Bad Company

by Virginia Swift

  But damn, there was something about the moment that shocked her out of herself. About the silvery-dark light, the cooling air, the smell of horses and popcorn and drifting dust, the earnest faces, young and old, the kids holding their parents’ hands. Some sense of order, repose, well-being, gratitude for the simplest things. A ritual of communion, reminding everyone there that they were part of something larger, if not always noble, at least worth a minute of recognition. A community. She looked at Hawk. His hands were at his side, and he wasn’t singing. (He never sang. Ever. Except, rarely, late at night, out on the lone highway, in the deep privacy of his truck, if a Merle Haggard song came on the radio.) He was silent and still, looking at her, a warming glance. He smiled. Peace and harmony.

  But then, for some reason, her skin began to crawl, a chill starting at the base of her spine, traveling up as a shiver, all the way to the top of her head. Maybe another side effect of that honking hunk of Jim Beam? She turned, saw Bone Bandy lolling against a fence, staring at her, and the peaceful night shattered.

  Bone looked like he might have had a few himself. His arms were draped over the top rail of the fence, maybe all that was keeping him standing. He looked her up and down, his expression somewhere between a sneer and a leer, then leaned over and spat a stream of tobacco juice between his beat-up cowboy boots. Looked up again, narrowing his mean eyes, a silent warning. And then, as if he’d seen enough and satisfied himself, he turned and walked away.

  Hawk had turned to say something to Brit. Sally looked around for Dickie. He was still talking to Jerry Jeff and his friend. She ran over and said, “Hey—did you see? Bone Bandy’s over there—hurry, you’re gonna lose him!”

  Dickie said, “Excuse me, boys,” and put his arm around Sally, leading her away. “Listen, Mustang,” he half whispered. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go around running your mouth while I’m investigating a homicide.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “You were just talking to JJ.”

  “Lower your voice,” he hissed, then smiled and waved at some Langham or other. “Sure I was talking to him— he’s a calf roper, and so’s his buddy over there. As you’ll recall, Monette’s hands had been tied with a piggin’ string. It might be useful to know if any of the ropers are missing one.”

  “Can’t you just buy them in any ranch supply store?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Dickie. “But from what I’ve been able to piece together in the last couple of days, only two were sold in Laramie in the past week, both to local cowboys. Obviously, if any of these kids killed her, he’s not going to up and admit a damn thing. But there’s also the possibility that the perpetrator stole the rope.”

  “Or maybe just bought himself a piggin’ string in Cheyenne, or Rock Springs, or Denver . . .” Sally said.

  Dickie sighed. “Or Amarillo, Texas. Or Paris, France. Isn’t police work great?”

  “What about Bone?” she asked, looking around. “I don’t see him. He’s getting away!”

  Another sigh, this one heavier, very weary. “I’ve already talked to him, Sal. He’s got his trailer out at the KOA. Went out and paid him a visit this afternoon. I wish there were some reason we could hold him for questioning, but at this point we don’t have jack shit. He says he don’t know nothin’ about nothin’. He admits he came into town Saturday, and he’s mostly been hanging out at the KOA and the Torch Tavern since then. Several witnesses at both places corroborate that.”

  “Did he see Monette?” she asked.

  Dickie pursed his lips. “Sally,” he said very patiently. “Have I mentioned that this is a police matter?”

  “He did see her. You’re not saying he didn’t, so he must have. Did he go to the Lifeway? Did somebody see them there? Did he go to her house? I know what his truck looks like . . .”

  “Easy, easy,” Dickie said, steering her farther away from people. “Okay, yeah. We have information to put him at the Lifeway on Sunday afternoon. They talked. We’re looking into it. Will that satisfy you?”

  She put on her fierce face. “What about my house? Can you put him there?”

  Dickie looked heavenward, then back at her. “No. He claims he was at the Torch all last night. A bartender and a cocktail waitress say he was there from at least eight to closing time. He could have come by earlier, of course— but at this point, we don’t know.”

  Sally thought it over. “If it was him, you’d think he’d have done something to Delice too. We were together when we saw him at the Loose Caboose.”

  “That occurred to me,” Dickie said. “I asked her if she’d had any weird encounters around town this week, and she said no. Doesn’t look like anybody bothered her house. But then, Jerry Jeff told me he was there watching TV all evening. Their television’s in the living room, and they never bother to pull down the shades. You can see people in there watching, right from the street. Whoever busted into your place probably wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with a big galoot like him.”

  “Did you tell Delice about what happened to me?” Sally asked.

  “Er, not exactly,” he said. “She was suspicious enough about why I was asking her if she’d had any problems. I just told her that we’d gotten some calls about prowlers, since the murder and all. I don’t know if I convinced her. And by tomorrow morning, she’ll see the report of a robber at your house in the Boomerang.”

  “Shit. I’d better tell her about it. She’ll be really pissed at me for not saying anything this afternoon. Delice thinks my business is her business.”

  “Well,” said Dickie, “hold off if you can. All I need is for her to get the same bug up her ass about this case that you have. Thank God she’s too busy this week to do anything except serve beer and burgers and beat up drunks.”

  He didn’t know that Delice was not too busy to meddle in the Wood’s Hole land swap. No reason to bother him with it—nothing illegal there, as far as Sally knew, and of course, Dickie had his hands full with the murder. And whatever else was going on.

  Despite Dickie’s big arm around her, Sally felt the chill slide up her back again. She looked around quickly for Bone, but he wasn’t there. Instead she found herself looking into the light green eyes of Scotty Atkins. Scotty raised his eyebrows but didn’t smile.

  Dickie saw Scotty too. “I gotta go. Now you just have a good time at the rodeo and leave things to Scotty and me. We don’t need you playing detective. Monette doesn’t either. And it won’t do you any good yourself, come to that,” he added, for emphasis, giving her shoulders a squeeze and then striding off in Atkins’s direction.

  Sally felt a little ashamed. Scotty probably took a dim view of the likelihood that Sally was pumping Dickie for privileged information. Dickie didn’t need the added stress. Maybe she was just indulging herself, and getting in the cops’ way. Curiosity and fury weren’t reasons enough for her to interfere in police business. And the fact that she and Hawk had found the body, and then somebody had walked into her house and shredded her underwear and left that message on her mirror, didn’t mean she had some special stake in this thing. Right?

  Yeah. Right.

  “Hey, we were looking for you,” said Hawk, who’d walked over with Brit. “Dwayne says we can go down by the chutes. The bareback bronc riding is about to start, any minute.”

  “Oh boy,” said Sally weakly.

  “Brit! Brit Langham!” came a loud voice. “How you doin’?”

  Suddenly a horse and rider loomed over them, skidding to a halt in a clatter of hoofbeats. Sally felt her heart leap in her chest, slammed down on the panic. The cowboy, a broad-backed, narrow-faced young man with skin that bore the scars of recently conquered teenage acne, was beaming the kind of idiot grin that Brit tended to bring out in human males.

  Brit looked up and for once actually smiled back. Cowboy sex voodoo in action? “Hey, Herman! How’s life in the big time?” she asked.

  “Can’t complain,” he said. “Makin’ enough to keep me and McGuinn here in Top Ramen and oats.
” He stroked the horse, a glossy chestnut mare, on the neck.

  “This is Herman Schwink,” Brit said, introducing them. “We went to high school together. He’s a big star on the PRCA circuit. Team roper.”

  Herman Schwink? Weren’t rodeo cowboys supposed to have names like Ty Travis and Boot Bodine?

  “How about that,” said Hawk. “Roping steers for a living? Hell of a hard way to earn a paycheck.”

  “Yeah, but it’s a pretty good paycheck for a guy who never went to college,” said Schwink.

  “Herman finished in the top ten on the circuit last year,” Brit explained. “He can probably afford chicken pot pies by now.”

  “Even a T-bone now and then,” he said. “I could see my way to buyin’ you one, honey, if you’ve got the time.” He hesitated a moment, then took off his hat. “Hey Brit. I was real sorry to hear about your cousin,”

  Schwink said. “Terrible, terrible thing. Tell your mom I send my condolences. I’m gonna try to make it to that memorial service tomorrow.”

  “Thanks,” said Brit. “Did you read about it in the paper?”

  “Naw,” said Schwink. “Heard all about it from my brother. I guess the police have been all over the Lifeway, giving the employees the third degree. Adolph said the detective kept him for over two hours.”

  Adolph? Mmm-hmm. That was it. Herman was bigger and sweeter, but the skin and the shape of the face made the connection.

  “Was your brother Adolph a friend of Monette’s?” Sally asked.

  “Naw—not as I know of,” said Herman. “Just a coworker. Barely knew her. But you know how it is. Cops gotta question everybody that might have seen anything.”

  Barely knew her? Sally thought back to the conversation over the melons. What was young Adolph Schwink trying to hide?

  Herman Schwink’s mare shuffled nervously, snorted, tossed her head, rolled her eyes. Sally took a little hop backward. The cowboy tugged tight on the reins, whispered “Whoa, McGuinn,” and the horse stood still. It was probably her imagination, but Sally was sure that horse was giving her a threatening look.

  Sally had done plenty of time around rodeos, but generally didn’t get closer to the livestock than the grandstands or the beer tent, and she’d chiefly experienced the festivities from a stage or bar stool in some honky-tonk. Hawk had bought her a forty-dollar Stetson hat, twenty years back in Moab, Utah, as a lovestruck present. She’d come by her battered old cowboy boots honestly, one long-ago night in Ennis, Montana, winning them off a ranch hand who’d been confident that his pair of queens would assure the sight of Mustang Sally Alder topless at the table. Sally had bet her three sixes, unwisely perhaps, but well. The boots had even fit.

  But Sally was no cowgirl. Nobody, not even Hawk Green, knew that Sally Alder was terrified of horses.

  “Come on,” said Hawk, tugging on her hand. “I want to see them let those barebacks out.”

  “Don’t forget about the steak, Brit.” Herman Schwink pulled a business card out of his wallet and pressed it in her hand. “Call me on my cell phone. Name the night.”

  “A cowboy with a cell phone,” said Hawk. “What would they say out on the Chisholm Trail?”

  “Probably just punch in their GPS location and try to find out what cattle futures are going for in Kansas City,” Brit muttered, pocketing the card. “He’s a nice guy. What the hell.”

  The first bareback riders were getting mounted up by the time Sally, Hawk, and Brit got to the chutes, and the place was crowded with contestants waiting for their turn to ride and stock handlers and spectators. The cowboys wore big black hats and gorgeously fringed and spangled chaps in brilliant colors, strapped around the backs of their thighs leaving the butts of their jeans exposed in fetching fashion. They swaggered around, taping their hands and arms, tightening their gloves, flexing their hands. Those next in line sat up on the high rail of the aluminum chute enclosure, psyching up, focusing silently on some inward third eye of bareback riding, or talking to themselves. “You’re the Man!” affirmed a boy in turquoise chaps trimmed in iridescent green fringe, with sequined red roses on the thighs, as he threw his leg over a snorting black gelding. The horse reared, nearly leaping out of the chute, its hooves clashing against the stall fence, its big body crashing the secured chute gate, the handlers grabbing the straps of the rigging that was all that kept the cowboy sunnyside-up on the horse. “That sumbitch is one hell of a high roller,” said someone nearby.

  The cowboy might be the Man, but Sally was sure that the horse was the Horse, and it wasn’t happy being in the chute. Her breath came in shallow pants, and sweat trickled down her back. If she didn’t get hold of herself soon, she’d never make it to see Herman Schwink wrestle a steer, let alone be around at the end for the bull riding.

  Jostled by the milling crowd, Sally found herself separated from Hawk, closer than ever to the bucking chute, standing next to Dwayne. “These guys are incredible,” Dwayne said, and pointed at the man in the turquoise chaps. “Look at how that kid works his rigging. He’s gotta get it just tight enough around his mount—too tight and the horse won’t buck. Too loose and he’ll slide around like hot bologna in red-eye gravy. Every bare-back rider has his rigging custom-made. The handhold’s the real art—it’s got to be just the right length, width, and thickness to fit the rider’s hand. Using somebody else’s rigging would be like wearing somebody else’s boots.”

  Sally had happily been wearing the Montana ranch hand’s boots for many years now, without visible harmful effects, but maybe that was because she’d kept strictly clear of horses. And now, at this moment, as the throng of spectators lunged forward for a better look, she was pushed up against the back rails of the chute.

  All at once the cowboy whooped and gave a signal and the front of the chute slammed open. That was almost the last thing Sally remembered. The very last was the sensation of being shoved hard in the back, her head snapping into the big space between the second and top rails, just as the bucking gelding plunged out of the chute, its huge hooves slashing out behind.

  Chapter 12

  Smile When You Call Me That

  “Comin’ around there. All right. Okay. Take it easy, miss. Here—hold her head. Easy, easy, that’s it. All right. Can you sit up now?”

  Ugh. She struggled to a seated position, hands pushing from behind.

  “You gonna lose your cookies there, lady?” someone asked.

  Sally’s stomach lurched, but didn’t actually do a somersault. “No. Thanks. Could I have a drink of water?”

  Someone handed her a Dixie cup half full of warm water. She drank it down.

  Someone else sponged off her face with a wet paper towel. It was Hawk. “Hi, honey,” he said, his eyes searching her face. “You okay?”

  It took her a minute to answer. “Yeah, I’m fine. I think,” she said. “What happened?”

  “You fainted and almost fell into the bucking chute,” said Dwayne. “Scared the heck out of me, Mustang.”

  “Didn’t know you were the fainting type,” said Marsh Carhart, who was also in the room.

  She was damned if she’d tell them how she felt about horses. “I’m not,” she said shortly. “What are you doing here, Marsh?”

  “I helped Dickie and your boyfriend carry you in,” he said. “You were dead weight.”

  She was sitting on a metal examining table in a room with white-painted cinder-block walls. “Where am I?”

  A middle-aged woman in a white shirt and jeans, wearing a MEDIC armband, explained. “This is the emergency medical assistance room. This is where we bring the contestants when they get smashed up. We’re right behind the chutes.” She shone a penlight in Sally’s eyes, while another medic wrapped a blood pressure cuff on Sally’s arm. “We got you right in here when you fainted. We thought at first that bronc had kicked you in the head. That wouldn’t have been good.”

  Hawk was still wiping her cheeks with the cool towel. The thought of the close call with the demon horse almost had her passin
g out again. “How long was I out?”

  “Just a couple of minutes. We work fast,” said the medic woman. “Do you have a history of fainting or a medical condition that gives you seizures?”

  “No. This is the first time I’ve ever fainted.”

  “Any idea why?”

  “I’m not sure,” said Sally. “Maybe the crowd. Maybe the heat. I got shoved into the fence and all I could see was that bucking horse’s hooves coming at my head.”

  “That’d make me faint,” said Dickie sympathetically, patting her hand.

  The medic finished up the examination, testing Sally’s reflexes, making her count backward from ten to one, getting her to answer simple questions. “You look okay to me—no shock, even. Nothing serious going on. Did you have dinner?”

  “Salad,” Sally answered. With a bourbon chaser.

  “Maybe you should think about getting something to eat,” said the medic. “And see your doctor. Maybe you’re a little hypoglycemic.”

  “Smile when you call me that,” said Sally.

  “All right. Get out of here,” said the medic.

  It was a little more difficult than she’d thought. People began to filter out of the room. Nattie had shown up to commandeer Dwayne, and he gave Sally a little pat on the back before he left. Carhart went with them. Jerry Jeff stuck his head in, waved, and said he had to go get ready to rope. Brit, who’d been hovering in a corner, nodded at her, reassured, and took off after JJ. The medics were next, finished with Sally and going back on alert for more serious contusions and concussions.

  Sally wobbled when she put her feet down on the floor, and had to put a hand on Hawk’s shoulder to get her balance. But at last she walked out on her own, Dickie and Hawk at her heels, and ran smack into Scotty Atkins.