“The boss’s rules.”
Manny slapped a dollar bill on the counter.
“What’s that for?”
“Admission,” Manny answered.
“When was the last time you were here, sonny?” Jonah pointed to a sign, and Manny added eleven more dollars before Jonah let him through the door.
“We rent towels, and sell trunks,” Jonah called after him, but Manny wasn’t sure how he’d note swim trunks on his monthly expense account.
Davy the lifeguard sat at the edge of a mineral pool, his bare legs dangling between two girls that could have been his daughters. Or granddaughters. He flipped the hair on one, laughed along with the other, never realizing Manny stood over his shoulder. One of the scantily-clad teenagers looked up at Manny and Davy said without looking up, “Locker room’s down the end.”
“I don’t need a locker room.”
“Then why the hell are you here? ’Cause I know Jonah didn’t let you in for free.” He winked at the girls, puffing his chest at his bravado. Manny squatted beside Davy and flipped open his ID and badge wallet.
Davy jumped out of the water, his eyes darting between Manny and the girls. He motioned Manny away from the pool. “Listen,” he whispered, “I don’t know who’s been flapping their gums, but I never touch underage girls. Flirt, but never touch.”
“I’m not here to investigate child molesting.” Manny exaggerated a look around Davy to the girls splashing in the water. “Yet.”
Manny handed Davy the picture of John Doe. “Have you ever seen him in here?”
“Never.”
“Look again.”
“I don’t need to. This man’s never been in. And I work here every day.” Davy watched the two girls climb out of the pool, and patter toward the women’s locker room. “Now if there’s nothing else—”
“How warm is the water here?”
“Eighty-seven degrees,” Davy said. “Been that ever since the Indians found it more than a hundred years ago.”
“Hot enough to speed rigor mortis and skew time of death estimates,” Manny said to himself.
The color left Davy’s face. “You’re not saying this old guy died in my pool?”
“It’s the only warm water close to Pine Ridge.” Except any garden variety bathtub, Manny thought. Which meant unless a miracle was dumped in his lap, his chance of finding that bathtub was slimmer than Davy’s of getting lucky this afternoon.
Chapter 7
Manny cleared the edge of Reuben’s trailer, following the sweet smell of sage coming from the fire outside Reuben’s sweat lodge erected year-round. Manny turned his collar up against the biting wind, and silently thanked Clara for making him wear the scarf. Even if it was pink.
“You ought not to sneak up on a man’s house. Or didn’t they teach you that in the FBI Academy?” Reuben emerged from behind the cottonwood tree on the lee side of his trailer. “You need to be more careful.” He dropped into a lawn chair missing slats and motioned for Manny to sit on a tree stump opposite him.
“I assumed you were—”
“Inside the lodge?” Reuben said. “Assuming things will get you killed, Misun. No, I heard you come driving up and Wakan Tanka knows I’ve made enough enemies in my life not to trust anything to chance.”
Reuben half-turned in his chair and grabbed a bubbling teapot sitting on a Coleman burner. “Tea, Little Brother?”
“Don’t tell me you made it from your herbs, or whatever weeds you’ve gathered this week?”
“Of course not. It’s Lipton. Want some or not?”
“In that case, why not.”
Reuben poured Manny a cup in an empty Skippy jar, and settled back in his chair. Even though the cold made Manny’s teeth clench, Reuben wore no shirt, and the faded eagle tattoo across his battle-scarred chest drooped no lower than it ever did.
“I need some information—”
“You forget? We Indians visit first. Catch up. Get the small talk out of the way first.”
Manny dropped his head. “Maybe I did forget.”
“Like: Where did you get that lovely pink scarf?”
“I like to think of it as ‘salmon.’”
Reuben grabbed a spoon and a sugar jar. “Either way, it makes you look like a sissy.”
“Clara knitted it for me.”
“Then it looks just fine,” Reuben said.
Manny wrapped his hands around his peanut butter jar for warmth. “Tell me how your Heritage Kids have been coming along?”
“We’ve had a couple setbacks. Two got arrested for underage drinking in Gordon, Nebraska. And I found the one who jumped bail in tribal court for that carjacking holed up behind Sioux Nation Grocery.”
“I heard he couldn’t sit when he finally got to court,” Manny grinned. “Something about his backside being too sore.”
“I heard that, too.”
Since Reuben was paroled from the state prison eleven years ago after doing his time for a 1970s homicide for which he had been wrongly convicted, he began taking troubled kids under his wing. And his wing sometimes flapped a little too harshly for some. Still, he’d steered many reservation kids away from the road he’d once walked. Many reservation kids walked the Red Road now who never would have if not for Reuben’s . . . influence.
“Have you set a date with Clara yet?”
“With Willie’s wedding coming up, she has renewed her negotiating tactics. I’m still waiting to hear back from my counter offer. Next year. Maybe.”
Reuben stirred two teaspoons of sugar into his tea. “You holding firm?”
“I am but weakening. It’s hard to fight the inevitable with the woman you live with.”
“I hear you there, brother.”
Reuben refilled their cups. He grabbed a blanket and threw it around his massive shoulders before sitting back and sipping daintily. “Now, what information did you need?”
Reuben took the picture of the corpse Manny handed him. He explained about John Doe doing the dead-man’s backstroke in Oglala Lake, and about possible connections to Wind River. “I’ve known quite a few Arapahos who have moved here, but I don’t recognize your victim. I’ll keep my ear to the ground.” He sipped more tea. “You never mentioned how he got to the lake.”
“We think he might have stolen a car from a Rapid City strip bar. The D&D.”
Reuben groaned. “Not that dive Bobo Groves owns?”
“You know him, too?”
“You could say we shared the spotlight one night last year at the Civic Center in Rapid.” Reuben grinned perfect pearlies. “The Toughman Contest.”
Manny scooped snow from a mini-drift by the cottonwood and dribbled into his boiling tea to cool it off. “Isn’t sixty-four a little old to be fighting in that?”
“Bobo thought so, too, until I knocked him out of the ring. Besides, I donated the money to a scholarship fund for my Heritage Kids.” Reuben leaned back and cradled his cup in his hands, his butt poking through the missing slats in the lawn chair. “Bobo is one piece of human garbage.”
“Bad?”
“You think I’m bad?”
“I did once. Before you . . .”
“Redeemed myself? So you’re always telling me, Misun. Bobo is worse. He’s skopa. Warped as hell. He’s been an outlaw biker with two different clubs and run more methamphetamine coast-to-coast than you could imagine. He finally got nailed in San Diego for distribution and sent to Corcoran. He killed his cellmate there and got life in Pelican Bay. Bad dude.”
“If he’s a lifer, what the hell’s he doing walking around on the outs?”
“The way I heard it, Bobo got a new trial because of some technicality. The star witness at Corcoran had been paroled and deported to Mexico before the trial. I’m just sorry Bobo wasn’t the one you found floating.”
“
Is that any way for a sacred man to talk?”
“Which brings us to the real reason you stopped by.”
“I told you the reason,” Manny insisted.
“I know: You needed information. But I suspect the real reason is you needed to get in the initipi.”
Manny swirled the tea in his Skippy jar. Reuben could always read him.
Reuben pointed to the low-lying clouds. A golden eagle circled overhead. “This is a good sign. If the Wanbli Oyate sees fit to grace our skies with their presence . . . ”
“I don’t think the whole Eagle Nation is overhead waiting to witness me getting in the sweat lodge and connecting with my Lakota roots.” Manny shook his head. Reuben always argued with the mystical. Manny dealt in the factual.
Reuben finished his tea and stood. “But you will enter the lodge and pray.”
“Only because I’ve got something very unpleasant I may have to do tomorrow, depending on if John Doe is identified. Something that frightens me more than just about anything.”
“What ‘something’?”
“After we sweat. After I get my head on straight. Then I’ll tell you.”
Chapter 8
Manny drove through the Pine Ridge Airport gate, past the corrugated hangars threatening to fall over, under the wind sock flapping as if warning him not to continue. He parked his car beside a tattered Cessna, duct tape patching one wing and Plexiglas covering the broken back window. He slid his hand inside his bag and gripped the plastic figure of the Virgin Mary he’d slipped in before leaving the house.
“I don’t see why the bureau doesn’t spring for a flight,” Clara had asked Manny when he came back from the shooting range. Johnny Apple had been identified by his daughter on Wind River. And the bureau left it up to Manny how to get there to interview her. “With the money the federal government’s got, they ought to spring for first class.”
“They’ll foot the bill for a commercial flight. A red eye that leaves tonight at nine o’clock.”
“So go tonight.”
“I can’t,” Manny told her. “Our John Doe’s been IDed, and I’ve got to get there ASAP.”
“And your supervisor couldn’t charter a flight?”
Manny laughed as he stuffed clothes into an overnight bag. “The Rapid City office isn’t exactly the golden boy of federal funding.”
“But this . . . is just crazy.” Clara had wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek. “I just hope you’ve named me as your beneficiary.”
Manny had put Clara on the insurance policy this spring when he thought their wedding would come about. And as he watched Willie walk around the Cessna doing his preflight inspection, Manny feared Clara would be cashing in sooner than either of them wanted.
Willie waved Manny over to where he was checking rudder and aileron movement—the attaching wires looking like he’d bought them at the hardware store—and kicking tires as bald as most rez rods. I should kick myself in the ass for taking Willie up on his offer.
Willie ducked under a cable securing the plane to the ground and pried open the dented passenger door. “You’re late. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were afraid of flying.”
“I am afraid of flying with inexperienced pilots. I wasn’t taking any chances: I got in the sweat lodge with Reuben yesterday.” Manny hugged his briefcase with the Virgin Mary figurine inside. “You sure you got a license?”
Willie unclipped the cable, and the light plane rocked in the stiff wind. “Wilson signed me off on my touch-and-goes last month, and he approved my cross country.”
Manny circled the plane like a boxer circling an opponent. A very dangerous opponent. The prop had a chip out of one tip, and the leading edge of the wing had been patched with duct tape.
“She might not look like much, but she’s airworthy,” Willie grinned proudly.
Manny grabbed the plastic Virgin Mary before he tossed his bag in the back seat. He leaned in and reverently stuck her to the dash, praying even as he cursed Wilson Eagle Bull under his breath. Wilson’s foreman had shot Willie two months ago. Wilson felt guilty, and offered Willie free flying lessons. Big mistake, Manny thought. But then, Willie had to do something while he was recovering.
“What do you think of her?” Willie asked.
“I think Wilson could have made it up to you in some other way.”
“He did.” Willie slapped the plane’s door. “He steered me to the guy selling this baby.”
“He should be arrested for fraud.”
“Relax,” Willie said, tossing his overnight bag in back. “She’ll make it to Wind River.”
“I should have driven,” Manny moaned.
“It would take way too long. Plus you’re safer flying with me,” Willie assured him. “Unlike you driving, I haven’t had a single accident with this baby.”
“With an airplane, the first one is usually the last one. And how the hell did you convince Lumpy to allow you to fly me to Wind River?”
“That’s the best part,” Willie said as he forced his dented door open. “He said flying would scare you to death. And spare me from doing anything strenuous just yet.”
“Like giving me CPR every time I have the big MI in this heap?”
“Oh, just quit being wimpy and hop in.”
Manny said another silent prayer and climbed in. He cinched up his seat belt as Willie got behind the wheel. He latched his door tight with a canvas web strap.
“Where are all the gauges?” Manny asked.
“The previous owner took them out. They were obsolete anyway. He was going to put new ones in, but he discounted the price for me.”
“So you could put in new ones?”
Willie inserted the key. “That was the plan.”
“So where are the gauges?”
“I’m saving up for them,” Willie answered as he turned the key and hit the starter. “Relax.”
The plane coughed like a three-pack-a-day smoker before it fired up. Willie played with the choke until the motor evened out.
“At least it’s got Nav/Com. Right?” Manny asked.
Willie looked away.
“The radio,” Manny tapped it. “Doesn’t work, does it?”
“Of course it works.” Willie flipped a toggle, and the radio flared to life. KILI Radio playing pow wow music blared through speakers hidden somewhere under the dash.
“That’s supposed to be an aviation radio! You can’t get commercial stations—”
“The Nav/Com didn’t work, either,” Willie forced a grin as he taxied away from the hangars. “I had to put something in there until I could afford to buy a system.” He dug under the seat, and knocked dust off a small handheld radio with a droopy antenna. “This is my lifeline to air traffic controllers.”
Manny dug for his seat belt. “I’m outta here.”
“We’ll be all right.”
“You can’t even navigate us to Wind River,” Manny said. “You don’t have Nav/Com.”
“I don’t need it,” Willie said. “I got other instruments.”
“Like what?”
Willie pointed to a gauge showing a plane at a right angle to an artificial horizon. He tapped the glass. The plane jarred free and bounced horizontal. More or less. “And the altimeter works.”
“Then what’s this for?” Manny nodded to a pair of binoculars sitting in a holder screwed to the dash. “Sightseeing?”
The motor of the old 172 sputtered on taxi, and Willie played with the throttle until it evened out. More or less.
“Well?” Manny had just worked the seat belt lose when Willie shoved the throttle in. The plane started slogging along the rough runway. “Will you stop this thing!”
“Can’t,” Willie said, his attention divided between getting the plane off the ground and flipping down the false front of the ra
dio to pop in a CD. “We’re committed now. If I were you, I’d put that seat belt back on.”
Willie pushed the throttle in all the way, and the Cessna reluctantly rolled down the runway, bouncing, a stiff cross wind tipping the starboard wing until the plane bounced a final time and took flight like a crippled gooney bird.
“If you crack this thing up, I’ll never forgive you.”
“I gotta concentrate,” Willie said, cranking the music up. Steppenwolf blared over the raspy speakers, and Manny turned the volume down. “How can you expect me to get any sleep with that?” he said, just before popping a sleeping pill.
*****
Willie nudged Manny awake. He handed him the binoculars with one hand, while he banked the plane with the other. “See what that sign says down there.”
Manny looked where Willie pointed. Cars along a highway seemed to be driving faster than the aged Cessna. Manny read the altimeter: 600 feet. “Tell me there’s a reason we’re flying so low.”
“There is. We need to read the road signs. Now look out there and see if that sign says Highway 26.”
Willie banked the plane in a circle, wings shuddering, to give Manny a better view of the road. He felt bile rise in his throat, and he swallowed it back down. “Why do I need to do that?”
“To see where we’re at.”
“What the hell do you mean!” Manny shouted. “Didn’t you plot a course?”
Willie banked again, and the road sign came into view once again. “We didn’t need to. We’re just going to Wind River. Besides, I can follow road signs.”
Manny strained to pick up the sign through the binos. “I thought Wilson signed you off. How could you get a license if you can’t navigate?”
The plane started losing altitude. Willie played with the throttle, and the plane nosed up. “I followed roads on my cross country. Now will you see what road we need to turn on?”
“All right,” Manny said, sticking his eyes to the bino cups. “It’s Highway 26.”
“Good,” Willie breathed a sigh. “I thought we were lost for a minute.”
“This is a hell of a time to tell me you can’t fly,” Manny said, tightening his seat belt.
Death Etched in Stone Page 5
