Death Etched in Stone

by C. M. Wendelboe

  Manny folded the report neatly and turned to where Neville’s “I Love Me” wall extended the entire length of the hallway. Manny donned his own glasses and examined the pictures: Neville defending—and winning an acquittal for—Wendy Medicine Hat: She had dismembered her father because he had denied her his car to drive with her friends one night outside of Lander. “A juvenile lapse in judgment,” Neville was quoted as saying at the time of acquittal. His first trial case, the neatly written caption under the clipping explained.

  Further down the wall other newspaper clippings of other cases hung in frames. They began when Neville started practicing law in Lander and continued after he started his own business in Rapid City.

  Loud noise erupted from Neville’s office, and Manny started for the door: laughter. Manny turned his attention back to the wall. As he neared the opposite end of the photos and clippings, Neville got younger. The last photo showed Tony and Neville dancing at a pow wow with the caption of Ft. Washakie Pow Wow 1970. Both boys were dressed in period regalia, with their fringed leggings and their hair braids showing off beaded lizards seeming to come alive in the photo, Neville tilting his head back in laughter and Tony stumbling just as the picture was taken.

  The series of photos showed Neville and Tony competing. “Dad raised us in the traditional way,” Neville had said that first time Manny stopped at his office. “Something neither Tony nor I ever lost sight of, though Tony’s gotten a little wild through the years.”

  Unc had raised Manny with the traditional Lakota teachings, the Indian way of thinking about his place in his environment. Unc hadn’t required that Manny dress in the long braids and the beaded costumes or compete in dances. But he had instilled in Manny the Lakota way. “Walk the Chunka Duta,” Unc had taught Manny about the Red Road. “Be a good man.”

  It was something Manny was just now beginning to appreciate after living so long in the white man’s world. For so long, Manny had felt ashamed of being Indian, careful to dress as white men dressed, groom as white men groomed. And it appeared to him that Neville had become ashamed as well, tucking his braids under his cap. Until he got to court, where he played on his Indian heritage to win jurors’ sympathies. And win acquittals for his clients.

  Neville’s door opened, and he led Brandi out into the hallway. She must have read Manny’s questioning look and placed her hand on his arm. “I’ll be all right. Neville’s taking me out to Red Lobster for a victory dinner.”

  “Under the circumstances, you’ll understand if I don’t ask you to join us,” Neville said.

  Manny nodded. “Under the circumstances, I wouldn’t join you if you asked. Clara has supper on the table about now. But tomorrow morning,” Manny said, “we need to talk about Tony.”

  Neville nodded. “All right. Let’s meet here at nine.”

  Neville locked up and led Brandi to his pickup. Manny held the truck door for her and watched as they pulled away before pulling his coat collar up and walking across the street to his own car. He passed the barber shop, and instinctively his hand shot to the whack job the old man had given him. He needed to keep all the hair he had. He’d never had much. Not like Tony and Neville.

  He stood staring at the hypnotically rotating red and blue and white barber pole in front of the door, thinking of Neville hiding his long braids under his hat, wondering when Tony had the old man cut his.

  He stepped into the barber shop. The old man was reading the same dog-eared Hustler. He casually looked up at Manny. “I’m about to close up.”

  “I need some information.”

  The barber stood and walked to where Manny stood with his hands warming in his coat pockets “You say you need some information?”

  Manny nodded.

  “I give out information best when I’m working,” he grinned, and nodded to the empty barber chair.

  “I was just in here a few days ago for a trim.” Manny said.

  “I know. But your hair looks like its growing back.”

  “But you haven’t left me with enough hair to start a fire after last time.”

  The old man smiled. “Your choice. You want to visit or read my Hustler?”

  “Looks like I get another trim.” Manny took off his coat and plopped into the chair, awaiting the inevitable. The old man grabbed a thicker pair of glasses than he had last time and a dull clipper, and began whacking. “Now what do you need to know?”

  “The last time I was in here, you mentioned Charging Bear had left a tip.”

  “So?”

  “Which Charging Bear?” Manny asked. “The one who hangs around the D&D?”

  “The one who hangs around that strip bar? Hell, I’ve never seen him grace my doorway. Not much better than his brother.” The man jerked his head in the direction of Neville’s law office. “He lives traditionally, with his hair down his butt. Hell, he could be braiding the hair on his ass for no more than he gets it cut,” he laughed, and quickly pushed his clicking teeth back in his mouth. “To answer your question: that lawyer came in here the other day. I figured he had an important court case. ’Bout the only time I cut his hair.”

  “Which day?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Manny felt the old man’s hand slip, the shears gouge his head, and he was reluctant to distract him anymore. “From when I was here for my last whack job, when did the lawyer get his?”

  “Is it important?”

  “Very.” Manny answered.

  The old man stopped mid whack. “Two days before you stopped in.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when I asked?”

  “I did,” the old man answered. “I told you Charging Bear came in here. First time in ages. When I cut off those long braids the other day, I thought he’d bawl.”

  “Me too,” Manny said as he realized that the photo people had been identifying as Tony with the long braids might just as well have been Neville.

  Manny thanked the old man and tipped him. “What’s this for?”

  “A new Hustler. That one’s getting a little shop worn.”

  Manny went out into the cold and pulled his hat farther down his head. As he started for his car and home, he hoped that Clara wouldn’t say anything about his hat in the house. Because he sure didn’t want to take it off in front of her again.

  Manny climbed in his car. When he reached over to start the heater, the seismograph report dropped out of his jacket pocket. He punched in Brandi’s cell phone number, but it went to voice mail. And for some reason he couldn’t explain, that worried him.

  Chapter 37

  Patrons were already flocking into the Death & Destruction as Manny walked past the sign announcing Amateur Night. He made a plainclothes officer sitting across the street watching the bar for Bobo. Manny suspected Bobo would make him too, the officer sitting in his police issue Crown Vic, tall radio antenna swaying in the breeze, reading a copy of Law and Order. Manny brushed his scarred scalp. He wondered how long he could put off facing Clara with another hatchet job haircut.

  He entered the bar and stood by the side of the door. His eyes slowly adjusted to the dark interior lit mainly by a cheesy disco mirror ball rotating overhead. Odd colors bounced off a middle-aged stripper in the center of the stage. She struggled trying to keep herself from falling off the pole made out of surplus gas pipe.

  Manny didn’t see Bobo. But then he didn’t expect to. The law was already hunting him hard, even before he tried killing Manny outside Homer One Feather’s house. Manny didn’t know just why he had come inside. It surely wasn’t to watch the pitiful dancers. He started out the door when he spotted Monica operating the handle of the draft beer dispenser like she was playing the slots in Deadwood. He walked to the bar and sat watching her bent over a beer tap, filling glasses of beer. She wiped sweat off her face with the same towel she’d used to wipe glasses a moment ago. “Hello, Monica.”


  She looked up and her legs buckled. Her back hit against the back bar, and a glass crashed to the floor. She looked frantically around and made no attempt to pick up the broken glass.

  Manny smiled. “Tell me Bobo’s here.”

  She shook her head, eyes darting to the side door.

  “I could beat you to it, if you tried running.”

  “What do you want?” she stammered.

  “Like I said, I’m looking for Bobo.”

  “Rapid City cops were just here this afternoon. I’ll tell you the same: He’s not here and I haven’t seen him.”

  “That must be a relief.”

  “Relief?”

  “If he’s not here, he can’t beat you anymore,” Manny said.

  Monica’s hand shot to the bruise on her face, partially covered by makeup, but still pronounced where something—presumably Bobo—had hit her the other day. “He doesn’t beat me. He loves—”

  “Did he ‘love’ you last week because you called the police on his stolen Cavalier?”

  She looked away.

  “He had a load of dope inside,” Manny said. “The good stuff. Not the low grade weed he usually deals in. Right?”

  She eyed the side door again for the briefest moment, then slumped against the back bar. “You know about that?”

  “I do. I recovered a half pound of BC Bud on the reservation last night.”

  “Half pound? Where’s the rest?”

  “How much more was there?” Manny asked.

  Her eyes darted to the exit again. “He had more than a pound. It cost him a fortune. Money we could have used to fix the place up.”

  “I suspected there was more.” Manny sat on a bar stool and waited while Monica filled four more glasses. She set the beer on a tray and slid it over to a one-armed waitress. “The kid that stole his car, Nate Yellow Bull, sure had no way of getting something as pricey as BC Bud. And I’ll bet Bobo didn’t, either. Where do you suppose Bobo got the money to front for a pound of that?”

  Monica looked at the peanut shell covered floor.

  “And when he found out you reported his car stolen, he tuned you up.” Manny grabbed a handful of peanuts from a bowl on the counter and started cracking hulls. “Now if you tell me where he is—”

  “He’s gone.” Monica stood and straightened her shirt. Her chin jutted out and she leaned on the bar. “And you won’t find him, either.”

  Manny grabbed a business card and jotted his cell number on the back. “For your sake, I hope we do. Call if you hear from him. You do that, and you might never have another beating.”

  The crowd around the show yelled as the stripper’s hip went out, and she fell to the stage. Manny headed to the stage when Monica rushed past him just as two drunks in the front row leaned over to help the dancer. She bent and whispered something to one drunk. A man wearing a greasy Hubbard Feed hat.

  Manny plowed his way through men standing on tiptoes getting a look at the commotion on-stage. One drunk turned into him and spilled his whiskey over Manny’s shirt front. Another waved his beer bottle and caught Manny’s injured arm. He cringed but continued until he reached Able Ought parked on the front row. He turned his face away from Manny and pulled his hat down lower. “I thought you didn’t come here often?” Manny said.

  Able looked up. He set his cap back on his head and looked around the crowd. “What have we here,” he yelled above the noise, “is a nosy cop!”

  The two drunks helping the dancer backed away, one heading for the door while the other shielded his face.

  A young man sitting beside Able and drooling at the stripper stood abruptly. He was nearly as tall as Willie, though not as heavy in the chest and shoulders. Still, an intimidating sight in a nasty biker bar. “I hate cops,” the man said.

  “We’re even: I hate assholes.”

  The drunk jabbed a finger in Manny’s chest.

  Able slinked around the big kid, and Manny headed after him when the drunk grabbed his arm. His bad arm. His arm that burned every time someone touched where the stitches were. Like now.

  He kept an eye on Able, now nearly to the door. Manny stomped his boot down hard on the kid’s instep. He howled in pain and his legs buckled. Manny eased him into his chair and took off after Able.

  Able reached the door as Manny burst through the crowd. The cold air hit Manny’s face, his lungs burning as he ran across the street after Able.

  “Stop or I’ll shoot!”

  Able paused, slowing.

  “Stop or I’ll blow your ass back to that farmer’s co-op you work in.”

  Able stopped. He raised his trembling hands. “Don’t shoot, for God’s sake.”

  Manny slowed to a walk.

  Able chanced a peek over his shoulder at Manny coming across the street. Able dropped his hands, and faced him just as Manny stepped onto the curb. “You’re not even armed.”

  Manny nodded. He had forgotten his gun in his car. As usual. “I didn’t say I was.”

  “Then how the hell you going to shoot?”

  “I didn’t say I was going to shoot right now,” Manny grinned. “Maybe I’ll save that for later.”

  Able hung his head. He sat down on the curb and drew his legs under him. “All right, so you suckered me into stopping. Are you going to arrest me?”

  “For what?”

  “You tell me.”

  “No, you tell me,” Manny said, sitting next to him. “Is this True Confession time?”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You lied to a federal officer in an official investigation.”

  “I didn’t lie . . . ”

  “You said you rarely come into the D&D,” Manny said. “Yet, here you are, not a week after the owner cold-cocked you, back in his bar. Doing what, asking for a rematch?”

  “I was looking for Tony. I told you that the other day.”

  “And you weren’t afraid that Bobo would kick the shit out of you again?” Manny asked. “That’s pretty dumb.”

  Able remained silent.

  “You knew Bobo wasn’t at the bar tonight. How?”

  “I just took a chance.”

  Manny gathered his collar around his ears and blew warm breath into his hands. “I’m thinking there’s more to you coming around looking for Tony. You knew Bobo wasn’t going to be there tonight. My best guess is he told you.”

  “You wouldn’t make any money in the guessing game, Agent Tanno.”

  “Then maybe I’ll make money in the arresting game.”

  “For what?” Able said.

  “For starters, obstucting a federal investigation,” Manny said. He stood and fished his handcuffs out of his jacket pocket.

  Able put up his hands. “All right. Give me a little time to gather my thoughts.”

  “You mean get your lies together. What the hell were you going in there for tonight?”

  “I knew Bobo wasn’t there tonight!” Able blurted out. He held his head in his hands.

  Manny slid his handcuffs back into his pocket.

  “So you see, Bobo didn’t tell me to meet him. I’m not in cahoots with him with anything. And the sooner you find him—”

  “The sooner you can sidle up next to Monica?”

  “Bobo treats her like shit,” Able said. “But we’ve been hiding our . . . relationship. How’d you know about us?”

  Manny bent and sniffed Able’s head. “That’s some pretty strong cologne.”

  “And your point?”

  “No one goes to a nasty strip bar smelling as good as you do right now. Unless he’s impressing someone. Like the owner’s wife.”

  *****

  Manny could no longer avoid Clara’s stare as he picked at his pot roast. “What?”

  “You know what. You had to go back to that same butch
er of a barber, didn’t you? And you come home smelling like a brewery.”

  “You know I don’t drink.”

  “Then what’s that smell?” Clara demanded.

  Manny explained a drunk had spilled beer on his shirt and jacket.

  “Well, you shouldn’t have been to the D&D looking for Bobo in the first place.”

  “I told you, I needed information from him. This was the only way.”

  “There’s younger officers that can deal with him.”

  “I’m not exactly slipping on a banana peel toward the grave,” Manny argued.

  Clara set the pot roast and corn bread on the table. “Willie’s wedding is less than two weeks away, and you’re going to be his best man with hair like that?”

  Manny had no argument for Clara. He’d dreaded looking in the mirror when he got home, and his fears were realized. It looked like the old man had used a hedge trimmer on what was left of his hair. “Maybe I can get some of that spray that mimics hair like they advertise on TV.”

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” Clara said, her hands on her hips. “What a genius. Or maybe you can just shave your whole head and spray it with some Rust-Oleum.”

  “Now that’s a possibility,” Manny tried sounding flippant, when his agency cell phone buzzed an incoming text. “Sorry, but it’s Willie texting from Tony’s hospital room.” Manny walked into the garage and called him.

  “Tony’s pissed,” Willie sounded out of breath. “I couldn’t ask him any questions since he lawyered up with you, so all I did was play the tape. The message that Johnny had left on his answering machine pissed him off, and he started talking. He said he’d never heard the tape before. He claimed he was in jail in Hot Springs at the time of the call.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  “I didn’t, so I called Fall River County. Tony was in for public intox the night of the phone call, and he wasn’t released until late the next day.”

  Manny closed his eyes, recalling the simple message that asked Tony to come to Wind River. “Why did Johnny’s message make him mad?”

  “He refused to say, except he wanted an attorney.”