Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 (18 page)

197

Friday morning I hunched over my desk blot-

ter and brooded. About Martinez. About how ticked off Kevin would be if he found out I was bartending at Bare Assets. About why I was always the last to know everything.

I thought about Ben. Why hadn’t law enforcement talked to Roland Hawk?

Because everything was a big fucking secret.

I logged into the online database. Typed in my password, Roland’s name, his pertinent details, and kicked back, letting the search engine do its thing.

Th

e little bar gradually fi lled the middle of the screen and the information was complete. Th

e screen split and

the data appeared.

God. I loved technology. In the old days I would’ve had to pound the pavement for days for this information.

198

I scrolled past the fi rst entry. Roland had two fel-ony convictions for assault. Fourteen calls (in the past three years) for suspected domestic violence, all charges dropped. Five years back he spent a few months in the county jail on a domestic charge. Under suspicion for gang activity on the White Plain Reservation. Under suspicion for drug distribution. Under suspicion for industrial theft.

Shit. Roland Hawk was a bad dude. Question was: Is he a killer? Specifi cally, my brother’s killer?

Only one way to fi nd out.

M M M

Although it’d been years since I’d spent time in White Plain things hadn’t changed. A new hospital complex had been built, a new high school, a few fast food joints.

Two miles north of town, a housing development had been platted and the builders announced lots for phase two were for sale.

Still, poverty ran rampant.

Like other South Dakota reservations, White Plain had no street names or addresses. All mail—personal, business and government—had to be picked up at the post offi

ce.

I parked at the convenience store on the corner of 199

the intersection of County Road 12 and State Highway 9. Th

e store, named Too-Tall’s, was more than just a place to buy overpriced candy bars and frozen burritos.

Too-Tall’s was a community center, a hotspot for activities and gossip. I noticed a gang of teenagers lurking in the back parking lot.

My plan was to hang out, see if anyone talked to me.

Sometimes the natives were friendly, sometimes not. As a blonde I stuck out like a white thumb, and ideally someone would strike up a conversation with me. Th en I’d

work in Roland’s name and see the reaction it received.

In addition to the usual c-store fare, Two-Tall’s had a cafeteria-style restaurant, specializing in starchy, fat-laden foods: a pizzeria, a sub shop, and jammed in a tiny corner, an authentic Indian taco stand.

Coolers of soda and sports drinks lined an entire wall. Conspicuously absent in the beverage section: beer, wine, or spirits. It was illegal to sell or consume alcohol of any kind on the reservation, a provision of some treaty from the late 1800s, a policy that didn’t work then, or 120 years later, since the rate of alcoholism on reservations neared 70%.

Keeping liquor stores from operating on the reservation hadn’t curbed the temptation to drink; it’d just made the business owners who were smart enough to set up stores close to the reservation border, very, very rich.

200

At least if the tribe were allowed to operate liquor stores, they’d have fi nancial benefi ts. Maybe they’d even lower the drunk driving fatalities because residents wouldn’t have to get in their cars and drive to fi nd a bottle of ripple.

I snagged a copy of
Indian Country Today
and
bought a cup of
wojapi
before I settled in the far back corner.

A pudgy girl stoned to the gills slipped into the booth and slurred, “Wanna buy some real Lakota beaded earrings, eh? Only ten bucks.”

“Nope. I wanna buy some information. Pass that along to your friends hanging out by the back door.”

Sioux kids ran in packs. For most of them having a circle of friends was the only way to deal with their shitty home lives.

She scowled and slunk away.

I’d just sparked a Marlboro when a young Indian male stood next to the booth. He was clean-shaven. An enormous Denver Nuggets jersey fl apped around his hips. A black do-rag covered his head. Crude black and blue tattoos created from Bic pens dotted his knuckles.

He slid into the booth and grinned. Not a particularly friendly smile, a bit charming, a bit hopeful, a lot challenging.

“Hoka hey, wigopa,
” he said.

Th

is punk had a lot to learn about intimidation.

201

“Hoka hey, kola.”

His smile faltered. “You know Lakota?”

“Some. Enough to know you called me a pretty woman instead of a
wasicu
. So, what’s the scam today?

You here to off er me a gen-u-wine Indian experience with a real, live Indian? A private
inipi
in your uncle’s ceremonial sweat lodge, perhaps?”

He slouched back and said, “Shee-it.”

“I must’ve looked like a pretty good mark, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Locals took advantage of tourist’s fascination with the Indian culture. As long as they didn’t infl ict pain—besides on the tourist’s wallet—I didn’t begrudge the natives their entrepreneurial spirit. “What’s your name?”

He grabbed my pack of smokes. Lit one. Got a bit surly as he measured me through the haze. “Why?”

“Your day’s take might not be totally lost. I’m looking for some information. Might be willing to pay for it if it’s good enough.”

“You don’t look like no cop.”

“See? I knew you were smart. Th

at’s because I’m

not a cop. What’s your name?”

“Denny Bird.” He exhaled. “What kinda information?”

“I’m trying to hook up with an old friend of my brother’s.”

202

“Who are ya lookin’ for?”

I moved the paper aside, positioning the ashtray between us. “Man by the name of Roland Hawk. Know him?”

“
Shee
.” His gaze shifted to the gas pumps outside the window. “Everybody knows Roland. He’s one bad motherfucker. Whatchu want with him?”

I rolled the cherry of my cigarette in the bottom of the metal ashtray, wondering how to play this. “I’ve got a couple of questions to ask him, that’s all.”

Denny laughed. “‘Th

at’s all’, she says. Th

ink you can

jus’ roll upta his place and knock on the fuckin’ door?”

“Th

at’s what I was thinking.”

“You thought wrong.”

“Help me out then, Denny.”

Still skeptical. “Who’s your brother?”

“He’s dead.”

“Still gotta name, don’t he?”

“His name was Ben Standing Elk.”

“
Shee
. No wonder you know some Lakota. You related to that bitch Leticia?”

I shook my head. “Ben and I shared the same white father. Only blood between me and Leticia is bad blood.”

“Hear ya there, sister.” He held his fi st over the table.

In a split second I realized he wanted to smack his knuckles with mine in a gang type show of solidarity. I did it.

Much cooler than the high fi ves of my teenage years.

203

“You don’t like her either?”

“Bitch fi red my uncle Leon for no reason. He’d been workin’ on the ranch for her brother Reese, not her.”

We smoked. Th

e silence wasn’t alarming, just obvious.

Finally, I said, “What about the rest of your family, Denny?”

“My dad is dead. Been livin’ with my Uncle Leon on and off . Sometimes I stay with my dad’s mom, my
Unci
Bird if she’s feelin’ okay. Don’t get along with my mother’s boyfriend.”

I didn’t comment. Being shuffl

ed from one relative

to another was the norm here.

“What’s your name?”

“Julie. You gonna help me out, Denny?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“How much you payin’ me?”

“Twenty?”

He didn’t so much as twitch.

“Th

irty?”

“You can do better.”

“Fifty?”

Denny grinned. “Done.” He held out his hand.

I dangled the bill out of his reach. “Tell me the truth, Denny boy, about where Roland lives, or I will track you down and demand my money back.”

204

He tucked the money in the outside pocket of his backpack. Th

en his gaze swept the perimeter. It en-

compassed the restaurant area and convenience store.

Satisfi ed, he angled over the table. “Follow County Road 9 until you’re almost outta town.”

I snatched a napkin and rooted around my purse for a pen.

Denny slapped his hand over mine. “Fuck. Don’t write it
down
.”

“How am I supposed to remember?”

“Ain’t that hard. Listen okay? On the left side there’s a turquoise buildin’ with a Red’s Repair Shop sign. Turn there. Keep goin’; you’ll come to a hill. Down the other side there’s an old horse barn. Behind that’s a trailer.

Th

at’s where Roland’s old lady lives.”

“What’s her name?”

“Bonita.”

“Bonita what?”

“Bonita Dove.”

I rolled my eyes. “You fucking with me, Denny?

Roland
Hawk
and Bonita
Dove
? Come on.”

His confusion was real.

“Never mind.” He kept staring at me until I snapped, “What?”

“You ain’t bullshittin’ me. You know Roland, right?”

“Been a long time, but, yeah, I sort of knew him.”

205

“Th

en I guess I don’t gotta tell you you’d better bring along protection.”

As I formulated a response, he vanished out the side door like a vapor trail.

M M M

Before I went looking for Roland, I reached under the seat for my gun case. I fl ipped the latches, eased my gun from the foam cutout and popped in the loaded clip.

I unlocked the glove box and grabbed my stun gun, stowing it in my left coat pocket. Like Jimmer always said: better to be armed than sorry.

Denny’s directions proved accurate. I crested the hill and coasted down the other side.

I rounded the corner of the barn. Th

ree vehicles

were parked at varying distances. An avocado green El Camino missing the back window. A bronze Monte Carlo circa 1970-something, the rusted left rear rim propped on cement blocks. A scratched up, mud-covered red Dodge Durango.

Stuffi

ng burst from a stained mattress thrown next to the trailer’s front door. Loose papers, broken bottles, rusty cans, and plastic grocery bags were strewn across the ground.

After I secured the Browning in my right pocket, I 206

climbed out.

Two snarling, snapping dogs came at me.

I nearly jumped on the roof of my truck.

A clank of chains hauled the mutts up short. Th ey

barked, growled, and lunged, slavering to tear me limb from limb. Damn near every rib on their scrawny frames stuck out.

Th

e front door fl ew open. A woman with a shotgun shouted, “Get outta here. You’s trespassin’ on private property.”

Shit. Nothing like staring up a shotgun barrel to make pee run down your leg. I swallowed and held up my hands. “For Christsake don’t shoot! I’m looking for a friend of my brother’s.”

“He ain’t here,” she said. “Now go on. Git.” She yelled at the barking dogs, “Cujo! Killer! Shut the fuck up!”

Th

e woman had greasy black hair, dirty bare feet, and wore an ugly housedress covered in peacocks. Th e

Roland I’d remembered had a disturbing thing for attractive young girls.

I hollered over the staccato barks, “You sure Roland won’t talk to me?”

“Cujo! I said SHUT UP!”

Th

e dog whimpered.

She kept the gun trained on me. “Who’s Roland?”

I laughed. Yeah, it was nervous laughter. “If Roland’s 207

in there, let him know this is about Ben Standing Elk.”

She didn’t move. Nor did she lower the shotgun.

Behind her a man sauntered into view. A chicken drumstick in one hand, a Keystone beer can in the other.

His sunken chest was bare, scarred, and covered in prison tattoos. Filthy, baggy jeans hung off his scrawny hips.

He leaned a shoulder against the warped metal doorjamb and gnawed on the chicken.

Th

e dogs went nuts.

He sucked the last of the meat and threw the chicken bone at the dogs, laughing as they tried to rip out each other’s throats for the measly scrap.

Yep. Th

is sadistic fucker was Roland.

He drained the remaining beer and belched. I didn’t hear it over the snarling dogs, but I saw it. He tossed the can to the ground.

“Why you wanna know about Ben Standing Elk?

He’s been dead for years.” He squinted at me. “Who the fuck are you anyway?”

Before I could answer, he shouted, “Bonita, either shut them fuckin’ mutts up or give me the goddamn shotgun and I’ll do it!”

“Killer! Cujo! SHUT UP!”

Wasn’t exactly the horse whisperer, but it worked.

Th

e dogs cowered in the garbage with a fi nal whimper.

I eased my hands in my pockets and wrapped them 208

around my weapons.

Roland said, “You that skinny white kid sister of Ben’s?”

“Yeah.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Julie Collins.”

He cocked his head like he’d recognized it. I braced myself for the inevitable casino explosion question.

None came.

“Why you here, Julie Collins?”

“To ask you some questions.”

“What makes you think I’ll talk to you, eh?”

Th

is was going about the way I’d imagined. Did I have the balls to push him? Ben’s face swam into view and brought my rage to the surface.

“I came across some information I’d like to ask you about.”

“Why would I give a shit about your information?”

“If you won’t talk, that proves you’ve got something to hide about Ben’s murder.” I cocked my head the same way he did. “Interesting, that you weren’t questioned about it back then.”