Next to Last Stand

by Craig Johnson

  “Within reason.”

  “Why is this not within reason?”

  The Bear joined us as I leaned forward, reading the window sticker. “It costs as much as your house.”

  “Half as much.”

  “That’s a lot of money for a truck.” I stepped back to look at it. “Then we’d have to send it over to Jim at Michelena’s to get all the emergency equipment put on the thing . . .”

  “I want it.”

  I glanced at Henry, who was smiling and shrugged. “We’d have to put in a requisition with the county commissioners . . .”

  “I want it.”

  I sighed. “On one condition.”

  “What?”

  “We put a roll bar on it.”

  “And a brick under the accelerator,” the Bear muttered.

  * * *

  —

  Rezdawg wouldn’t start.

  “What, she’s tired?” The Bear ignored me, and I glanced across the street at the T-bird. “Remind me again why you brought both vehicles into town?”

  “Lola needed an oil change.”

  The Bear continued staring at the engine bay of the old three-quarter ton as I held the flashlight, doing my best to illuminate the crosshatch of wiring that I myself had helped reconfigure at least four times. “How do you know which wire is which?”

  “The yellow wire becomes brown at the firewall.”

  “And what color does the brown wire become?”

  “Yellow, I think.”

  “That’s convenient.”

  Vic appeared at the other side of the decrepit truck with three cans of Rainier that she’d retrieved from her refrigerator. She opened them and handed them to us in turn. “My neighbors called and wanted to know if this truck was abandoned and needed to be towed.”

  Henry pulled a wayward wire up into the flashlight beam with the remnants of twisted electrical tape. “I wonder where this one goes?”

  I sipped my beer. “How ’bout I just give you a ride and you can come back and get it in the morning?”

  He continued to study the maverick wire. “Black.”

  “What does black become at the firewall?”

  “Black.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, I had an extra spool of wire, so all the extra wires became black.”

  “Extra.”

  “Yes.”

  I glanced around the interior of the dark engine bay and the leaking Y-block. “I don’t think there’s supposed to be extra.”

  “When you are as old as we are—there is always extra.” Pushing my hand down, he redirected the beam toward the distributor. “Is that a loose electrical wire on the base?”

  I peered under his arm to see what he was talking about. “How the heck should I know, I haven’t really looked under the hood of one of these things since 1972.”

  Deftly twisting the wires and rewrapping the electrical tape, the Cheyenne Nation stepped back from the grille like a surgeon abandoning the operating table and sipped his beer. “I am going to attempt to start it, so if I were you I would step away—she can sometimes react unpredictably.”

  I joined Vic on the opposite side of the street. “Explosion?”

  Vic shook her head, sipping her beer. “I’m thinking the engine will just drop onto the pavement.”

  Henry cracked the door, slid in on the bungee-corded shower curtain that served as a seat cover, and hit the starter. We listened as the solenoid engaged and cranked the remaining teeth of the flywheel, sometimes slipping and forcing the Bear to hit it again. He ground it a few more times, and I was about to step forward when the engine caught and blew out a dark plume of blue-black smoke, hiccupped, caught, and belched into an uneven idle, or what passed for an idle with Rezdawg.

  Walking over as he reached across and wound down the passenger window, I took the half-empty can from him. “Heading out?”

  He nodded. “I better.”

  “Before she gets tired?”

  He said nothing and popped the clutch, allowing the refugee from a salvage yard to lay about six inches of rubber and then motored down Vic’s street. He took a left at the end of the block with only one taillight aglow.

  “I hope he makes it.”

  “Me too.” Placing an arm over her shoulders, I walked her up the steps and across the sidewalk that bisected her small yard, stopping at the bottom as she mounted the first two steps and turned to look at me. “What is it about men and their vehicles?”

  “I don’t know, we get attached to things.”

  She draped her arms around my neck, taking advantage of the fact that we were momentarily the same height. “Just so you know.” She glanced at the weather-beaten unit in her driveway that she’d been driving since I hired her. “I’m not attached to that piece of shit.”

  * * *

  —

  Wheeling my own vintage unit back onto Main Street, I drifted through the quiet town, and rolled the windows all the way down for both Dog and me. He let his enormous head hang in the breeze, causing the heavy lips of his muzzle to flap.

  You had to take advantage of the decent weather on the high plains or you missed it. I slid an elbow up onto the sill of my truck, took a deep breath, and slowly exhaled, luxuriating in the warmth of the night.

  I was about to pass the intersection that led up the mountain when I saw a strange car in our parking lot and somebody lying on the front steps.

  Thinking about how tired I was, I was tempted to keep driving and continue on home, but that wasn’t part of the job, so I turned and drove toward the entrance. Circling around, I paused behind the only vehicle in the lot, a silver import with California plates.

  Turning once more, I circled back in front of the old Carnegie library we called the Sheriff’s Office, stopped, and called out to the man who appeared to be asleep on our stairs, using a rucksack as a pillow. “Hello.”

  He didn’t answer, so I switched off the ignition and climbed out, walking over and standing above him.

  He was dressed a little strangely for Wyoming, with patent leather shoes, checkered socks, a bright colored shirt, an old leather jacket, and a porkpie hat, which covered his face.

  Kneeling down, I tapped his arm with the back of my hand. “Hey.”

  He moved this time, grunted, and readjusted on the marble steps.

  Tapping him again, I spoke a little louder. “Hey.”

  “What the fuck . . . ?” His hand came up and swiped the hat away, and I was surprised to see he was wearing sunglasses. He, on the other hand, was even more surprised to see me. “Oh, shit . . .”

  “Howdy.”

  Moving slowly, he rolled to one side and removed the shades.

  “Can I help you?”

  “You the sheriff?”

  “I am.”

  “I’m Bass Townsend.” He stuck out a hand. “My grandfather was Charley Lee Stillwater.”

  9

  “You look like him.”

  “I do?” He added sugar to his coffee, taking a pinch and throwing it over his shoulder.

  “I thought that was only for salt?”

  “I’m what you might call overly superstitious.” Smiling into the mug as he stroked Dog’s wide back, he took a sip. “My mother used to say superstition is the poetry of life.”

  “That was Charley Lee’s daughter, Ella. She was a nurse?”

  “Yes, sir, that was her.”

  “And your father’s name was Townsend?”

  “Yes. They met when my mother was on a vacation in California. He was a commercial artist in Pasadena and did some work for Disney at one time. She always felt guilty about leaving my grandfather, but he said he was living the life of Riley up at the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Home after my grandmother died and that there wasn’t anything she could do that
they weren’t already doing.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  “Three times. Back when I was a kid I actually spent a summer with him, and we went to Texas where he’d soldiered a bit the first time around. When my momma died, we kind of drifted away from each other, and I never saw him again.” He sipped his coffee and looked up at me as we sat there on the bottom steps of the office that led to the jail proper. “Did he suffer?”

  I laughed. “Charley Lee Stillwater never suffered a day in his life. The jury’s not in until we get the autopsy and toxicology reports, but as far as I can tell, your grandfather died teasing a Texan during a bingo game.”

  “I thought he was born in Texas?”

  It always felt odd, telling people what they didn’t know about the simple facts of their deceased relatives’ lives. “He was born in Saint Louis, but I guess he assumed the guise of a Texan after being there.”

  “He’s responsible for my name.”

  “Bass?”

  “Yeah, everybody in California thought I was named after a fish, but I believe I was really named after Bass Reeves, deputy US marshal and model for The Lone Ranger—not too bad for a black man during that time.”

  “Three thousand arrests and only had to kill about a dozen as I recall—not bad for any man in any period. Maybe that’s why Charley Lee wanted to be a Texan.”

  He raised his head and glanced around the room and sighed. “I always figured my grandfather was born at the wrong time. I think what he really wanted to be was a Buffalo Soldier. My father even did a painting of him as he might have looked like one, but I don’t know what happened to it.”

  “I do—it’s on his wall up at the Veterans’ Home.”

  “Really?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  He sighed a quick laugh. “I guess it meant more to him than he showed.”

  “Not a good relationship between your father and your grandfather?”

  “Not really. Well, I mean my father was a quiet, soft-spoken man, and well . . . You know how Charley Lee was.”

  “A little.” I sipped my own coffee. “How did you find out about his passing?”

  “Got a call from the Veterans’ Home.”

  I thought that odd considering no one knew of any living relatives. “Carol Williams?”

  “No, it was some kind of strange voice that said Charley Lee had passed away and then just hung up—really weird shit.”

  “Do you remember the name?”

  “No, no, they left a message on my answering machine and didn’t leave a name, just the regular number of the Home.” He thought about it. “Had a strange voice though.”

  “Strange how?”

  “Computer generated, I suppose.”

  “And you drove all the way here on that?”

  He laughed more openly this time. “I’ve never seen this part of the world as an adult—the last time I was here I was seven years old.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Townsend, what do you do?”

  “I’m a musician, blues guitar, but don’t be too impressed, every third person you meet in L.A. is a musician of some kind.”

  “What are the other two?”

  “Actors and lawyers.” He finished his coffee. “I do the club circuits and a little studio backup stuff. I played on a Blind Boy Paxton album, an Eddie Daniels, a John Bishop, and one with Bonnie Raitt.”

  “Impressive company.”

  “Yeah, and I’ve got the most impressive, un-air-conditioned, four-story walk-up, studio apartment in East L.A., with private parking in the alley by the dumpster out back.” He pet Dog one last time and then stood, stretching and yawning, and returned his mug to the sink by the coffee maker. “As near as I can figure it, I’ve got just enough gas money to get me back to L.A. and maybe buy a few drive-through meals along the way.” He glanced around the dank dayroom and hallway leading to the jail cells. “I hate to be an inconvenience, but you wouldn’t happen to have a spare bed around here, would you?”

  “I do, but I can also call Jim down at the Blue Gables Motel and Coffee Bar and get you a room for the night—they’re music lovers, are reasonable, and I can spot you.”

  He turned to look at me. “Now, why in the world would you do that?”

  “I think you should probably be getting this information from a more official source, but I think you’re about to come into some serious money, Mr. Townsend.”

  He looked a little uncertain and then laughed at the absurdity of my statement. “Oh, I know my grandfather never had a pot to piss in . . . I just thought that if there were any family items or photographs . . .”

  “Well, there are a lot of things to go through in his room up at the Home, and I mean a lot of things.”

  “Hey, and if there’s enough money to buy a few sit-down meals on the way back, that’d be great.”

  I nodded. “I think there’s enough to cover that, yep.”

  * * *

  —

  “I still want a new truck.”

  “I wasn’t going to use Charley Lee’s money for that anyway.”

  She stuck her boots up on the edge of my desk and sipped her coffee. “Ruby gave me all the forms, and I called up the dealership this morning to run the numbers. They said they would come down on the price a little, but only a little.”

  “Did you identify yourself as law enforcement?”

  “About six times.”

  I looked at the Post-its in my hand, a mild domestic dispute, a sideswiped car—must be Monday. “Well, the county commissioners will either come back with a yes or a no.”

  “If they come back with a no, I’m going to the next meeting armed.”

  “I’ll write them a memo.” I glanced around. “Where’s my dog?”

  She tossed her head in the direction of the main part of the office. “With Ruby.” She yawned. “So, what’s the millionaire like?”

  “Superstitious.” I couldn’t help but smile. “He doesn’t know he’s a millionaire yet.”

  “You didn’t tell him?”

  “I didn’t think it was my place, but I did tell him that he was probably going to need a lawyer.”

  “What’d he say to that?”

  “That he couldn’t afford one.”

  “Oh, boy.”

  “He’s a musician, and I guess he’s pretty good—maybe a little down on his luck.”

  “Maybe he can do a benefit concert for himself.” She dropped her boots to the floor. “In the meantime, I’m ordering up the emergency equipment for my new truck.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to wait till the commissioners have a vote?”

  “Fuck that.”

  “I’ll put that in the memo too.”

  “You do that.” She stood, stretched like a panther, and exited.

  Ruby appeared in her stead. “You’ve got a call on line one, Mary from Buffalo Bill Center of the West. My, aren’t we all hoity-toity.”

  “I’m attempting to rise from my hoi polloi beginnings.” Picking up the phone, I punched line one. “How’s the patient?”

  “Embarrassed, but she’s fine and already back at work this morning and then flying to Boston in the afternoon.”

  “Catch the attacker?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “Nobody found a dropped wallet or anything in the conservation area?”

  “Nope.”

  “My painting rolled up in the dumpster out back?”

  She sighed an exhale of embarrassment, and there was a long pause. “No, but I did want to call and apologize—we’ve never had anything like that happen here at the museum.”

  “Probably my fault . . . There seems to be a lot of the criminal element in my proximity.”

  “Was it insured?”

  “I doubt it.
The man who would’ve eventually owned it is here to settle his grandfather’s estate, and with the amount of money we’re talking about, I don’t think he’s going to be concerned about an odd little partial painting like that one.”

  “It still bothers you though, doesn’t it? I can tell from your tone of voice.”

  I leaned back in my chair as far as I dared without flipping over, listening to it cry out in submission. “That obvious, is it?”

  “A little. It bothers me too. Why in the world would anybody go to those lengths to steal that particular piece? I mean, if they were going to steal something, there are far more valuable pieces right there in the conservation area.”

  “The thought did cross my mind.”

  “Come up with any ideas?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Yet?”

  “Yet.” Leaning forward, I sighed. “Tell Beverly that I’m glad she’s feeling better.”

  “I will, Walt.” There was another pause, and her voice took on a concerned tone. “You be careful out there with all that criminal element.”

  “You bet, and you be careful with that artistic element.”

  She laughed. “I’m not sure which one is more worrisome.”

  I hung up the phone and thought about it. Why in the world would somebody go to all the trouble of taking such an oddity? Even in the best of conditions it was worth less than a thousand dollars. I mean, I would understand if it was the actual painting, which, as the history books say, was destroyed in the fire in Texas.

  Fort Bliss, Texas.

  Fort Bliss.

  There are times when thoughts finally rub up against each other enough that they provide a spark, a spark that should’ve ignited much sooner. Charley Lee Stillwater had told me his first tour of duty with the army had been in Texas, and he’d been discharged in ’46, the year of the commissary fire that had destroyed the painting.

  Had Charley Lee taken that painting before it burned or even caused the fire to cover his tracks?

  It just didn’t seem like the man.

  “Three-thousand four-hundred dollars for the lights, spotlight, and siren.”