Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “I was. I went to help Ike build a fence in Rapid City. In the afternoon he got sick . . .”

  “You mean drunk.”

  “I put Ike in his truck and drove him home. I told him he needed to do an inipi—the sweat would purify him—and that I would go collect the stones. I walked to the hills for them. On my way back, I met the boy. He helped me take the stones the rest of the way up here. That’s when we found Gates.”

  “You should’ve sent Stevie right home. It was time for supper.”

  “The boy wasn’t hungry. Why eat when you’re not hungry?”

  “And his medication?”

  Her father smiled, showing the deep creases in his face. “He’s sick in spirit. What better place for such an Indian to be than here, in this holy place?”

  Releasing her son, Grace stepped closer to her father. “How many times do I have to tell you—Stevie’s no Indian. His grandmother was white, his father was white. The only Indian blood in him is yours.”

  “And some of yours, daughter. Besides, I look at him and see the face of my people. His spirit is restless, that’s all. You let the doctors put fences around it like the cattle on Gates’s ranch, when it needs to roam free, like my brothers the elk.”

  “It’s exactly that kind of talk that’s making him the way he is. As if the way his father died weren’t enough, you have to fill him full of that mumbo jumbo. I had to grow up with it, but Stevie doesn’t. He’s white. He doesn’t have to live like this.”

  He gently cupped her face in his hand, and she half-closed her eyes, wanting to nuzzle against him. But there was Stevie. She pulled away.

  “What’s going to happen when they build the road through here? When all this is asphalt?”

  “It will never happen.”

  “Like you always say—the law is white.”

  Her father nodded toward the skeleton. “He will save us. I feel his spirit. It’s come for a purpose.”

  She shook her head slowly. “Gates is right—you are crazy. I want you to leave Stevie alone.”

  Grace turned, but her son was no longer there. She ran a few steps and then stopped, seeing him squatting beside the stones piled between the vision pit and the sweat lodge. Each stone was round and about the size of a man’s hand. As she knelt beside him in the tall grass, he held one up to her.

  “Look at this one, Mom. Look at the design on it, like someone painted a man’s face with green moss. The face looks familiar.”

  She stroked his hair. “Yes, it’s pretty.”

  “Grandfather calls it a bird stone. He says his friends the starlings paint these designs on the stones and that some people, looking into them, can tell the future. Do you think so?”

  “I think your grandfather is full of stories. We’d better go home—I’ll make you supper. Let’s put that back.”

  As Grace reached for the stone, he stopped her, bringing it closer. His finger traced the mossy image. “I know who that face reminds me of.” She watched his eyes grow wide. “It looks just like Mr. Gates.”

  Chapter Two – MONDAY NIGHT

  Each night walking into the police station, through the rear entrance of Bear Coat City Hall, Grace knew how Curly felt inside his stall. The squad room wasn’t much larger than her living room, and the khaki-colored walls made it appear even smaller. In the center of the room, surrounded by a three-foot-high plywood wall, stood the dispatch unit, computer, copier, fax machine, file cabinets, and telephone. To her right, under a window, was the assistant chief’s desk, as well as a few chairs resting against the wall, where the off-duty cops drank coffee and gabbed with one another. The chief had his own office through a door to the left.

  Wendy, the second-shift dispatcher, sat alone in the squad room. Giggling over the phone, one hand idly playing with a blond curl, she reached into her purse and, without skipping a beat of conversation, reapplied her lipstick. The clock on the desk read 10:58.

  Wendy’s voice went husky. “I’ll be outside in five minutes, honey. Don’t make me wait. Bye.”

  Before Wendy could hang up, Grace grabbed her hand and whispered, “Is that my brother? I want to talk to him.”

  The other woman put down the receiver. “No such luck. I ain’t seen much of Will lately. I think there’s somebody else—there always is. Bet it’s either Caroline from the travel agency or else Andi. He tell you?”

  “Believe me, I got other things to talk to him about. So who’s the guy?”

  “Kenny—you know, that cowboy from Fort Pierre. He’s taking me out for a few drinks.”

  “Is that all?”

  She smiled, fluffing her hair in the desk mirror they shared. “Say, why don’t you get yourself a date for Saturday night, and the four of us will go into Deadwood.”

  “Thanks, but I don’t think . . .”

  “Oh, come on, it’ll be fun. When’s the last time you were out?”

  Grace shrugged.

  “Look, I could ask Kenny if he’s got a friend.”

  “No.”

  “You really should get out. It’s been over a year since Steve . . .”

  “Maybe another time.” She scanned the log book. “Anything going on tonight?”

  “You gotta be kidding. What can happen in a town with two traffic lights? Elroy called in a few speeders and some kids out after curfew. Tom’s working tonight.”

  Switching places with Wendy, Grace asked, “How come?”

  “Said he had paperwork to catch up on, but he’s been out most of the evening. Went over to check on the lumber mill. You know Tom—after that attempted break-in last month, he likes to make sure everything’s okay. I tried to raise him a few times, but no answer. Probably nothing, but you better keep trying. How do I look?”

  “Good enough to be hog-tied and branded. Now get outta here. Have a good time.”

  After Wendy left, Grace called Tom, but no response. That wasn’t like him. Having alerted the two sqaud cars on duty, she spent the next few minutes staring at the phone, then dialed Jack’s number.

  “This is Jack Keeshin. Sorry I’m not in to take your call. Please leave a message, and I’ll get back to you. Thanks.”

  She’d been hearing his answering machine for the past two hours, and, once again, she hung up without leaving a message. It was reassuring just to hear his voice, even if only a recording. Almost 11:15; where could he be? Maybe a late business meeting, or maybe, like Wendy, he was on a date. What kind of woman did he go for?—probably blond, long-legged, and wearing a cocktail dress like they did back in L.A. She found herself sketching his face on a notepad, crumpled the paper, and threw it away. What business was it of hers what he did at night?

  She spent the next few minutes straightening the desk beside the computer, where Tom had installed a cubbyhole for each of the three dispatchers. Wendy’s was jammed with cosmetics. Edna, who had been on the day shift for forty years, kept hers neatly arranged with medication and an extra pair of bifocals. Grace’s held a piece of charcoal she sometimes used for sketching and two photographs—one of her, Steve, and Stevie taken two years ago; the second showing her riding Curly in last year’s reining championship.

  There was one other item. Putting her hand deep inside the cubbyhole, she touched the turtle doll woven into a checkered pattern of green and yellow yarn. It had been made by her Lakota grandmother when Stevie was born. Not only was it his first doll; more important, it contained a piece of his umbilical cord. He had worn the turtle until he thought it too babyish, but for years afterward she carried it in her purse to guarantee him a long, healthy life.

  She had brought the turtle doll here months ago, because in the long, quiet nights she needed something to give her hope about Stevie. A silly superstition, still it made her feel better. Just as when her mother died, her father had delayed the dead woman’s passing by cutting a lock of her hair, tying it to a post, and making food offerings in her name. For a month Grace herself had kept the cooking pot in front of their house filled for passersby, who s
poke of how good her mother had been, even for a white woman. Another superstition, yet during those weeks Grace had felt her mother’s spirit slipping away so slowly, death didn’t hurt quite so much. Not like when her husband died.

  Swallowing hard, she slid in front of the dispatch unit to try Tom again. Then the door opened wide.

  “Cir-cle the wagons! In-juns! Woo, woo, oww!”

  Something crashed against the door, then her father’s friend Ike stumbled in. Even from across the room she could smell the cheap whiskey on his breath. His hair, the color of gunmetal and nearly as long as hers, was tied in a ponytail. He wore jeans, work boots, and a Denver Broncos T-shirt so frayed that the emblem seemed tattooed to his chest. Unlike most Indians’ faces, his was narrow and hollow-cheeked, the chin coming to a point like a goat’s. The way he hopped around at the old-way dances was like a goat too.

  “Hi, Gracie. Bet you didn’t expect to see me tonight.”

  She couldn’t help but smile. “My father said you were sick.”

  “Ah, sick. That’s right. Bad spirits in me, your father said. Guess I went looking for a bottle of the right spirits. Found ’em too. Good-quality stuff. Ain’t that right, Chief Cross Dog?”

  Tom walked in yawning. “Yeah, it must’ve been $1.49 a gallon. You take it easy, Ike. Don’t want you to hurt yourself in your condition. Hello, Grace. After 11:00 already?”

  Maybe how he stood made Tom seem taller than most people, or how his shoulders almost filled the doorway. He wasn’t one to mess with, but Grace liked him best this way, when he was a little tired and gentle with a poor old drunk. He rubbed his hair, cut short, and gave a weak smile. His face was dark as her father’s and as broad, with large, sad eyes that reminded Grace of a draft horse.

  As he brought Ike past the counter, she said, “We was plenty worried. Wendy called you, then I tried. Where’ve you been?”

  Before he could answer, Ike spun around, did his little goat dance, and pointed to each of them. “Well, I’ll be: Lookee what we got here.” He began singing, “One little, two little, three little Indians—one little, two little, three little Indians—one little . . .”

  “All right, Ike, that’s enough,” Tom said.

  “. . . two little, three little Indians. What’s the matter? Tom-Tom don’t like bein’ called an Injun? Maybe you ain’t an Indian chief, but police chief’s even better. Makes you almost white, like Gracie here.”

  Tom suddenly grabbed Ike, lifting him off the ground. The old man looked down at his feet paddling air, then smiled. “Lookee, I’m flying.”

  Grace leaned over the wall and touched Tom’s shoulder. “He’s drunk. He didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  After a moment Tom nodded and gently set Ike down. “Sorry, old-timer. Come on. Let’s give you a chance to sleep it off.”

  “Can I have the cell on the left? It’s got a nice view of the junkyard, and I like talking to Samson, the guard dog.”

  “All right. Just don’t keep that dog up past his bedtime.”

  “Thanks, Chief.” Ike smiled at her. “How’d that comedian always used to end his shows? ‘Say good night, Gracie.’ ‘Good night, Gracie.’”

  “Good night, Ike.”

  While Tom took the old man through the station into the lockup, Grace dialed Jack again. She heard his recorded message but this time said, “This is Grace. It’s almost 11:30. I’m at work. Please call me as soon as you get in. It’s important.” Her face grew warm. Maybe he’d think it was personal—that she was checking up on him. She quickly added, “It’s about my father and the hearing.”

  Hanging up, she saw that Tom had returned. Instead of going into his office, he poured a cup of coffee and sat behind the desk across from her.

  “Ike busted a window at the Quik Mart. I’ll talk to the owner. Maybe he’ll drop the charges, once Ike is sober and willing to work the damage off.”

  “You found him by the Quik Mart?”

  “Yeah, on the way to your place. He was wandering along the highway. Pretty dark out there. Good thing I found him, before he became somebody’s road kill.”

  “What were you doing over by my place? Wendy said you went to check on the lumber mill. That’s on the other side of town.”

  He began fingering his coffee cup. “We’re not talking about New York here; ain’t much distance between one place and the next. I checked the mill out, then drove around a little. Just like to see everything’s all right.”

  She smiled. “You’re lying. Look at the way you’re fiddling with that cup. Just like in school, when Mrs. Duran asked for your homework and you played with your pencil while telling her some lie about the wind blowing it out of your book.”

  Through the half-open door to the lockup, they heard Ike crooning, “Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me . . .,” while the junkyard dog across the alley howled a reply.

  “So what were you doing?” Grace persisted.

  “I told you, just out checking the town to make sure . . .”

  “You were out with a girl!” When the cup almost fell from his hand, Grace slapped her desk. “Why, Tom Cross Dog, you tell me this minute who she is!”

  “It ain’t . . . Just forget it, Gracie.”

  “Oh no. If you think for one minute . . .”

  “I said forget it!”

  He stared at her, until she looked away. “Sorry, Tom, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “Beautiful drea . . . mer!” Ike’s voice cracked trying to reach a high note, while the dog howled in mournful harmony. “Beautiful . . .”

  Tom walked to the doorway. “Shut up before I rip your throat out!”

  Grace shook her head slowly; it was like watching a stranger. “Ike doesn’t mean any harm.”

  “They never do—none of these drunken Indians. Lazy and shiftless and good for nothing, like Ike here sitting in the slammer. Probably hasn’t washed in weeks, and his brain’s pickled in alcohol, but what the hell do you expect of an Injun? Don’t it ever bother you, Grade, or do you forget that you’re part Injun too?”

  “No, Tom, I don’t forget.”

  “I wonder. I . . .” He stopped suddenly and walked back to the desk, sitting heavily in the chair.

  “Go on,” she said.

  “Forget it.” He looked down at the desk. “I heard you calling Jack Keeshin. Something about the hearing?”

  “Uh . . . yeah, I was calling him about that . . . and about my father.” Immediately she regretted mentioning her father to Tom.

  “Anything wrong?”

  “Not really. Well, we found the skeleton of an Indian up near the sweat lodge. Body must be a hundred years old.”

  “That all?”

  She thought about mentioning Gates, but that would only bring in Will and maybe what Stevie did with his pocketknife. “Yeah, just that. I wondered if having the remains on the ridge would make any difference at the hearing. What do you think?”

  “I think whatever the white man wants he’ll get. They’ve been stealing our land since Custer found gold back in the 1870’s. A few more acres won’t make any difference. Make the best deal you can, take the money and run.”

  “My father won’t.”

  Tom straightened in his chair. “No, he got religion. Too bad he wasn’t always that way.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

  Tom’s body rocked slowly in the chair. Grace remembered that too from school, whenever he got nervous.

  “You seeing Keeshin?” he asked.

  “He’s acting as Father’s attorney.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “You mean, like going out?”

  He nodded.

  “I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

  At that moment, Al sauntered into the station and flipped his patrolman’s cap onto the old hat rack in the corner. His shift started at midnight, but he always came in a half hour early with a milk shake from the Big Freeze. Despite his sweet tooth, he was thin as the nightstick he carried.
He sat in the chair nearest the desk and worked the straw like a suckling kitten.

  Grace said, a little too loudly, “I better check on our two units. Shift changes pretty soon. Besides, they’ll want to know you came in.”

  As Tom walked into his office, she began making her calls. Neither squad car had anything to report. She logged their responses while Al slurped the bottom of his shake; then the phone rang.

  “Police. How can we help you?”

  “It’s me, Will.”

  Turning away from Al, she half-whispered, “I need to talk to you, but later when I get home.”

  “Gracie . . .”

  “Of all the jackass ideas, trying to sell Albert Gates something that ain’t yours . . .”

  “Grade, it’s about Gates.”

  “What did you do, find another skeleton up there?”

  The line went dead. “Will? Will, you there?”

  Finally he replied, “I found him up on the ridge.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “He’s dead, Gracie. Albert Gates is dead.”

  She felt cold inside; her lips couldn’t move to speak.

  “Gracie, you hear me?”

  She swallowed hard. “What happened?”

  “I came home from the gas station a little while ago and saw a light on the ridge. Figured it was Dad. I wanted to bring him back to the house—thought it might rain tonight. When I got up there . . . It’s terrible. You better send the cops.”

  “Is Father up there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “I guess so. He’s . . . Just send somebody out here right away.”

  “Tom!” she called. When he appeared in the doorway, she told him what Will had said.

  “Tell him not to touch anything, and you contact the paramedics, Doc Gustafson at the medical center, and forensics in Rapid City. Ask Andi if she can take some pictures.”

  “I’m going with you,” she said.

  “I don’t think . . .”

  “My father’s up there.”

  He hesitated only a moment. “All right, Al, make those calls and cover for her.”