Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir)

by Sarah Cortez;Liz Martinez

  The marine sergeant just stood there with that big stupid grin on his face. Useless.

  Flanagan stopped laughing. He tried again. "Listen, pal, if your friend there doesn't stop his screaming, I'm going to have to lock him up. Let's try to be civilized about this, okay?"

  Something must have penetrated because the guy came to life. Well, he moved a little.

  "We're-marines," he slurred. "Don't-lock up. Hafta be back for-grblsh."

  Flanagan could barely understand him. "I can see you're marines. You want to help your buddy back to camp or wherever you belong, or do you want to spend what's left of the night in jail?"

  The sergeant visibly tried to straighten himself up. "It'sh- okay. Fine. I'll take him-"

  He thought the guy was going to puke again, so he made a rookie mistake. He backed up, forgetting that the other drunk was behind him.

  The Pima marine grabbed him by the coat and whirled him around. "You son of a bitch!" He punched Flanagan in the stomach. "You goddamn son of a bitch! It's all your fault!" Another punch. "I hate you, Rosenthal! Hate you, hate you, hate you!" He underscored every "hate you" with another punch.

  Beech revived enough to try pulling him off the policeman. "Ira, enough! Leave him alone!"

  Flanagan rolled himself into a ball to make a smaller target. If he could just get to his gun ... He managed to unsnap his holster. He touched the grip of his pistol. Almost there ... Then, fireworks. Then, darkness.

  The adrenaline coursing through Beech's body rendered him instantly sober. He wrestled with the Pima for possession of the cop's gun.

  The Indian is in the foxhole with Franczik when a flare explodes, lighting up the night. Two enemy soldiers are slashing the guys in the next hole with bayonets. They run over there to aid their fellow marines.

  One of the Japs hurls a grenade at them. It's a dud, but it strikes Franczik in the head, and he goes down. The Indian reaches inside Franczik's shirt to pull out the .45 he knows his friend keeps hidden there, but the Jap is right on top of him.

  He punches at the enemy soldier and wrestles with him for possession of the handgun. Blood covers the gun, and it's slippery in his hand. He may not be able to hold onto it, but he won't give up. They go back and forth over the .45.

  A tug of war for the gun.

  "Ira, stop it! Let go!"

  Beech grabbed for the policeman's gun again. The Indian was still engaged in mortal combat. He wouldn't loosen his grip. But Beech had sobered up, and Ira's body hadn't yet processed all the alcohol he'd consumed that day.

  With a final tug, Beech managed to pull the weapon away from the Pima marine. The gun went off.

  "Shit!" Beech cried. "Why isn't the fucking safety on on this piece of shit? You okay, Ira?"

  Ira didn't say anything.

  Beech scrambled to his feet and jerked Ira up. "Yeah, you're okay. Thank fucking Christ."

  Ira looked down at the spreading pool of blood.

  "Oh my God," Beech said. "Oh fuck."

  The blood pools all over the ground. It sinks in, staining the dirt. There are so many dead and wounded that there's nothing else to smell besides the coppery scent of blood and the stench of decaying bodies.

  The Pima Indian crouches down, trying to duck rounds that he cant begin to guess the origins of. The enemy is hidden, and bullets seem to originate from nowhere and everywhere.

  He sees blood pouring out of the man in front of him. He presses the man's jacket against his chest wound. "You'll be okay," he reassures him. But he knows he's lying.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he spots one of the prowling wolves coming toward him. "Over there!" he shouts. He grabs a gun out of another marine's hands. He hears rounds exploding everywhere. It's impossible to tell whether what he's hearing is his own gunfire or not.

  "Oh my god, oh my god, ohmygod ohmygod."

  Beech came around behind the Pima and yanked his jacket down to immobilize his arms. "Ira, we have to go. Now."

  He shoved him toward the street, but not before the Indian spotted the two men lying on the ground. "What happened?" he asked, craning his neck to look.

  Beech gritted his teeth. "You were here. You know what happened."

  The Indian became desperate. "No! I don't know. Tell me. Please, please, tell me."

  "The cop got shot," Beech said shortly. "The other guy saw what happened. Now let's go." He shoved the Pima away and frog-marched him down the street.

  Beech looked up and saw dawn beginning to peek out of the sky. He had to get this guy back to the hotel and cleaned up for the dog-and-pony show this morning.

  As they passed a sewer grate, he shoved the Indian ahead of him and dropped the gun down the hole.

  Five blocks later, the Indian asked, "What happened to the other guy?"

  Beech didn't answer.

  "Beech?"

  "What?"

  "What happened to the other guy?"

  "What other guy?" He was stalling.

  "There were two guys on the ground back there, and I'm pretty sure they were both dead. Who was that other guy, and how did he get that way?"

  "Ira, you were there. I was there. There's nothing else to say." He stopped walking and jerked the Indian around to face him. "I mean it. You are never to mention this again. Do you understand?"

  "No. Why won't you tell me?"

  Beech stared at him. "You kidding me? I don't know anything that you don't know. Now, you're to keep your mouth shut about tonight or we're gonna have some real problems." He grabbed the Indian below the collar of his shirt and shook him. "Understand me?"

  The Pima just looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded and said, "Yeah."

  Beech let him go. "Good."

  Outside the hotel, they passed a poster for the 7th War Loan Bond Drive. It was fastened to a light pole and it danced in the breeze. The Indian looked at the photograph of himself and five others raising the flag on Mount Suribachi. He, Gagnon, and Bradley were the only survivors. The other three were killed in the battle that raged on after they planted the flag. Every time he saw the photo, another little part of his heart withered and died. He missed his buddies from Easy Company, most of whom were gone now.

  "I wish Joe Rosenthal had never taken that picture," he said. "Then I wouldn't have to be on this crummy tour."

  "Yeah, well, he did and you are," Beech said sourly. "Now you have to get in there and clean yourself up in time to go raise the flag again at Soldier Field."

  "I already raised the flag on Iwo. Why do I have to do it again?"

  "Because they built a replica of Suribachi, and you heroes have to reenact the flag-raising so people will buy more war bonds, so the marines who are still fighting have a half a chance of surviving. Get it?"

  They entered the hotel in silence. Beech said, a little friendlier now, "I'll take you up to your room, help you get cleaned up."

  "That's okay. You don't have to."

  "I said I'll take you up."

  The Indian didn't respond.

  Beech checked his watch. "Never mind. We don't have time anyway. Come on."

  He led the Indian down to the staging area. Gagnon and Bradley both shook their heads when they saw the shape he was in. Bradley looked at Beech, exasperated. Wasn't Beech supposed to keep an eye on Ira?

  Gagnon stepped over to the catering area and came back with a bucket of ice water. He poured it over Ira's head. "Maybe this'll sober you up, you fuckin' drunk."

  "Jesus, Rene. You didn't have to do that," Bradley said.

  "Yes, I did. Look at him."

  "Enough," Beech snapped. "The Cadillac that's going to drive you around Soldier Field is here. Make sure Hayes sits in the middle so he can't fall out. And Hayes-you drag your ass up that papier-mache mountain and you plant that flag. And don't fall down. Do you understand?"

  The Pima marine shook the water off himself like a dog and said nothing.

  Beech had watched the whole dog-and-pony show, and unless you knew what a mess Hayes was, you couldn't
tell he was out of it. He always tended to be a little on the sloppy side anyway.

  And Beech would be the first one to catch any flak if the brass was upset with the performance of any of the heroes. No news was good news.

  But that didn't prevent him from almost having a nervous breakdown. He kept running down to the street to see if there were any extra editions of the Chicago papers highlighting the murder of a policeman and a civilian.

  The copper was one thing. Hayes had grabbed for his gun, and Beech had had no choice but to get involved. Too bad the guy bought it, but Beech had to protect Hayes. And himself.

  But that other fucking guy had seemed to come out of nowhere. All of a sudden he was standing there, watching the whole thing. It would definitely not be a good thing if the guy shot off his mouth later about seeing two marines and a dead policeman.

  And that fucking Hayes, asking him what happened. Hayes wasn't stupid. He was trying to play it coy, maybe setting the stage to shift all the blame to Beech if the shit ever hit the fan.

  Beech developed a splitting headache.

  After a few days in Detroit and Indianapolis, the tour returned to Chicago. Beech wanted to rip his fingernails out with his teeth. He hadn't had a drink since their last night in Chicago. He took Hayes out to bars every night but kept himself in check so he could watch the Indian. He managed to make sure the captain or the colonel saw Hayes in all his glory, returning to the hotels after his nights on the town.

  At the Palmer Hotel in Chicago, Colonel Fordney told Beech to bring Hayes into his office. The colonel shoved a United Airlines ticket to Hawai'i into Beech's hands. "He's going back to Easy Company. The Fifth Division is training to invade Japan. Hayes is going with them. Make sure he gets on the plane without disgracing the Corps. Dismissed."

  Later, as Beech was getting the Indian seated on the plane, he said, "I'm real sorry it turned out this way, Ira. You're a good man. Keep your chin up." He clapped him on the shoulder.

  The Pima marine looked at Beech. "What did you do with the gun?"

  Beech cupped his hand behind his ear. "Can't hear you."

  The Indian raised his voice. "The gun. What did you do with it?"

  Beech shrugged and waved his hand, indicating there was too much noise for him to make out what his friend was saying. "Have a safe trip," he called.

  The Indian didn't say anything.

  Beech jogged back inside the terminal where he could watch the plane, with Hayes inside, take off.

  The war bond tour was raising money, that was true, but it was also a fact that the United States government was broke. That meant a lack of weapons, ammunition, tanks, food-a shortage of everything. With diminishing supplies, there was a hell of a good chance Hayes wouldn't make it back from combat alive.

  He scanned the morning editions of the Chicago papers. There were follow-up stories on the dead policeman and civilian, but all they amounted to were that there were no witnesses and no leads. The only item of note was that the policeman's gun was missing, but there were no clues and no theories yet.

  Beech rubbed his hands together. Now he could relax, have a drink, and get ready to move on to St. Louis and Tulsa with the bond tour.

  Alberta, Canada

  oing home was the last thing he wanted to do. In the darkness, Boon Lone Rider walked past Farm Four, a mix of gravel and crusty snow crunching beneath his heavily worn runners. He wished it were summer. He remembered shoes from the past, smaller pairs of canvass ones with rubber soles, dust coating them thinly as it rose in tiny clouds, his child feet dragging patterns like snakes in the road. He thought about stopping at a cousin's place in Little Chicago, but it had been a long time since he had been back here, and not only was Boon unsure of circumstances-the things that had transpired since his last visit, the details of life, always changing, who was cool with what and with whom, who had been caught with whose woman in the backseat of a pow wow van, what shotguns and odd handguns had drifted across the border into whose hands, whether his cousin was even alive-he also knew he needed to do this.

  He thought about visiting his mom and his grandma, but he'd have to go by the cemetery soon enough, he figured. He thought about visiting his dad, but that would necessitate finding him, and Boon wasn't sure he was willing to spend the last thing he had, his time. And he wasn't sure if he even had the effort in him to do it. Boon thought about his grandpa and what a good man he had been. He thought about Regina. He guessed she was a woman now, but the girl was the one he held in his mind. He didn't want to wonder how many kids she had now, who was brushing her skin softly as she slept, caught up in the velvety wonder of it all, who was gently lifting her dark hair away from her face and neck to kiss her tenderly ...

  With a twitch like he'd seen in horses, Boon shoved his scarred hands deeper into his jeans pockets. He needed more than a hoodie out here in this cold, but at least tonight, the spirits were dancing. He hadn't seen that in a long time. Boon looked up, his breath rising white into the blackness of night. He scanned the sky for the Lost Boys. This evening, their names suited them a bit too well.

  Boon looked up the road. A few houses still had lights blooming softly into the blackness outside the windows. A few more miles west and he would be there.

  Boon had been fighting as long as he could remember. The first time he hit someone back, it had been his father. Four years old, Boon's smooth fists pummeled out, surprising even himself, mad tears streaming down his face. The old man should have never come back around, Boon thought. Boon and his mother had been just fine at Grandma's. Grandpa had come in later that morning from an all-night smoke, found Boon curled up in the old quilt in his chair in the corner, taken him into his arms, gently reminded him of the pipe in the house, told him that fighting back would do nothing to take away the black eye from his mother's face, smudged him off, prayed for him. That's when Boon began walking, walking these very roads when the hurt or the anger got too much, when it had to come out of him somehow. Grandpa was right. Even if the pipe hadn't been there, the world of men and the wars they fought belonged outside of women's houses.

  Faces he had hit flashed through his mind. Boon didn't always start the fights, and he didn't always finish them. There had been plenty of times he had been left lying somewhere, alone and beaten. Some fights he regretted. The guy who had said one thing too much about his sister when Boon was sixteen and drunk. Fair warning, Boon thought, but at sixteen, he hadn't realized one punch could break someone's face. Sometimes he clenched back the fistfuls of rage and pain, clenched them back, hugged them to himself, plunged them through his own chest, and hit the person he was really aiming at, but usually it wasn't too hard to find another Indian as mad at the world and himself as he was. Boon ran his tongue over his top front teeth, tasting the scars they had left there. The guy had been right about Boon's sister after all, though Boon still missed her terribly.

  He saw the outline in the dark. A click or so back from the gravel road, snow drifted in deep piles at the base, further rounding the silhouette softened by time and wind. A frozen tear fell down from the Morning Star, plunged into the snow, blending with the rest of the grinding whiteness, but Boon didn't notice. Fine as sand, snow sifted into his runners as he walked up where the old path ran beneath it. There was still wood in the woodpile, but Boon ignored it, hopped up on the porch, turned the knob, and worked the door, stuck in its frame, until he could just squeeze in. His eyes adjusted as he made out the old chair, still there, with the blue, tatted quilt, purple yarn dotting it like stars, holding the whole thing together. He pulled the gun from the small of his back. Boon walked over, gently lifting it, folding down the edge, letting it fall around his shoulders, sinking at last into the chair, laying the gun in his lap.

  Going home was the last thing he wanted to do.

  He'd started smoking that shit while he was still with Regina. As much as Boon tried not to cry, a tear ran down his cheek as he lay curled in the quilt in the empty house. Regina had loved him so muc
h, more than any other woman ever had, but there was something in him, some huge empty wound that made him fuck up everything he touched. He'd done all right for a while, holding down a construction job out on the rez, living with Regina at her mom's in Laverne. Regina had been so proud of him. Boon felt a sharp pain in his chest, worse than the one far below it. His head was light. He could barely keep his eyes open now. How could he have fucked up so much? Regina had been everything he had ever needed or wanted. She was beautiful, and despite how much he had screwed up as a kid, she loved him anyway, loved him with her whole heart. He remembered her long dark hair, how it swayed down and brushed her breasts when they made love, how she looked at him. That's what killed him the most, when she stared at him with that total adoration, him knowing he didn't deserve it.

  When Grandpa died, Boon had been fifteen, and he'd just lost it, running the roads, drinking, smoking weed. He and his friends started busting in joints, jacking folks, doing whatever they had to do to get money to get fucked up. But Regina loved him anyway, thought he deserved a second chance in life. Boon was crying harder now, the pain in his chest getting worse and worse. From the waist down, he was already numb. Damn, I should have never left that girl. He wondered now if she would still take him in-a crazy thought, but he wondered anyway. Would she still love him now, even after he'd done this? Boon's lip quivered. The chinook was howling away outside, eating away the snow, singing through the boards of the old house. Boon shifted in the chair, the wet, sticky quilt clinging to his groin and leg as he moved. The blood was starting to freeze. Even if Regina loved him after all this time, she wouldn't after she heard the news, he thought. That was the worst part of all.

  He ended up homeless with that other one in Saskatchewan because of the crack, because of the meth. Jennifer had been a common whore, not even attractive, but she was good at being on the streets, and she could get some shit from truckers when all else had failed the two of them-shoplifting and pawning crap, stealing from old ladies, whatever. He hadn't even enjoyed sex with her-all he could think about when he was with her was Regina, and there was no way Jennifer compared to her. Stupid lot lizard, he thought, scurrying from truck to truck giving blowjobs for meth.