Shallow Grave-J Collins 3 (35 page)

I wanted to get a jump on it.”

A considerable jump. When they dispatched Ben to Arizona, the tribe hadn’t even voted on the gambling compact issue.

“Ben was supposed to learn the management ropes from a Navajo guy I’d met through the National Indian Gaming Association. At the time, his tribe had success-fully fi nished everything we were struggling with, and he off ered to help us.”

“Did he help?”

“He would have, had Ben done his part.”

“What? Why didn’t he?”

Leticia’s nostrils fl ared. “When Ben fi rst went down there, he reported in to his tribal contact regularly. Th en

he just . . . stopped going to work. He didn’t last more than four months with a
real
job. Just goes to show you not to hire relatives. After the tribe quit sending Ben checks, he slunk back home.”

Harsh. “What happened when Ben came back home?”

“I don’t know. I had about four projects going dur-404

ing that time; I saw him maybe twice. He wasn’t staying with Mom and Dad so I didn’t know what he was up to before he died.”

I almost snapped
before he was murdered
, but a group of red-hatted ladies came in, chattering like magpies. I shoveled in another bite of chocolate and decided I’d had enough of this “aren’t we civilized” conversation.

“Why didn’t you tell me any of this years ago?”

Leticia’s eyes shrank to black pinpoints. “Because it was tribal business, Julie, and none of your business. Th

ere are nondisclosure contracts and legal lines I can’t cross, nor can the tribal council. Regardless if you thought you deserved to know certain things about what Ben had been doing, tribal members wouldn’t share information with anyone, especially with a white girl, even if they could, because they would’ve been thrown in jail.”

My cheeks fl ushed.

“Back to thinking I’m a cold-hearted bitch, eh?”

I picked at my fudge. “No, Leticia, I’m thinking if you would’ve just explained this to me, rationally, years ago, I mightn’t have thought you were a bitch at all.”

Her brow furrowed. “Anyway, doesn’t matter now.

What does matter is my mother can glean a little happiness out of this bizarre situation.”

End of topic #1. “I agree.”

405

“I think that’s a fi rst for us.”

No sarcasm. Wow. Was it possible she’d changed?

We’d changed?

She slid her fi nger under the lace collar of her blouse and patted her chest. “Whew. Is it hot in here? Or is it just me?”

I curled my cold fi ngers into my palms. “Must just be you.”

“I’m too damn young for hot fl ashes.” She sighed.

“Well, I’m on my way back to the rez. But I’m really glad we met and sorted this out.”

“I am too.”

Leticia gave me a sheepish smile. “I know this might sound strange, but would you want to get together sometime, and . . . swap stories about Ben? I’m sure you have some I haven’t heard and vice versa.”

It was the unsure smile, surprisingly like our brother’s, that suckered me in. “Yeah.” I focused on the Mylar balloons swaying beneath the heating duct. “To tell you the truth, I made a tobacco pouch a while back and I’ve been waiting for the right time to take it up to Bear Butte and hang it in memory of Ben. Kinda been dragging my feet because I don’t want to go alone.”

Take a chance, Julie, just ask.
“Umm. Would you want to go with me?”

She didn’t say anything. Just blinked rapidly.

406

Jesus. Was she crying?

Leticia cleared her throat. “I’d like that. A lot. I’ll be waiting for your call. Soon, I hope.”

Maybe I hadn’t lost my empathy after all.

I ate every last bit of fudge without shame.

M M M

Kevin called and asked if I’d seen Denny. When I told him I hadn’t, he opted to go looking for him instead of returning to the offi

ce.

I shut off my computer and marveled at my clean desk. I couldn’t wait to go home, linger under a long hot shower and indulge in a whole night of bad TV.

My cell phone rang. Martinez? Calling before 5:00?

“Hello?”

“Hey, blondie. You still at work?”

“Just leaving. Why?”

“Will you be ready if I swing by your house about 8:00?”

“Ready for what?”

“We’re going out.”

I froze. “Tonight? Where?”

“I’m taking you to the clubhouse after Lodge.”

“What the hell is
Lodge
, Martinez?”

“Th

e Hombres have a meeting on Wednesday

407

nights. In keeping with the spirit of the fraternal broth-erhood of other dedicated men’s service groups, we call ours
Lodge
.”

“Ha ha.”

“You up for it?”

No
. “Sure. Any special dress code for Lodge?”

“No weapons.”

“Th

at’s it?”

“Yep. One other thing: a guy who was head of security at Bare Assets and supervised the pledges during the time frame you mentioned will be there tonight.”

Like I could refuse now. I heard Big Mike say, “Rum or vodka?”

Martinez said, “Rum. Look, I need to start the meeting. See you in a bit.” He hung up.

Hard to believe I’d wanted this.

408

The Hombres secret clubhouse disappointed me.

I expected a door with a peephole. No secret knock or password like in a speakeasy. However, there was a guy obstructing the entrance, sort of a bouncer . . . if bouncers were allowed to carry a Desert Eagle, a twelve-inch knife, an anti-riot telescoping baton, and a crowbar.

Th

e heavily-armed guy scrambled to his feet when we walked in. “Mr. Martinez. We wasn’t expecting you tonight.” Worried El Presidente might take it as an insult, he quickly added, “But it’s always a pleasure to have you here, sir.”

“Th

anks, PT. Clear the main booth. We’ll wait.”

“Right away.” He whistled. Another guy appeared, much shorter, much younger, and wearing a plain black T-shirt with the word PLEDGE emblazoned across the 409

front, instead of the Hombres leather vest. Th e skittish

kid shot Martinez a wide-eyed look and he disappeared as if the devil nipped at his heels.

Th

e devil beside me chuckled.

Big Mike, No-neck, and Bucket crowded in behind us. I was glad Jackal wasn’t in our little party. No one said a word. Sometimes, when I’m nervous, I babble.

Not tonight. I sidled closer to Martinez, stopping short of reaching for his hand.

I checked out the surroundings. In a former life, circa 1973, I imagined this boxy warehouse had been a restaurant/nightclub, with one side for dining, the other for dancing and drinking. Now it was . . . exactly the same.

Th

e pledge returned and mumbled to PT. He kept his gaze aimed at the scarred concrete fl oor.

PT smiled. “Go on in, sir.”

Martinez nodded. He draped his arm over my shoulder and leaned in to whisper, “You sure you’re ready for this, blondie?”

“No.”

“Smart girl.”

We headed into the lion’s den.

Th

e scents of smoke, sour beer, and restaurant grease wafted over me. Th

e jukebox was playing some 70s

southern rock crap. I tuned it out. Every single person in the place was staring at us. Well, not at me, specifi -

410

cally, but at Martinez.

Guess he really didn’t put in an appearance at the clubhouse very often.

He didn’t pay attention to the fear and awe he evoked. He steered me to a gigantic half-circular booth, blood red leather spattered with dark black splotches that’d probably been actual blood at one time. Martinez dropped his hand and motioned for me to slide in fi rst.

I did. He scooted in right next to me. His bodyguards aligned themselves: Big Mike on my left, No-neck on Martinez’s right, and Bucket looming off to the side.

Th

e room began to buzz again. I soaked up the atmosphere. It seemed like the usual bar, with the exception of couches and chairs lined against the walls, in addition to tables. In fact, ours was the
only
booth.

Raised on a platform against a paneled wall that overlooked all the action. No wonder Martinez preferred this spot; it was kind of like a throne.

Lotta people milled about. Guys wearing Hombres colors doing the white man shuffl

e on the improvised

dance fl oor. Other older guys shot pool and played darts. Painfully young, fl ashy, trashy women, decked out in skimpy outfi ts, hung on the Hombres members like groupies on rock stars. I noticed there were other guys wearing pledge T-shirts racing around delivering drinks or whatever was demanded.

411

I tossed my cigarettes and lighter on the table. Big Mike snagged the ashtray and pulled it within fl icking distance.

“Th

anks.”

Martinez said: “Feel like tequila or beer tonight?”

“Coors. In a bottle.”

He ordered the same; Big Mike and No-neck opted for Budweiser.

When I felt Martinez’s rough hand gliding high up my thigh, I jumped.

“Nervous?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Not only am I on your turf, I’m not used to you feeling me up in public, Martinez.”

“I’m a new man.”

I snorted.

His warm breath tickled my ear. “If you think this is too much, take a look at the action across the room.

Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

I let my gaze drift until it focused on a once-white couch. Several people were crowded around and I couldn’t see what was going on. When I leaned over to ask Martinez what the big fuss was about, the mob parted and I saw it fi rsthand.

Holy shit.

412

A barrel-shaped, bare chested man wiggled in the middle of the couch; a blond woman was on her knees in front of him. With the way her head was bobbing between his thighs I knew she wasn’t down there shining his shoes.

Unbelievable.

I couldn’t see his face. Hell, I didn’t
want
to see his face. Or hers. Or the big fi nish.

Th

ankfully, a moment later a man resembling a gray grizzly approached the booth, garnering Martinez’s attention and blocking the view. Our drinks appeared.

I lit a cigarette. Since the guy talking to Martinez had edged closer, he planned on being there for a while.

I sucked in a deep drag and directed my curios-ity elsewhere. After living in the vicinity of Sturgis, I’d gotten used to seeing wannabe biker rebels, those guys who’d let their hair and beards grow for a couple of weeks before the Sturgis Bike Rally, poseurs who were doctors, lawyers, stockbrokers, and investment bankers.

Th

ese guys? Th

ey were the real deal.

I tried not to dissect why I felt like I was trying on someone else’s skin, or why I’d ever expected Martinez should’ve included me in this part of his life. I shot him a sideways glance. He looked far more comfortable with the bowing and scraping than I imagined he would.

After a weird shuck-and-jive handshake, gray grizzly 413

lumbered off . A tiny guy who resembled a garden gnome crept up and Martinez motioned to Big Mike to exit the booth. Suddenly, I was sitting next to Grumpy, the dwarf, who conjured up a great evil eye and aimed it at my sternum.

Martinez said, “Julie, this is Tricks. Tricks, Julie.”

“Hi, umm, Tricks.”

He grunted.

“Tricks used to head up my security team at Bare Assets a few years back.”

Th

is little shrimp was a bouncer? What did he do?

Bite guys on the knee? Rack them with a headbutt? Trip them?

As I was visualizing additional amusing scenarios with Mini-Me, Tricks said, “I ain’t got all night. Mitzi’s giving blow jobs in the back room and I don’t wanna miss out because I hafta talk to her,”—he jerked his chin toward me but didn’t make eye contact—“not that I think any of this shit’s her business anyway.”

Martinez warned, “Need a refresher on protocol, Tricks?”

Tricks squirmed and rubbed a long white scar carved on the back of his hand. “Ah, no. Sorry, Mr. Martinez.”

“Go ahead, Julie.”

It seemed as if I’d stumbled onto the set of a David Lynch movie. “I have some questions about a former 414

pledge.”

Tricks deigned to look me in the eye. “When we talking about and what’s the pledge’s name?”

“Around fi ve and a half years ago. Near as I’ve been able to fi gure out, it was Beaner. Does that ring a bell?”

“No. What’d he look like?”

“I don’t have a clue. Rumor was he was banging a cocktail waitress named Maria.”

“What’d she look like?”

“Part Native American, part Mexican. Kind of exotic, I guess, according to her picture anyway.”

Tricks’ tiny hand slapped the table. “I remember her.

Yeah. She was a stone cold fox. Man. I’d forgotten all about her. A nice piece, that one. But she had hooked up with . . . shit, what was his name? Not Beaner, but . . .”

I swigged my beer and waited.

Another smack on the table. “String bean, that was his name. Lucky fucker. He had it bad for her. Any of the customers put a hand on her ass or anyplace else and he’d practically rip it off . He was one tough mother.

Good with his hands, if I remember. I was sorry to see him wash out. Hombres coulda used a guy like him.”

String bean. Where had I heard that before? Recently? Something tickled my memory, just out of reach.

“Do you remember his real name?”

“Hang on.” Tricks stroked his mustache. “J some-415

thing. Jerry? Jack? John? No, Jeff . Th at’s it. Jeff . Don’t

recall his last name.”

My hand froze on my beer bottle. Jeff Colhoff .

Shit. Pieces clicked together; all but one. Was Jeff a murderer? Why had he killed Maria? In a fi t of jealous rage? How the hell did I share this information with the sheriff ? Was I even allowed to? Or was that breaking some Hombres “never talk to cops about club business”