in the room by the patio.

He was tearing the horn from a croissant as I came up behind him and put thumbs to his neck.

"Compress carotids," I said, "and you shut off blood supply to the brain." I told him what I wanted to know. "We can talk
when you come back around," I added, adding pressure as well, as his hands fell onto his lap and the others entered the room
like silk. One of them facing me, the other one, the one that mattered, behind. Where they were before, I've no idea. I would
have sworn he was alone.

Catching a glance from the one in front, I managed a half turn before the one behind closed on me and I joined the older man
in darkness.

"You're okay," the woman above me said. Not a question. Shortish dark hair pulled back. Hazel eyes in which glints of green
surfaced and sank. She sounded pretty certain. I'd have to take her word for it.

"Mr. Aleche has agreed to call off his dogs. That right, Mr. Aleche?"

From high above terrycloth and tabletop, out of the clear blue sky up there, came a "Yes."

"One of his dogs seems to have taken bad," I said, glancing left again.

"Other one's a bit the worse for wear, too."

"Terrible shame."

Her face broke into a smile. Before, I'd always believed that to be merely a figure of speech.

"And lest you wonder, Mr. Aleche says these are the two men you're looking for. He seems to be under the impression that I
know what's going on and that I am somehow your partner in this enterprise."

She held out her arm at a ninety-degree angle, inviting me to take it and lever myself to a sitting position. We grasped hands
thumbs-over and, leaning hard into strong forearm and biceps, I pulled myself up.

"Mr. Aleche has also been kind enough to agree that by way of reparation he'll cover all medical expenses for your fellow
officer and dispatcher. And he hopes you'll accept his apologies for his employees' misguided enthusiasm."

It's over, then, is what most people would think. But, even as she helped me up, I saw that she knew better, saw her clearly:
the stance, feet planted squarely, center of gravity kept low, eyes taking it all in even as they appeared not to.

"You're a cop."

"That obvious, huh?" Again the smile. "I'm also your daughter." She held out a hand. "J.T. Burke."

Lots of scatlike noise and harrumphing from Sam Hamill back at the station, words to the effect that here was another fine
mess I'd gotten him and MPD into, one shouldn't lie down with dogs, and it would be best if I were out of town by sundown.

"No sign of Judd Kurtz, huh?" Tracy Caulding asked. She'd stayed behind for her own counsel once Sam was done with me, then
followed me out to the parking lot.

"Doubt there will be. Hope it didn't go too bad for you in there."

"About as you'd expect. What the hell was I thinking, tuck in the corners, it better not come back to bite his butt. Then
he said, 'You need any help with this—stitches show up in the works, anyone whosoever tries giving you grief—you call me,
you hear?'"

"Don't guess he added he'd be happy to have me back on the job any time?"

"I don't believe that came up. Take care, Turner."

We surrendered J.T.'s rental Buick at a drop-off on Lamar, grabbing coffee to go at a Greek diner next door. The cups were
shaped like Shriner's hats and, inexplicably, had rabbits on them. Not cuddly little bunnies, but huge kangaroo-thighed jackrabbits.

"Obviously they think a lot of you back at the station house," J. T. said as we pulled into traffic.

"I'm a legend here on the frontier."

"Must be nice." She stared silently out the window. "It all starts looking the same after a while, doesn't it? Same streets,
same victims, same impossible stories and apologies."

We passed a car with the hood up, driver leaning into it. As we came abreast, he hiked his middle over the rim and slid in
further. It looked as though the car were swallowing him piecemeal.

"If that's what you're looking for, an apology, I don't have one."

"And how, exactly, did that come about, the finding me?"

"I talked to some people in town, learned about the cabin, and went out there. There was a woman sitting on the porch."

"Val."

"I'd figured just to look around, maybe wait till you showed up. But I introduced myself, told her who I was, and we got to
talking. She told me what's been going on, and that you were up here. I was waiting to turn in at the motel when I saw the
Jeep pulling out."

"So you followed. Keeping well back, from the look of it."

She shrugged. "Old habit. Check exits before you go in, try to figure what's going down before you step in it. Like that."

"Cop thinking."

"You know how it is. Kind of takes over after a while."

Later, after one last stop in the city, well out of it and coming abreast of a long line of tarpaper shacks bordered by a
service station and a church whose white paint had long ago gone to glory, we'd pick up the conversation. J. T.'s head turned
to read the sign that told us we were entering the town of Sweetwater.

"So this is the South."

"Part of it, anyway. Disappointed?"

"Not really, just trying to get the lay of the land. Disappointment requires expectations. Like people have these scripts
running in their heads about how life is supposed to go?"

"And you don't?"

"Mostly, no."

"Just take things as they come."

"I try." After a moment she added: "Seems to have worked for you."

We rode on past Sweetwater, through Magnolia and Rice-town, into mile after mile of cotton and soybean fields, plumes of dust
on far horizons where pickups and farm machinery stalked the land.

"How's your mom?"

"Speaking of expectations." She laughed. "Somewhere in Mexico, last I heard. One of those gringo artist enclaves. That was
over a year ago."

"She's an artist now?"

"I think she applied for the Grande Dame position. I'm sure they needed one, whether they knew it or not. Actually, she's
mellowed."

"Some of us do. Others just wear down. . . . And your brother?"

An ancient, battered lime green Volkswagen bus with lace curtains in the windows came up behind. Pointing to the VW's bumper
sticker, J. T. said, "Kind of like that."

When I looked at her, she said, "You don't know, do you?"

I shook my head.

"Don died last year. Had a little more fun than he planned one Saturday night, got deeper than he thought, and flew off forever
on his magic carpet of crack." Her eyes came to mine. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to be crude. Or cruel."

"It's okay."

Problems had lay coiled up beside Don in the crib from the day of his birth. Even then he wore a tense, fretful frown, as
though he knew bad things were coming, as though he knew he had to be constantly on guard—though it probably wouldn't help
much. Everything was a challenge, even the simple routines of daily life, getting up, getting dressed, leaving the apartment,
shopping, a succession of near-insurmountable Everests. When things were going well, he managed to kind of plod along. But
things didn't go well very often, or for very long. Choosing between breakfast cereals paralyzed him. On the phone, back when
he used to call, he'd talk for hours about all these plans he had, never manage to carry through on the first half-step of
any of them.

"I thought you knew. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's not as though we couldn't see it coming. The surprising thing is that he held out as long as he did. Were
the two of you close?"

"Not for a long time. I tried. I'd go over to wherever he was crashing and check on him, try to be sure he ate something,
got some rest."

"But you can't . . ."

"No," she said. "You can't. Like you said: we wear down. Or wear out."