Chapter 7
If You Don’t Do It, Somebody Else Will
There was smoke coming out of the chimney when she pulled up in front of the little house on Eighth Street. That could be a sign of welcome, or might be an ominous reflection of Hawk’s state of mind.
Hawk, after all, would be justified in being in an I-told-you-so mood. He hadn’t wanted her to go to Shady Grove, and last night, when she’d finally gotten the chance to call and tell him a little of what had happened, he’d said only that it sounded horrible, that he was sorry she was stuck, that he’d see her in the morning. He hated the phone anyway, but he sure hadn’t prolonged the conversation.
He’d built a cheery blaze in the living room fireplace, but Hawk was sitting at the kitchen table, reading the Laramie Daily Boomerang when she came in. He looked up from the newspaper. “How are you?” he asked.
“I’ve been better,” she answered. “I need to add a foam pad to my emergency kit. The floor of Nina’s studio was carpeted, at least, but there was a concrete slab underneath.”
“Flat,” he said. “No rocks or sticks or prickly things.”
“It was fine,” she said, “considering. I’m not whining.”
Sorrow and concern showed in his eyes. “I made coffee. Have some.”
The glass Melitta pot was on the stove. She lit the burner under it to warm the coffee. It occurred to her that after what she’d been through, coffee might not be the answer. Her shoulder bag sat on the kitchen table, the bulky can of protein powder poking out the top. Maybe what she needed was a bracing health drink instead of a caffeine fix.
Of course. She told herself that if she’d had what she needed for Nina’s blended panacea, she’d have whipped one up on the spot. But she knew what was in the fridge, and it didn’t include the yogurt, or the lovely fresh fruit. There was probably a bear-shaped squirt bottle of honey in the cupboard, a sticky, crystallized archaeological artifact purchased with the idea that they might entertain mellow tea-drinking friends. But she couldn’t swear to it. In fact, about all she had in the way of ingredients for the Nina smoothie was a little bit of 1 percent milk and a big jar of soy powder. So she’d have to settle for coffee. Oh well.
With the best of intentions, she put the can of protein supplement on the shelf where they kept the dry ingredients they used all the time. And the next time she went to the grocery store, she vowed, she’d not only get the necessaries for the smoothie, but toss in some broccoli, brown rice, and buckwheat noodles.
But for now, she poured a cup of Hawk’s fine, strong brew. She added milk and then turned to him and said, “I would like to be held now.”
He unfolded his legs, got up slowly, walked to her and obliged.
At length, he said, “The paper gave the story its usual balanced coverage.”
“Oh yeah?” she said. “I can hardly wait to see.”
“Go ahead and drink your coffee and check it out. It probably won’t make you feel any better, but it’ll remind you how things are from the Wyoming perspective. I’ll make you some breakfast.”
“Thanks.” She wasn’t hungry, but she’d eat if he was cooking. It wasn’t about food.
Presently, Hawk set a plate of eggs and hash browns in front of Sally, along with a bottle of Tabasco sauce.
“Poor Nina. They made her look like a Commie,” Sally said, dosing her breakfast with Tabasco.
“I thought she was a Commie,” Hawk said.
“Well, yeah, back in the day. Before Tom Hayden ever dreamed about being a state legislator. Before Eldridge Cleaver got into fashion design and the Republican Party. Back when they were still sending César Chávez to jail instead of talking about giving him a national holiday. It’s worth remembering that all through the sixties and seventies, the FBI was opening Nina’s mail, and following her around, and hassling her friends and relations.” Sally dug into her breakfast, then continued. “They audited her tax returns for like ten years running, tried to plant cocaine in her suitcase when she was coming back from Europe, and forged her signature on letters to her record company, her agent, and her concert promoters, saying she was retiring from the music business so she could devote her life to making bombs with the Weathermen.”
“Your point being,” Hawk said, sitting down with his own breakfast, “that paranoids have enemies, too?”
Sally forked up crispy potato and runny egg yolk. “My point is that the fucking Boomerang reporter, and thus his readers, haven’t got a ghost of a clue who Nina Cruz was, or what she went through, or what she meant, or how amazingly great she was. Hell, most of them probably never heard her voice, even on a record. They wouldn’t know that when she sang, you’d hear what angels sounded like. And she was so smart, and so brave, and just so goddamn big. Her life could read like the story of America in the late twentieth century. She deserves a hell of a lot more than this stupid shit.” Sally threw the paper on the table, contemptuous.
“Then give her more,” said Hawk.
“What? Like send a check to that woo-woo foundation of hers, so that Randy Whitebird can go around claiming that he’s channeling her deepest desires? Not hardly.” Sally snorted.
“That’s not what I meant,” Hawk said, putting his hand on Sally’s. “It just occurred to me that you ought to think about writing her biography.”
Sally just stared at him.
“Why not?” he asked. “You’ve been fishing around for a new big project. You proved with the Dunwoodie book that you could write biography. You’re a women’s historian, and Nina Cruz was a pretty historic woman by any measure.”
Sally extracted her hand from his, rubbed a knuckle over her lips. “It’s a cool idea, actually. But wouldn’t I look like a disgusting opportunist? I hate people who make a career out of gravy-training dead heroes.”
Hawk took her hand again and smiled a little. “Look at it this way, Sal. It’s obvious you don’t believe she was shot accidentally by some nearsighted yahoo. I know you. You’ve probably already been driving Dickie and Scotty Atkins nuts. Nobody can stop you from butting in when you’re like this.”
“I might already have butted in,” she said.
“How so?” Hawk asked.
She got up and extracted her DayMinder from her bag. “When I was rolling up my sleeping bag this morning, I found a note crumpled up under Nina’s desk, next to the wastebasket. I made a copy.”
Hawk read. “Wow,” was all he said.
“Yeah,” said Sally. “It’s downright intriguing, don’t you think?”
“Did you give the original to Dickie?” His eyes were grave.
“Of course!” she said, trying to work up a little indignation, without much effect. “But as you can see, I made the copy first.”
Hawk shook his head. “You are a real piece of work, Sally. Obviously you understand how much trouble you could get in for tampering with evidence in what might well be a murder case?”
Boy howdy. “Hey, I gave it to him, didn’t I?”
Hawk sighed.
Sally changed the subject. “I really do like this book idea.”
“And you’ve already decided to start mucking around in this business. There’s probably not a damn thing I can do to stop you, so I guess at least if you’re writing a book, you’d have good reason to go around asking a bunch of questions. Some might say you’re making a target of yourself. On the other hand, it would put you in enough of a public spotlight that it might be easier to keep an eye on you.”
“Not to mention that I’d have plenty of excuses to hang around Stone Jackson,” Sally said.
Hawk’s smile returned. “I’m not worried about Jackson. He’s not your type.”
“He’s not?” she said.
“No. He’s too talented, too introspective, and too rich,” Hawk explained.
“You forgot too tall,” Sally said.
“Exactly so,” Hawk agreed.
She thought about it. She couldn’t imagine that they’d go ahead with the benefit concer
t, under the circumstances. That would eliminate her only reason for contact with Jackson, or, for that matter, for staying on top of the investigation into Nina’s death. She really did need a new project, and Hawk was right. Nina deserved her historical due.
“Call your publisher,” said Hawk. “If you don’t, somebody else will. And there’s no guaranteeing that whoever else writes about Nina will give her the treatment you think she ought to get.”
“And what about you?” Sally said.
“What do you mean?” Hawk asked.
“You’re being awfully nice, even though you warned me not to go to Shady Grove, and I ended up getting stuck out there, and it’s kind of likely that my getting involved with this thing could cause a problem or two. I’ve had a rough night, and I imagine you did, too.”
“Yeah? So? So I’m glad you’re back, and you’re okay, and I’m really sorry for what you’ve been through. I wish to Christ that Nina Cruz was still alive,” said Hawk.
Sally was wired and tired, but this man of hers had a way of holding the demons at bay, at least temporarily. She leaned over and put her hand on his thigh, under the table. His worn jeans were soft to the touch. The muscles of his leg weren’t. She licked her lips and met his eyes. “What kind of treatment do you think you ought to get?”
Hawk moved her hand slightly up and to the right. “I think I ought to get very attentive, very thorough sexual stimulation, involving both tactile and visual techniques and maybe some naughty language.”
“I think,” said Sally, making slow circles with the palm of one hand, unzipping her fleece vest with the other, and beginning to untuck her shirt, “that is exactly the treatment you deserve.”
“If you don’t do it, somebody else will,” he said. “Ouch! Gently there, darling.”
Chapter 8
Rumor Mills with Hot Pans and Sharp Knives
“The show must go on,” declared Thomas Jackson, when he called from Santa Fe ten days later.
“No way,” Sally said.
“Yes ma’am,” Stone replied. “Nina’s sister Cat is back in the States, and says that’s what she wants. I had a long talk with Cat after the memorial service in Santa Fe.”
“Memorial?” Sally asked. She wondered if the police had released Nina’s body. She assumed that given the suspicious circumstances of Nina’s death, there would have to be an autopsy, though she’d heard nothing.
Stone answered her question, somewhat euphemistically. “There’ll be a more formal funeral when the medical examiner, um, finishes his work. Meanwhile, Cat’s planning to fly to Denver, rent a car, and drive up to Laramie to meet with Whitebird and Kali. As far as she’s concerned, doing the show and getting Wild West off to a big start was Nina’s last wish, and Cat’s going to see it through as a tribute to her sister, and then thinkabout what to do with the proceeds and the foundation. She asked me to take charge of the benefit arrangements, so I’ll be at the meeting, on my way backto the Busted Heart.”
“Makes sense,” said Sally. “You’ve done a million of these things.”
“Yeah,” said Stone. “They always call me. Don’t matter if the cause is HIV education, oil spills, or women’s shelters, I’m on the mailing list. Back when Nina and I were together, we did a lot of gigs to get people out of jail. Turned out half of them belonged there. I’m a little pickier these days.
“But I got the scene wired. By now, all I have to do is make a couple of phone calls. Nina’d already lined up the promoter, so it’s just a matter of getting my publicity people to give it an extra thump and getting the talent together. Thought I’d see if maybe Bonnie and Emmylou and them are interested.”
Stone Jackson in Laramie was miracle enough. But Bonnie and Emmylou and them? Sally would really have to reconsider religion. “Sounds like you won’t be needing the Millionaires,” she said, relieved.
“Sure we will,” Stone said. “I always like to promote the local talent.”
“Thomas, I haven’t talked to the boys in the band. I’m not sure they’d want to do the gig. There are a couple of them who aren’t big fans of tree huggers or Californians.” She’d almost said, “whose idea of a good time is shooting tree huggers,” but had managed to stop herself in time.
“Or Chicanas?” he asked, his voice acquiring an edge.
“You’re a Wyomingite now. Draw your own conclusions,” Sally said, giving him edge for edge.
“Then that makes it even more important that you all play. Show everybody that Laramie folks aren’t a bunch of pencil-neck dickheads,” he said.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Sally answered. Several members of the Millionaires might actually be pencil-neck dickheads, at least when it came to what humans had the right to do with and to animals. But she’d raise the subject tonight, when the band had their weekly practice.
“I hope you’re free for a lunch meeting next week, at the Wild West headquarters,” Jackson continued. “They’ve rented some space in Laramie, on Second Street. They’re just getting set up, but it seems like that would be most convenient for everybody.”
“So are all those Dub-Dubs still crashing out at Shady Grove?” Sally asked.
“Nope. Most of them lit out for the coast after the roads opened up. Right now, Wild West has just a skeleton staff— Whitebird and Kali, and two assistants who seem to be sleeping in the office. Oh, and Nels Willen’s around, too. He’s helping out with the fund-raising side. I’m hoping he starts with himself. Got more money than God.”
“Willen’s involved?” Sally couldn’t hide her amazement.
“Listen, Sally. I know he brought that rifle out there that day.”
“How?” Sally asked.
“He called me up and told me so. But at this point, the police haven’t announced anything about a murder weapon, and even if it turned out that somebody...well, even if that gun was used, I know in the heart of my heart it wasn’t Nels pullin’ the trigger. If anybody could begin to understand how he felt about Nina, it’s me. He wouldn’t have done it any more than I would.”
“Maybe it was an accident,” Sally offered lamely.
“Yeah. Maybe. Do a lot of people get shot randomly during deer season in Wyoming?”
Sally admitted that they didn’t.
“And does it occur to you that deciding you want to look into her life puts you a little too close to her death, in the event that there was somebody who deliberately went about killing her?” he asked.
She hadn’t thought about that, and decided not to. “I think you’re just trying to scare me off.”
Jackson took a breath. “No. I’m not. I want to know what happened, Sally Alder. So does Cat. That’s one big reason we want you around. You can help us find out.”
“You really ought to let the police do their work, Stone. You haven’t met the sheriff,” said Sally.
“I’m about to,” said Stone. “He called. I’ll be going to see him first thing when I get to Laramie.”
“He’s a good guy, a really smart guy. A lot of people make the mistake of thinking that because Dickie Lang-ham’s big and sweet, he’s kind of slow. But I’ve known him most of my adult life. More often than not he’s two steps ahead of everybody else. And he’s got good people. His detective is the kind of pit bull you want on your side. You can trust these guys,” Sally finished.
“I’m sure we can,” Jackson agreed smoothly, “but Cat and I need somebody who can help us communicate with them, too. We need a friend,” he said.
“He wants me to be his friend,” Sally told her friend Delice Langham, two days later as they sat down at a table at the Wrangler Bar and Grill. Sally knew the Wrangler’s menu a little too well to make lunching there a habit, but she had ordered a side salad with Italian dressing and an order of onion rings. A Wrangler version of a vegetarian lunch, if you didn’t count lard. The wind had picked up over the course of the morning and was pounding away at the front window of the Grill, whistling through the shingles on the roof. The temperature had dropp
ed, too, and Sally might have regretted deciding to walk downtown rather than drive, but she figured the fat content of the rings would keep her warm on the walk home.
“His friend? Uh-huh,” said Delice, silver bracelets jangling as she set down her coffee cup and began to sort through the day’s mail. “Stone Jackson probably doesn’t have any friends. Having lived all over the world, and made every woman in America fall in love with him, and having more money than Jimmy Buffett, I bet he’s just lonesome as hell. What was it he said in that song of his, ‘Lost Boy’? ‘Out here in the cold, one more lost soul...’”
“That’ll do, Delice,” Sally interrupted. “You’ve got a thing for lost souls yourself. Who named her kid after Jerry Jeff Walker?”
“Who named her dog after George Jones?” Delice shot back.
It was a draw. They were a couple of suckers for feckless losers. More than twenty years ago, Delice had hired Sally for her first Wyoming gig, playing happy hours at the Wrangler. Delice looked pretty much the same as she had then. Her black hair (mighty black indeed) fell halfway down her back, her jeans were still tight and trim, and she still sported half her weight in silver jewelry. Her cowboy boots were custom-made now, and the black leather vest and black silk shirt she was wearing probably cost as much as her car had back then. They’d both come up in the world, but they still knew how to ride each other hard, and come out grinning.
Sally’s salad and onion rings arrived. She dipped a hot ring in ketchup and bit in. “Would it make you feel better if you thought I was getting involved with Stone Jackson out of self-interest?” Sally asked.
Delice looked up from a credit card offer she was tossing in a pile with all the other credit card offers, and eyed Sally narrowly. “Depends what you mean. You don’t still have that picture of Darlin’Tommy J on the sun visor of your car, do you?”
Bye, Bye, Love Page 8
