The big Cheyenne swept his hair back and paused polishing a glass long enough to glance up at the screen. “Gener-a-kee, I would say.”
Finally giving up, Vic turned and watched the screen for a moment. “So, that happened around here, right?”
“What?”
She smiled and turned to look at me. “The Little Bighorn thing.”
Henry sat the glass on the towel on the bar in perfect symmetry with the others. “The Battle of the Greasy Grass.”
She glanced at me again.
“That’s what the Natives call it.”
“Same battle?
“Yep.” I shrugged. “They won it, so they can call it whatever they want.”
She sipped her drink. “I’ve heard a bunch of stories, but what really happened?”
I glanced at the Cheyenne Nation, who suppressed a smile. “Well, there are a lot of versions.”
“So, tell me yours—the Reader’s Digest edition.”
I sighed, glancing at the Bear again. “Are you going to interrupt? Because if you are, then you get to tell it.” He placed two fingers to his pursed lips, indicating that he would remain quiet, so I began in rote largely repeating what had been taught to me from textbooks in the sixties. “Not long after the aborted treaties of the Black Hills, an area of great spiritual importance to the Lakota, gold was found there, and hostilities recommenced.”
The Bear shrugged. “The white men lied.”
After a moment, I continued. “A large contingent of Lakota . . .”
“And Cheyenne.”
“And Cheyenne, defeated General Crook at the Battle of Rosebud Creek.”
“The Battle Where the Girl Saved Her Brother.”
I threw up my hands. “I quit.”
He folded his arms and cocked his head. “You are doing very well.”
“You said you wouldn’t interrupt.”
“I am simply giving a general sense of perspective—a cultural play-by-play, if you will.”
I took a sip of my beer and began again. “General Terry had been dispatched to deal with the Indians even though their exact location and number were unknown. He sent Custer out to find them with strict instructions that he should not attack but wait for Terry’s much larger force.” I glanced at Henry, but he said nothing. “Custer was a dashing and flamboyant commander . . .”
“A devious and irrational bundle of manic depression who finished last in his class at West Point—in short, a horse’s ass.”
“Who hoped to deal with the Indian Problem himself in hopes of getting out of trouble with President Grant.”
The Cheyenne Nation spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Under oath, called the brother of Grant a liar and thief.”
“And hoped to advance his own political career with a personal victory.”
“Like all true horse’s asses, he hoped to go into politics.”
“Custer found the Indians . . .”
“Or the Indians found him.”
I took a sip of my beer. “And split his forces into three parts, ordering Major Reno . . .”
“A drunk.”
“To deliver the main attack while Custer and roughly two hundred riders attacked the flank. It was only when they came into view that Custer realized the size of the Indian camp, which was enormous. Nonetheless, they continued the attack, were beaten back, and quickly surrounded and killed.”
“Except for Custer, who killed himself.”
“Or not.”
“He shot himself.”
“Henry, the bullet wound was in his left temple and he was right-handed.”
“Then his brother shot him.”
I turned back to Vic. “Custer’s brother-in-law and nephew were also killed in the battle, and it’s believed in some circles that Tom may have shot the mortally wounded general to keep the Indians from capturing and torturing him more.”
“Which they most certainly would have, the torture of choice being cutting the victim’s genitals off and placing them in their own mouth, but in the case of Custer the women pushed awls in his ears puncturing his eardrums so that in the Camp of the Dead he would be deaf as he had been in this world.” He took a sip of his drink.
“Mo-na-see-tah, Custer’s Cheyenne wife, warned the Lakota women that the Long Hair was family and that they should not mutilate him.”
“Custer’s what?”
The Cheyenne Nation nodded succinctly. “But I believe they cut off a little-finger joint and shoved an arrow up his penis.”
“Not to change the subject . . .” I shook my head. “But what leads you to believe that his brother shot him?”
The Bear continued to sip his soda water. “I have a brother.”
2
“Russians.”
“Russians?”
“Russians.”
I stared at the old man in the US Navy “Dixie-cup” hat as he smoothed out his spaghetti-stained cardigan. I waited for him to add more, but he didn’t, so I felt compelled to ask, “And Kenny, where did Charley Lee meet these Russians?”
He gestured all around us. “Why, right here.”
Leaning against my truck, with Dog’s massive head sticking out of the passenger side window beside me, I glanced up and down Route 16, my eyes lingering on the snowcapped peaks of the Bighorns’ Cloud Peak Wilderness area. “He met Russians here on the highway?”
All four men nodded. They were once again parked in their wheelchairs next to the Veterans’ Home redbrick sign.
“What, they were driving by in a staff car with big red hammers and sickles on the doors and he flagged them down?”
The rail-thin one in the thick glasses and air force ball cap, Ray, snickered. The one in the cardigan, Kenny, gave him a look to silence him but that did little good. “He talked to the Russians a lot.”
“More than one Russian?”
“They was sometimes two.”
“Two Russians.”
Delmar, dressed in the rayon marines jacket, joined in. “Say, shouldn’t you be taking notes on all this?”
The other three nodded. “S’matter of national security.”
“That’s right.”
I calmly pulled out a notepad and pen and pretended to write things down. “So, two Russians?”
They all four nodded.
“Did you catch their names?”
They all four first looked at one another, then back at me, and then shook their collective heads.
“What did they look like?”
They all looked at one another again, and then the individual in the green fatigue jacket and boonie hat, Clifton, volunteered, “Russians. They looked like Russians.”
I closed my notebook. “What, long gray coats and furry hats?”
Ray, the one in the air force ball cap that had the scrambled eggs embroidery on the front, nodded. “Furry hats, yeah.”
“What did they look like? I mean besides the furry hats?”
Delmar, the marine jacket, spoke up. “One was a blonde woman, little bitty thing, and the other was an old fella with a mustache . . .”
Ray interrupted. “He wasn’t a Russian.”
Clifton took exception. “The hell he wasn’t, he talked Russian, damn it.”
“He talked English too, does that make him British, you moron?”
Delmar clarified. “She was Russian, but he was an American.”
After a moment they all nodded in unison.
Ray thought it important to add, “She was cute too.”
“Age?”
“Younger than us.”
I paused, but figured they were beyond getting their feelings hurt. “That doesn’t narrow the field much, guys.” I stepped back and petted Dog. “Not to change the subject, but did you fellows ever see Charley Lee with a sho
ebox?”
They all stared at me.
“Right.” Pocketing the notebook and pen, I pushed off the fender of my truck. “You guys have anything else you’d like to add?”
Clifton smoothed his brim and looked up at me. “You gonna catch who killed poor ol’ Charley Lee?”
“Well, as far as we know, Mr. Stillwater died of natural causes.”
They looked at one another and then back at me. “That’s what they want you to think.”
“Right.” I fished my keys out of the pocket of my jeans along with my watch. “Coming up on noon . . . don’t you fellows need to get back in for lunch?”
“Yer damn right . . . it’s walleye fillets today with tartar sauce and Tater Tots.”
Delmar agreed. “The only thing better is pizza night.”
Kenny in the cardigan led the way, pivoting in his motorized wheelchair and sailing back for the complex of buildings in the distance.
I watched as the remaining three peeled off in formation and motored their battery-powered way next to the rolling dales of the picturesque drive that ran alongside the main entryway, the hopped-up wheelchairs looking like a convoy with each one flying a different tiny flag.
Watching the little procession go, I couldn’t help but wonder how I’d decorate my own wheelchair someday.
“Are we done yet?” I turned to find my undersheriff, having woken up from her nap, scrubbing her eyes with the heels of her hands. “I’m hungry.”
“Evidently, it’s walleye fillet day.”
She pushed Dog aside and hung out the window in what most people would consider a gorgeous, high-plains, mid-June day. “So long as there’s tartar sauce and Tater Tots. I’m all about the Tots.” She glanced around, her eyes traveling down the foothills to the Powder River Country that stretched farther than any human eye could see. “Holy shit. I’m glad it’s summer.”
Following the lead of the wheelchair brigade, I said nothing.
She turned her head and looked at me. “Aren’t you glad it’s summer?”
“Yep.”
“I mean, you’ve been talking about it for months.”
“I have?”
“Yes, you’ve been complaining about the ice and cold ever since you got back from Mexico a few months ago.”
I turned to look at her and then glanced around at the almost phosphorescent leaves of the trees and the lush grass of the irrigated state property. “I guess I haven’t noticed, or maybe it’s not what I thought it was going to be.”
“What the hell did you think it was going to be?”
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Different.” Walking around the front of my truck, I climbed in and closed the door behind me, fastening my seatbelt and firing up the big V-10. I turned to look at her again. “What?”
“You are so weird lately.”
“Lately?”
She shrugged an admission. “Weirder. I mean you’re not freezing up like you were so much, but you seem distracted all the time.”
Pulling the selector lever into gear, I spun the steering wheel and started down the long drive toward Fort McKinney proper, aware that she was still looking at the side of my face. “What?”
“I have a question.”
“More?”
“It’s a personal question.”
“All right.”
“When you were down there in Mexico . . . And you can level with me on this.”
“Okay.”
She lodged herself against the passenger seat and continued studying me. “Did they shoot your dick off?”
I almost ran off the road. “What?”
“They shot it off, right?”
“No . . .”
“Because I haven’t seen the thing in months, and I’m just thinking that it must be gone because . . .”
“It’s fine, it’s there, and it’s fine, thank you . . .”
She placed an elbow on the sill and propped her head up, the fingers threaded into the thick blue-black hair as she adjusted her sunglasses and gazed out the windshield. “Let me finish.”
“I’d rather you didn’t.”
“Look, I’m no Gina Lollobrigida . . .”
“Actually, you are.”
She sat up, folding a tactical boot under herself and lowering her Clubmaster Ray Bans to study me with the tarnished gold eyes. “Then why haven’t I even seen the damn thing for months?”
“Look . . .”
“What, do I need to reintroduce myself, take a number, or what?”
“I’ve told you it’s not you . . .”
“I really thought something was going to happen last night after we left the bar, but you just put me in my unit like I was last week’s groceries and then patted me on the head and sent me on my way.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry—I want something else.”
“I’m getting that.” Turning right, I drove past the flagpoles and the visitors’ center, parking closer to the offices and living quarters. “Look, can we discuss this some other time?”
“I want to do something more than just talk about it.”
“Okay.”
“So, I’ve got another question.”
I switched off the ignition and unbuckled my seatbelt. “Another one?”
“Yeah, what were you thinking about out there on the road after the Four Horsemen of the Metropolis rolled off?”
Relieved at the change of subject, I sighed. “I was wondering what I’d be decorating my wheelchair with when the time comes.”
She studied me for a long while and then smiled a voluptuous grin. “Me. I’ll wear slinky outfits and drape across your lap like Mata Hari.” She dropped her sunglasses back onto her nose with a forefinger, and I was once again reminded of just how dangerous looking she could be. “You know what the greatest exercise against looming mortality is, right?”
Watching Carol approach from the administration building, I nodded and climbed out, happy to have somebody else to talk to and something else to talk about.
Across the way, the Doors played “Riders on the Storm,” which segued into Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son” from a pair of speakers lodged in the window of one of the second-story apartments.
“How’d it go?”
I turned to her. “Well, the investigation seems to have taken an unexpected and international turn in that Charley Lee was evidently meeting with the KGB out by the front entrance.”
She covered her face with a hand as Vic came around to join us. “Oh God, I’m so sorry.”
I shrugged. “They’re a funny group.”
“They were so adamant about talking to you, I should’ve known.” She smiled. “The Wavers, we originally called them Waves, but they didn’t like that.”
“How about Wacs, as in wack jobs?” Vic leaned on my truck and glanced up at the speaker, wailing away into the all but empty parking lot. “So, who’s Wolfman Jack?”
Carol looked that way, and I noticed there were all kinds of vintage rock and roll stickers applied to the entire window so that you couldn’t see inside at all. “Oh, that’s Magic Mike Bursaw, he’s kind of our unofficial radio station. He’s got walls lined with records from the sixties and seventies—goes nonstop all day.”
“Kind of nice.”
“Yeah, we had a new guy come in over at administration who asked if we could get Mike to turn it down. We told him he could go ask Mike if he wanted to, but that the last guy who tried to touch Magic’s stereo came away with three broken fingers and a bloody nose.”
I gazed at the covered window. “Violent, is he?”
“Only if you touch his vinyl.”
I nodded. “Any progress on Charley Lee’s room?”
“Quite a bit, actually. I stuck a
round last night and sorted through all the personal correspondence and then stacked all the books in the hall outside.”
“Aren’t you afraid that somebody will take them?”
Carol glanced at Vic. “They’re art and history books; if they were Playboys, I’d be worried.”
My undersheriff looked perplexed. “These guys don’t read history books?”
“Not military history. I guess they’ve seen too much of it themselves.”
“I hear its walleye for lunch?”
She smiled. “You’re welcome to join us.” Her smile faded just a touch as she studied Vic. “I can have a few trays brought to Charley Lee’s room, that way you can avoid the common area.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
She nodded toward my undersheriff. “She’s going to cause quite a stir, and you’re going to have about fifty guys wanting to sit at your table.”
“Ah, maybe we’ll take your advice.”
“You remember where Charley Lee’s room is?”
“One twenty-four.”
“Right. I’ll get the lunches for you guys and meet you over there in about ten.”
“Deal.” We walked through a dayroom, went past another reception desk next to a communal fireplace, and down the hallway.
Vic studied the stickers and memorabilia fastened to the doors along with the residents’ names on plastic plaques. “Reminds me of dorm rooms.”
Noting the army, navy, air force, and marines stickers, I added. “With a little more of a military twist.”
Charley Lee’s room was easy to spot with the books stacked along the wall beside the door; hundreds of them. Stepping past, I leafed through a few at the top. “Gardner’s Art Through the Ages, Western Art of the Twenty-First Century, Jansen’s History of Art, The Image of the Black in Western Art, Volume V, Landscape and Western Art . . . Charley Lee was something of an aficionado.”
“Certainly liked art too.” Vic picked up a few others before noting the look on my face. “What?”
Turning the open page toward her, I pointed at the copious notes in the margins, written in a careful hand. “He should’ve been teaching somewhere.” Turning the pages, I continued reading. “These notes are really insightful, and his use of artistic terms is nothing short of impressive.”
Next to Last Stand Page 3
