by Ron Levitsky
Andi turned onto Pine Street and, after the VFW Hall, pointed to a solid, three-story brick building. Arches framed the first-floor windows, above which four Doric columns rose between the windows to buttress the second and third stories. Engraved above the columns were the words u.s. post office and court house.
“That’s where the preliminary hearing’s being held tomorrow.”
She continued past the Lawrence County Sheriff’s Office and parked in front of a small frame building with the sign Deadwood Tales.
“I thought you might like to meet an old family friend, Carrie Taggert. She edits one of the town papers. Better lock the car doors—I’ve got some camera equipment in the back seat.” Looking up and down the street, she added, “This isn’t Bear Coat.”
The inside of the newspaper office was as modest as its exterior. Everything looked old and gray, except for the computers and monitors on the metal desks. There was no Western paraphernalia; a few framed front pages, going back to the forties, hung along the walls.
Someone sat behind a newspaper at one of the back desks.
Andi called, “Carrie?”
The paper dropped, and an old woman smiled. Wearing wire-rimmed glasses, her white hair in a bun, she could’ve been on the label of a pickle jar.
“About time you got over here for a visit. Come to see if I’m still breathing?”
As they approached her desk, Carrie stood. She was small and lithe and from a distance, wearing her UNLV sweatshirt and jeans, might have been mistaken for a girl.
Gripping Rosen’s hand, she said, “You must be the lawyer Andi rustled from back East—Rosen, isn’t it? Good luck—you’re going to need it. In spite of his big mouth, Albert Gates had a lot of friends. I suppose you’ve already given Andi an exclusive on how you’re planning True Sky’s defense.”
Rosen shrugged. “At this point, there’s not much to say. I’ll know more after the preliminary hearing tomorrow.”. He looked along the wall at the old headlines. “This town’s got quite a history, and now it’s come full circle, having gambling again. Andi tells me that Deadwood is what Bear Coat could look like.”
“Yeah. It changes a place, that’s for damn sure.”
“For the better?”
“Depends who you talk to. Have you eaten dinner?” When he shook his head, she said, “Come on, you can see for yourself. Hand me my purse, will you—over there, on top of the file cabinet.”
Her purse, a cloth bag with a drawstring, sagged as if filled with lead weights.
They walked back up Pine, then onto Main Street, which had grown even more congested. Carrie led them into one of the saloons. People played slot machines along the windows. To Rosen’s left ran a long bar, behind which a man with a handlebar mustache served beer and pretzels. Above the shelves of liquor hung the portrait of a saloon girl, naked except for a feathered hat. A player piano banged out “Ragtime Cowboy Joe,” sung almost in tune by a middle-aged woman layered in makeup, whose breasts threatened to pop over her bodice.
Past her, in a second room, men sat at felt-covered tables playing poker and blackjack. The room, smoky and smelling of stale beer, was much quieter than the bar. Nobody smiled or joked—there was only the patter of chips tossed upon the green tabletops.
Standing beside him, Carrie said, “It’s all small stakes—just a way of passing time that’s a little more exotic than bingo. A five-dollar limit on cards. Slot machines are nickel, quarter, and dollar.”
“So no one gets hurt, is that it?”
“That’s the way it was intended. Just enough money was supposed to be generated to give the town a shot in the arm and renovate Main Street for tourists. Back in ’89, people thought there might be about a half-million spent in gambling the first year. Well, it turned out more like $20 million a month.”
“Quite a shot in the arm.”
“Yeah. Some real estate skyrocketed over a thousand percent, and a lot more jobs became available. Of course, most of the jobs are in places like this. And there’s a helluva lot more crime, drunk driving, and child abuse. Having a gambling hall almost next to the elementary school didn’t thrill too many parents.”
They walked back through the bar, where Carrie paused before one of the slot machines. Reaching into her purse, she took out a handful of quarters which she inserted, one by one, into the machine, pressing a button and waiting just long enough for the three pictures to register before plunking in the next coin. It took perhaps two minutes to empty her hand.
They walked into another saloon, similar to the first, and while Carrie played the slot machine, Rosen and Andi continued into the back room. Andi suddenly pulled him into the shadows against the wall.
“Look over there in the corner.”
Roy Huggins, the Bear Coat town council’s attorney, slouched over the table, his tie loosened, one hand holding his cards while the other held a drink.
“See the guy beside him?”
She was referring to Chick Cantrell, the engineer. He wore a flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled above his thick forearms.
Rosen asked, “Did you know Cantrell and Huggins were friends?”
“No. Cantrell’s from L.A. Been here only a few months. He’s a big slob—can’t keep his hands off women. He tried pawing me once, until I almost slapped that beard off his face. Definitely not the kind of guy Huggins would see on the golf course.”
“Maybe their being together’s just a coincidence.”
“One thing that’s not a coincidence is Huggins at the poker table. He’s really bit by the gambling bug—takes those junkets to Las Vegas. Folks say he wants poker in Bear Coat just so he won’t have to waste his betting time driving to and from Deadwood.”
Rosen watched the two men playing cards. They didn’t speak to one another, but neither did anyone at the table. Cantrell slammed his fist on the table when he lost, but chuckled like Santa Claus when he won. For Huggins, victory and defeat appeared the same; he stared at some imaginary spot in the middle of the table and silently sipped his drink, which extended like an appendage from his hand.
Ten minutes later, Andi tugged Rosen’s sleeve. “We’d better go.”
Back on the street, Carrie swung her half-empty purse with considerably more ease. She opened the door to a restaurant with a large picture window, above which was lettered, in script resembling branding irons, Della’s Deli.
“What say we get some dinner?”
The restaurant, long and narrow, was divided into two rooms. Slot machines lined the walls of the front area, and a dozen square tables filled the back. Rosen and his two companions sat at the first table near a teller’s cage, where a woman made change.
A man walked in, unkempt and in need of a shave. Three young boys tumbled after him. As if feeding a bird, the man carefully slipped quarters into the machine, while his children played tag up and down the aisle. They scurried among the machines until the teller, stepping from her cubicle, sat them at a table with three large Cokes and a huge basket of french fries.
Their father remained oblivious to his children and didn’t even look up when the woman beside him screamed with delight, as a river of quarters cascaded from the machine into her sun hat.
Carrie said, “The half-breed in the teller’s cage owns the place. It was just a dive, but once gambling came in and she got a license—you should see her house in the hills. Has a girl in law school. Speaking of lawyers,” she asked Andi, “how’s that handsome boss of yours?”
After the waiter brought their sandwiches and drinks, Andi replied, “He’s real busy—what with running the newspaper and trying to help Saul True Sky hold onto his land.”
“He made a pass yet, or is he too old for a young thing like you?”
“No.”
“No, he’s too old?”
“He hasn’t made a pass at me.” She narrowed her eyes. “He’s not that old. I bet he’s not much older than Nate here.”
Leaning back, the old woman looked from Rosen to Andi. “
No, I guess he’s not. Maybe you two . . .”
“Who’s that?” Rosen asked, nodding toward the window. “Wasn’t that a Bear Coat police car?”
“I think so,” Andi said. “Maybe it’s come to give Roy Huggins a ride home.”
Carrie shook her head sadly. “Sure as shootin’, he can’t drive himself. Why, they’d have to pour him into his car.”
“I don’t know why Belle and the rest of the town council put up with him.”
Across the aisle, the youngest boy began wailing; his Coke had spilled over the fries. None of the gamblers turned to look, not even the children’s father, who, like an automaton, continued working the slot machine.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rosen said.
Passing through the restaurant, he almost tripped over one of the boys, who started to cry while his brothers fell on the floor laughing.
Brightly lit, the street bustled with the same odd mixture of adults and children. Rosen wondered if anyone besides him noticed that, high above in a raven sky, the pale moon was full. He walked a few steps behind the two women, listening to them reminisce about Andi’s father, until they reached the newspaper office. Again Carrie wished him luck and said goodnight.
Walking back, he and Andi noticed the Bear Coat police car parked in front of the sheriff’s office.
She said, “I wonder what that’s all about.”
As if in response, the door of the building opened, and Tom Cross Dog walked down the steps with Stevie Jenkins. Hair matted and face dirty, the boy wore a jeans jacket over a torn Guns ‘n’ Roses T-shirt. Reaching for the passenger door, the policeman saw Andi and hesitated. She hurried to the boy, Rosen following after.
“What’s wrong?” she asked Stevie, checking him for injuries.
“Nothing,” he muttered, pushing her hands away.
“Tom?”
Sighing, Cross Dog sat heavily on the hood. “I got a call an hour ago from Sheriff Clarkson. Guess you’d call it a professional courtesy—he knows Gracie works at the station. Lucky it wasn’t her shift when the call came in.”
“What is it?”
“Looks like Stevie hitched a ride into Deadwood with a couple of his friends. The boys played some slot machines at one of the drugstores, until the owner kicked them out. Not before they did a little shoplifting. The other two got away, but Stevie wasn’t so lucky. Tripped over a dog and got caught.”
“Oh, God.”
“Second time this year he’s been arrested.”
“How serious is it?”
The policeman shrugged. “I made good what was stolen, so the owner’s not gonna press charges. Sheriff Clarkson’s willing to forget about it—what the hell, Stevie’s just another punk for him to process.” He said the last words a little louder, so the boy was sure to hear.
Andi touched his arm. “You’re a good friend, Tom. Gracie sure has been through enough not to need any more grief.”
“Yeah. About Gracie.” He leaned closer. “Look, she don’t have to know anything about this.”
“But she must be worried sick where he is.”
“Call her now, and say you ran into Stevie in Deadwood. Let her know about the hitchhiking but nothing else. Then drive him home. Folks don’t need to see the boy riding in a squad car. How about it?”
Andi smiled. “Okay. I’ll go inside and phone her.”
While waiting, Cross Dog absently kicked the tire with his heel. He cocked his head and, reaching out, pulled the boy to him.
“What happened tonight . . . your mother don’t have to know. All right?”
Stevie looked away.
“Well?” Cross Dog grabbed the boy with both hands and lifted him from the ground. “You’re not the only one who’s had a rough time. Why don’t you think about somebody else for a change?”
“Leave me alone!”
Stevie kicked at him, until Cross Dog let go. The boy stumbled, then quickly got up, clenching his fists as if ready to trade punches.
Andi hurried down the steps. “All set. Is everything okay?”
The policeman asked, “You didn’t mention me, did you?”
“No.”
“Good. See you around.” Slamming the car door, Cross Dog drove away.
Andi put her arm around Stevie, who suddenly leaned against her like a little boy. He let her lead him to the car and, without a word, slid into the back seat.
Ten minutes outside Deadwood, traffic had thinned until all that Rosen could see in the darkness was a pair of tail lights twinkling in the distance below the stars. Shifting slightly, he tried to locate Stevie in the rear-view mirror. The boy curled against the rear door behind Andi.
“Gets really dark out here,” Rosen said.
Andi nodded. “Easy to get lost, if you’re not careful. It’s a lot worse in the winter.”
“I bet Saul’s ridge gets dark as this. Isn’t that so, Stevie?”
The boy didn’t answer but raised his head.
“Of course, if you really knew the ridge, I bet you could find your way around in the dark without any trouble. Don’t you think?” After a few seconds, he added, “Stevie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You like to wander around, don’t you?”
No answer.
“Were you wandering around the ridge the night Albert Gates was murdered?”
Turning, Rosen watched the boy squirm against the door.
“You did see something. What was it?”
“Leave me alone!”
“That sweat in True Sky’s lodge didn’t last long for either of us, did it? A man must make his own peace. Stevie, you’ve got to talk to me sooner or later.”
A muffled noise, maybe a sob, then the sudden rushing of air. The car swerved as Andi applied the brakes.
“Nate, stop him!”
Stevie was half out of the car when, reaching over the seat, Rosen pulled the boy back inside. Rosen’s left hand shivered; had it been struck by the closing door? Under the glimmering dashboard, he watched a thin line of blood slithering above his knuckles.
Turning back, he stared past the pocketknife, into the shadows that hid Stevie’s eyes. No one spoke, no one moved—but in the stillness, Rosen heard the boy’s breath quicken like the fluttering of a frightened bird.
Chapter Nine – THURSDAY NIGHT
Grace pulled into her usual parking space behind Town Hall but waited, her fingers clicking the clasp of her purse. It was better going to work as usual; besides, what could she do at home? Stevie was in bed, and her father had promised to stay in the house with him. Had it come to this—taking turns guarding the boy like he was a prisoner? Sighing, she looked at the dashboard clock, just as it flashed 11:01. She was never late.
On her way into the police station, Grace passed Will’s pickup truck. Her steps quickened. What was wrong now?
Will sat alone behind the control unit. Holding up a copy of Cosmopolitan, he flashed a smile.
“Not a bad job, Gracie, sitting here all night, looking at pictures of half-naked women and finding out how they think. Did you know that women find earth-tone bed sheets more romantic than all those hot colors? Surprised the hell outta me. Guess I’d better do some shopping tomorrow.”
He gave the chair to Grace and, looking over her shoulder, continued flipping the magazine pages.
“It’s Wendy’s,” she said.
“I know.”
“That’s why you’re here. You two are back together.”
Pointing to the advertisement of a woman slung over a man’s shoulder, he said, “Guess I’ve got my needs like everybody else. She’s in the ladies’ room, prettying herself up for me.”
Elroy walked from the cells, carrying a dinner tray. “Damn drunk thinks he’s got room service.” When Wendy rushed in from the hallway, he handed her the tray. “Drop this off at the diner—that is, if it don’t interfere too much with your plans for the evening. I’m already late for my shift.”
“It’s no trouble, Elroy. You
know I always—” but the deputy had already walked out the door.
“What’s his problem?” Will asked.
“Forget about him.” She kissed Will on the cheek. “Come on, honey, I got my dancing shoes on. Bye, Gracie.”
“You two have fun,” she replied, forcing a smile.
The smile slowly melted as Tom walked into the station, just as the other two left. He sat heavily in Elroy’s chair and swiveled to face her.
“Those two back together?”
“For tonight, at least.”
“You all right?”
“Uh-huh. Why do you ask?”
He scratched his head. “No reason. The hearing tomorrow. If you want to leave a few hours early and get some sleep . . .”
“No, but thanks. Guess I am a little worried about tomorrow. I just wish Jack had taken the case. I guess Mr. Rosen will do a good job—he sure seems to know what he’s doing, but it’s not the same as somebody you know. I can tell you don’t like him.”
“Just like coyotes, one lawyer’s the same as another.”
“Jack’s not like that.”
Shifting in his chair, Tom asked, “You still planning to ride in the show on Saturday?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. Guess it depends on what happens tomorrow at the hearing. Don’t feel much like doing it.”
“You should. It’ll be good for you, and you sure don’t want to disappoint Curly. I’ve already got Cree Lansing taking your shift tomorrow, so you can get some rest and start off early in the morning.”
“Will you be there?”
“I just might.”
He turned back to the desk, and they lapsed into silence. It wasn’t unusual for the two of them to be alone in the station deep into the night, without him saying a word. “That was the way of a Lakota warrior,” her father would say. “Not to waste words, especially with a woman.”
