Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  “Sounds like you know the family pretty well.”

  “We’ve been close ever since my dad helped Saul that first time. I’m an only child—my own mom died when I was young, and now they’re about the only family I got. Grace has always been kind of an older sister.”

  “What was True Sky in jail for?”

  She hesitated. “I guess a lot of things, but no matter what folks tell you, he’s a good guy. Some of the Lakota around here even consider Saul a holy man. You got to help him. Look, you must be tired. Relax and enjoy the ride.”

  Flicking her cigarette ash out the window, Andi turned on a rock-and-roll station and tapped in time to the music. She wasn’t going to talk about True Sky anymore, so Rosen loosened his tie and took in the scenery through the Mercury’s panoramic window.

  It was as beautiful as people always said. A canvas of sky, powder-blue with wisps of drifting clouds, spread far as he could see, dwarfing the dark hills, which the highway split far into the distance. A limitless, immutable sky; from such a place could the voice of God whisper. In comparison, everything else seemed inconsequential, like the rows of tract houses and trailer parks just outside of Rapid City, even the occasional two-story home with its wooden deck and swimming pool.

  As they rode farther from town, he saw fewer buildings and more open land. Most of the hay had already been gathered into rolls. A few had dried to an ashen color, probably overlooked from the previous year’s harvest. Occasionally the car passed a stretch of tall grasses, where small groups of cattle grazed peacefully behind rail fences.

  The beauty of sky and land made the billboards along the highway even uglier. They came rushing up to the car, one after the other, an endless stream of beggars in loud clothing. “Sturgis Motorcycle Classic,” “Mt. Rushmore,” “Homestead Gold Mine,” “Spearfish Passion Play,” “Gambling in Deadwood,” and advertisements for dozens of hotels and restaurants.

  From a distance, the hills peeked over the signs, as if afraid to get too close. They rose one upon the other, dark from the clusters of evergreens covering them.

  Rosen said, “Now I know why they’re called the Black Hills. They’re very beautiful.”

  Andi nodded. “They were nicer before all the tourism. You know, they’re sacred to the Lakota. I forget just why.”

  “Because of the el.”

  “Huh?”

  “The spirits inside the hills.”

  “You know about the Lakota?”

  “I understand their worship. It’s not so different from my ancestors.”

  “So you’re an Indian too! Which tribe?”

  “One of the Ten Lost Tribes.” He nodded toward the sign they had just passed. “Wasn’t that the turnoff for Bear Coat?”

  “Uh-huh, but I want to take you by the scene of the crime. Besides, bet you’ve never seen a real ghost town before.”

  Passing a gas station on their right, Andi slowed the car and reached over to wave at a mechanic getting out of his pickup. Smiling, the young man waved back.

  “That’s Saul True Sky’s son, Will,” Andi said. “He’s the one who found Albert Gates’s body on the ridge.”

  After traveling another two miles, they exited onto a narrow gravel road that swung back below the highway through a timber underpass. A hand-painted sign, reading “TIN TOWN” had been tacked to one of the crossbeams. A quarter mile later, the gravel petered to a dirt road bisecting a field of grass and scrub trees.

  Andi stopped the car and took her camera. “Well, what do you think?” When he shrugged, she added, “Over there, don’t you see it?”

  He followed her into the grass and saw something broken into shadows around one of the trees. It had once been a frame house but now tilted precariously, with a loose side board fluttering in the breeze. Bending on one knee, Andi snapped a picture.

  “The tin mine’s about a mile straight ahead, up in the hills. It’s been closed since before World War I—that’s about how long this place has been abandoned. You know, I’ve been out here dozens of times and taken a thousand photos, but it always gets to me.” She pointed, about twenty feet from the house, to a large stone fireplace standing amidst a pile of rubble. “My grandmother’s best friend grew up in what used to be that house. I’m going across the way to shoot the old school. There’s plenty to see around here, unless you’re bored.”

  “On the contrary.”

  As Andi crossed the road, Rosen strolled past the lone fireplace to the next house, which looked solid except for a large hole broken through the middle of the roof. Inside, the walls were water-stained and cracked, bookshelves broken, and the furniture rotted.

  A tattered easy chair, its springs poking through the stuffing, had been drawn near the fireplace. He pictured a miner coming home, lighting his pipe, and sitting wearily in the chair while his wife cooked in the kitchen. Rosen stepped to the front door, where the woman must have called her children for supper just as, up and down the street, a hundred other women were calling their children. He listened—were their voices still caught in the wind? He walked through the grass, parallel to the road, passing ruin after ruin, and remembered the stories his grandfather had told of the pogroms in Russia. How the Cossacks would sweep like fire through a town—looting and killing and driving the people away. Was this how those towns looked? He saw a small spade half-buried in the ground, where perhaps once a woman had worked her garden. An old cotton shirt, torn and faded, hung from a nail under the eave of the next house. It waited patiently for its owner, as it had been waiting since before Rosen was born, perhaps even before his father was born.

  Behind one of the houses stood a shed with one large window, sheltered by a bower of tall evergreens. The building appeared intact, and, stepping inside, Rosen sensed something different about its interior. The floor, dappled with light shining through the branches, had been swept clean recently; he saw an old straw broom against a wall near the doorway.

  Something lay in the shadows of a far corner—an Army duffel bag. Rosen unzipped it and found a khaki bedroll inside, which looked relatively new. There was something else about the bedroll, a smell he couldn’t quite distinguish in the shed’s mustiness. He inhaled deeply—something sweet, but what was it?

  Hearing Andi call his name, he returned the duffel bag to the corner, then walked back to the road.

  “What do you think?” she asked.

  “Like you said, it can really get to you. Take some interesting pictures?”

  “Nothing I didn’t have before.”

  “Do many people come up here?”

  “A teacher might bring her class for a history lesson. Maybe a few teenagers mess around, but folks haven’t paid too much attention to this place. Of course, all that’s changing.”

  “You mean, because of the murder.”

  “No, because of the gambling. C’mon, the ridge is this way.”

  As they walked up the dirt road, Andi said, “You must’ve seen all the signs for gambling in Deadwood. It’s an old cowboy town, where Wild Bill Hickok was shot in the back. Like lots of places around here, the town was slowly dying, but it had one thing going. It’s on the National Register of Historic Places. The state legislature passed a law allowing gambling in any such town, if that’s what its residents want. Now Deadwood’s making money hand over fist.”

  Rosen asked, “And this ghost town?”

  “Tin Town’s on the historical register too. They say Hearst had it done, as a kind of finishing touch to Manderson’s ruin. Nobody thought much about it, until Deadwood got rich.”

  “Sounds like a real windfall.”

  “Yeah, but there were a couple big problems. You’ve never seen Deadwood. A lot of its residents don’t like what happened. Along with the money came crime and congestion—school kids sneaking over to play the slot machines with their lunch money. See, Bear Coat’s about two miles over the ridge. It grew up later, first as a home for some of Hearst’s gold miners, then the timber company came in. This ghost town’s
technically within Bear Coat’s city limits, which is what gave the town council its bright idea—a way to get rich and keep Bear Coat itself from becoming a cheap little Las Vegas.”

  She pointed back to the gravel road from where they’d come. “What if all the gambling and most of the traffic could be kept in this area? It’s the real historical part of town anyway, and with the money generated from gambling, it could be restored into the mining town it once was. That would bring in even more tourists. See what I mean?”

  “Sure, a perfect compromise.”

  “There’s only one problem. The man who owns the land between Bear Coat and Tin Town hasn’t been willing to go along with the town’s plans.”

  “Wouldn’t it make him rich?”

  “Probably, but for some people, money ain’t everything. Care to guess who that person is?”

  “My client, Saul True Sky.”

  “Uh-huh. So the town council’s trying to take over Saul’s land and build a proper road to connect to the highway. Of course, once these houses are restored, they’ll be the perfect places for poker, blackjack, and slot machines.”

  “Who’ll get the gambling licenses?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know all the details, only that it’s not just the casino owners who are supposed to get rich, but everybody in town—restaurants, motels, gift shops. Property values will shoot sky high.”

  “That’s if the town council wins its condemnation case.”

  “Oh, it will. Who ever heard of an Indian winning a court case? Besides, now Saul has more to worry about than just losing his land.”

  “What’s True Sky’s argument in the suit?”

  “What do Indians always use as an argument? The land is holy, and the spirits shouldn’t be disturbed. What judge in South Dakota’s going to buy that?”

  Rosen stopped and turned Andi toward him. “I’m surprised you didn’t call Nahagian about that case instead of the murder. It’s more clearly an issue for my organization—freedom of religion.”

  “I probably would have, except Grace already got my editor, Jack Keeshin.”

  “A newspaper editor?”

  “He’s a lawyer too. Came here from Los Angeles about six months ago. Bought the paper and settled into the quiet life. He calls it semi-retirement.”

  “He doesn’t care about getting rich from bringing gambling in?”

  “Jack’s already pretty well off. He came here to get away from the fast lane.”

  “And Mr. Keeshin didn’t want to defend True Sky on the murder charge?”

  “No, I don’t think Jack does criminal law. Besides, Mr. Nahagian said you were the best he had. This case is a hell of a lot more important to Saul than a piece of land.” She took a step forward. “Who’s that?”

  Shielding her eyes, Andi looked toward the top of the ridge. Suddenly she broke into a smile and waved.

  Something squatted where the ridge crested. At first thick and solid, the shape gradually unfolded into a gangly boy.

  Rosen said, “He looked like a rock.”

  “Yeah, like Stone Boy,” Andi replied, waving again. “From an old Lakota legend. That’s really Grace’s son, Stevie. He’s . . .”

  Before she could finish, the boy disappeared over the ridge.

  She shook her head. “He’s kind of strange. Not a bad boy, just . . . well, it’s hard for him to settle down. He lost his dad last year—road was icy and Big Steve’s truck jackknifed. Now this trouble with his grandfather Saul. It’d be tough on any kid.”

  Rosen asked, “Was Stevie around the night of the murder?”

  “Guess so. I mean, he must’ve been in bed. It was late and a school night. He couldn’t have seen anything. You want to go on up? That’s where Albert Gates’s murder took place.”

  Rosen looked up the ridge. Stevie might still be there. That would mean talking to him without knowing what questions to ask and, worse, without having the chance to gain his confidence.

  “No,” he said, “I’d better see True Sky first. Hey . . .” She snapped his photo again. “What’s that for?”

  “Force of habit.” She grinned. “Besides, like I said before, you’re kinda cute.”

  Chapter Five – WEDNESDAY EVENING

  Over the years Rosen had come to believe that one nameless individual had built the same generic restaurant in every American town. Such a restaurant was invariably located on the corner of Main Street; included the word “village” or “country” or “cafe”; had green or red vinyl booths, plastic menus with the prices changed in black marker, and cracked tile on the floor. The same picture frames hung along the walls, the only difference being the paintings, which gave each establishment its particular dime-store ambiance. Some depicted the Greek isles, some Florence, some the Alps, some the Great Wall of China.

  He sat in a booth of Bear Coat’s Village Diner, under a painting of Mount Rushmore. A Western motif dominated the restaurant, with pictures of the Rockies and Yellowstone, as well as the head of a buffalo mounted on the wall above the cash register. It was after seven. The dinner crowd had thinned to a few families, who ate at various tables arranged in checkerboard fashion from one end of the restaurant to the other. Nearly everyone was blond, and every male over twenty-one wore a cap—except him.

  He pushed his plate away, then sipped his lukewarm tea, as Andi slid onto the seat across from him. Head tilted and forearms crossed on the table, she looked like a marionette.

  “Figured you’d be here,” she said. “Why didn’t you leave a message at the motel?”

  “I didn’t know what restaurants were within walking distance. With your keen reportorial instincts, I knew you’d find me.”

  “Do you like V.D.?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “That’s how we townies affectionately refer to the Village Diner. Enjoy your meal?”

  “The best in continental cuisine. As you can see, I had the french dip and french fries.”

  Pulling his plate to her, Andi spanked the end of the ketchup bottle until it engulfed the remains of his dinner. Her fingers fished out one fry at a time, and she chewed thoughtfully.

  As a family of four left their nearby table, they nodded hello, the husband adjusting his Denver Broncos cap. Andi waved back.

  Rosen asked, “Why do all the men wear caps? Is it a custom, like the Chinese binding their women’s feet? Are their heads really pear-shaped?”

  “No.”

  “Do they ever take them off? How about when they go to bed?”

  Her mouth spread into a wicked grin. “Sometimes, but not always. It kinda tickles. Once I almost broke a rib when this guy’s brim . . .”

  “I get the idea. Are you finished, or should I order another bottle of ketchup with fries on the side?” He handed her three napkins from the dispenser.

  “All done.” She wiped her mouth, then leaned back and lit a cigarette. “I thought we’d go over to the station, so you could meet Saul. His bail hearing’s tomorrow morning in Deadwood. That’s the county seat. Hope that gives you enough time.”

  “It’ll have to. After you.”

  They passed a table where three men in cowboy hats were finishing their coffee. The oldest, maybe fifty, took Andi’s arm.

  She said, “Hello, Gil.”

  His eyes narrowed, and a web of wrinkles spread over his leathery face. “Got a cigarette?” he asked.

  “Here.”

  “Thanks. So what do you think about that Indian murdering my boss?”

  “Shouldn’t a jury be deciding that?”

  He flashed a smile, then took a long drag on his cigarette. “They’s all bad—that Indian and his half-breed kids. Never did like Will hanging around the ranch.”

  Andi started to walk away, but he pulled her back. “Just don’t want your editor trying any of his lawyer tricks.”

  “Jack’s not defending . . .” She stopped suddenly.

  Gil looked slowly from her to Rosen. “Me, I like the old ways. Give ’em their choice—a bull
et or a rope. Never did understand this legal bullshit. Know what I mean?”

  “Uh-huh.” She twisted her arm free. “For that, you’d have to know how to read. Come on, Nate.”

  As they reached the door, Rosen said, “You didn’t introduce us.”

  “Consider yourself lucky. That’s Gil McCracken, foreman of the Double G—Gates’s ranch. After talking to him, I could use some fresh air.”

  The sun was beginning to set. Copper-colored awnings hung like drowsy eyelids over the stores, and second-floor windows yawned half-open to catch the evening breeze. The buildings were brick with wood trim painted white; a few storefronts simulated front porches with white-washed pillars and short picket fences. There were several gift shops, a gunsmith, and Whistler Realty displaying advertisements in its windows for several area homes and commercial properties.

  Rosen studied the ads. “Pretty inexpensive compared to Chicago and D.C.”

  “Expensive enough for a hole-in-the-wall like this. Actually, prices have risen. Guess some folks are betting that Bear Coat will bring in gambling. ‘Course, it takes money to make money. Biggest property owner in town’s probably the Judge and Pearl. Pearl’s the realtor, but her husband’s got the money.”

  “He’s a judge?”

  Andi nodded. “In fact, he’s trying Saul’s case. His family’s been here as long as those trees covering the Black Hills. Yeah, the Judge is straight as a tree, and as boring.”

  “And his wife?”

  She grinned. “Besides the age difference, Pearl’s . . . Well, you’ll have to see for yourself.”

  They continued past a small movie theater specializing in old Westerns. The feature that evening was John Wayne in Stagecoach.

  “Nice town,” Rosen said.

  “If boredom’s your thing. City Hall’s just down the block.”