• • •
Fortunately, Lola Wojciechowski drove a dilapidated, slightly dented, faded gold ’66 Cadillac DeVille, so there was plenty of room for all of us. I shouted across the expanse as Lola careened through the sloping hills of the Devils Tower landscape, the monument peeking down at us every now and again. “I noticed the Arizona plates. You live down there?”
She shouted back after checking the rearview mirror and the reflection of Dog, dead center. “For quite some time now. My ex has a custom bike shop in Maryvale—Crossbones Custom.”
“That would be Mr. Torres?”
She leaned over and, pushing a button in the dash and gesturing toward the yawning glove compartment, handed me the pocketbook containing the .38. “Yeah, Delshay.”
I placed the purse in there and carefully closed the compartment. “Motorcycles, I’m assuming?”
“No, Huffy and Schwinn. . . . Of course, motorcycles.”
I smiled and looked through the windshield. “Ever heard of a motorcycle club by the name of the Tre Tre Nomads?”
She glanced at me. “No.”
I watched the scenery some more as she put her foot into the Caddy, sending us down a straightaway toward Moorcroft at a good ninety miles an hour, passing motorcycles as we went. “You know, I know the HPs that prowl this part of Wyoming during the rallies, and they don’t have much of a sense of humor this time of year.”
She kept her foot in it a bit longer but then let off.
I placed an arm on the doorsill and adjusted the side mirror so that I could watch behind us. “And point of interest: when law enforcement asks you a question, we generally already know the answer.”
She simmered a bit and then pushed a big wave of the black and silver hair from her face. “What do you want to know?”
“Is Bodaway a member of the Tre Tre Nomads?”
“I guess.”
I adjusted my sunglasses and stared at her.
“Yes. Yes, he’s a member.”
“So what are the chances that his accident is gang related?”
“Everybody who knows him loves him.”
“That doesn’t answer my question. Does he have any known enemies?”
She gestured as another group of maybe thirty motorcycles passed us, headed for Hulett. “He’s in a motorcycle gang—everybody is his enemy, including you.” Driving the big car with one hand, she threaded her fingers through her hair. “You people . . .” I waited for the rest. “People don’t understand these clubs; they think you join them to break heads, take drugs, and generally fuck up society—but the reason you join is because society fucks with you. Do you know what it’s like out there on the streets? I’m not talking about Cornhole, Wyoming; I’m talking about a real city with people in it.”
I sighed. “I’m not completely unfamiliar with those environs.”
“It’s family, you know? A tribe—something to help keep the wolves at bay.”
“So, why do you need Henry?”
She turned her head as if the answer were obvious. “He’s the biggest, baddest wolf I know.”
I smiled. “Okay, then who are the leaders of the other packs?”
“I’ll have to think about it.”
“You haven’t already?”
She turned her head to look at me but then returned her attention to the road.
“If you think somebody’s responsible for your son’s accident, then it would make it a lot easier if you’d let us know of any suspicions you might have—could help us narrow the field.”
“The Hells Angels, Mongols, Pagans, Sons of Silence, Outlaws, Bandidos, Warlocks, Vagos. Take your pick.”
“Are all those groups represented here in Hulett?”
“Yeah, it’s like an asshole convention.”
“Weren’t you just standing up for all these outlaw motorcycle clubs?”
“Only ours.” She gave me a dazzling smile and passed another group of motorcyclists, barely getting back in our lane before scattering another cluster headed the other way. “The rest are pieces of shit.”
“Right. Would you mind keeping it under the speed of sound? I’d like to visit your son, but I’d rather not share a ward with him.” She let off the accelerator, but I could tell it wasn’t something she was used to doing. “Well, it has to be someone with a car or truck.”
“Why is that?”
“I’m no Evel Knievel, but it seems to me it would be hard to run a motorcycle off the road with another motorcycle without ending up in the ditch yourself.”
She nodded in agreement. “Hey, you really are a sheriff, aren’t you?”
“So, who would be here with a four-wheeled vehicle?”
“Tons of guys; a lot of them bring trucks and vans and tow their bikes.”
I watched as a few more motorcyclists passed but then did notice a few vans and SUVs pulling covered trailers. “I thought the idea was to show how tough you are by riding distance.”
“You ever ride a Harley a couple thousand miles?”
“Never ridden one a couple hundred feet.”
She shook her head. “How does a guy your age ever get to now with never having learned how to ride a motorcycle?”
I philosophized. “Common sense?” I turned to pet Dog. “So, are you a member of the Tre Tre Nomads?”
“No, they don’t patch women.” She saw the confusion on my face. “When you become a full member of a club, you get the patches to go on your leathers or your kuttes.”
“What are kuttes?”
“Short for cut-offs—you know, denim vests or jackets where the sleeves have been cut off.”
“Oh.” I glanced at her leather ensemble but could see no patches. “So, no female members, huh?”
“No, but you can be somebody’s old lady, and that carries a certain standing.”
“And whose old lady are you?”
“Delshay Torres, my ex.”
“The one that owns the Huffy/Schwinn shop.”
“Right. We went our separate ways a few years ago, but I’ve still got status.”
“Bodaway, Delshay . . . Those don’t sound like Spanish names.”
“Yavapai Apache.”
• • •
Rapid City Regional Hospital is the largest and most advanced facility in the four-state area, so it doesn’t come as much of a surprise that they transferred Bodaway Torres there.
A large man, built like a sumo wrestler, was taking up an entire bench as we entered the waiting room outside the ICU. He stood when he saw Lola. He didn’t say anything but gave me a hard look before sitting his prodigious, leather-clad rear back on the bench and folding his massive arms, which just barely reached across his chest.
We continued toward the viewing window down the hall. “One of yours?”
“Big Easy.”
“He from New Orleans?”
“No, he’s just big and easy—he’d drink my bathwater if I let him.”
I made an attempt to change the subject. “You think your son needs a bodyguard?”
“Brady thought they might come back and try to finish the job.”
“Brady Post, the guy that says bud a lot?”
“You’ve met.”
I nodded. “Momentarily. He seemed like someone who would be hard to get along with.”
She shrugged. “If you’re not one of us, I’d say yes.”
You couldn’t see much of the kid behind the glass, but from what you could, I’d have to say he was one of the handsomest young men I’d ever seen. His long black hair was splayed across the pillows, and his face was unmarked by the accident. Bodaway’s features looked like they’d been cut with diamonds; he could’ve been a model for one of those bodice-ripper romance novel covers. “Handsome kid.”
“Yes.” She stood at the gl
ass, her fingertips touching the cool, smooth surface. “Twenty-eight years old.”
“What’s the prognosis?”
“Traumatic brain injury, contusion type. We’re lucky it wasn’t a hematoma type because—”
“I know all about it—my daughter was assaulted in Philadelphia; she had the hematoma injury, and they had to cut part of her skull to allow for the swelling.” I studied the young man. “She was out for the better part of a week.”
She turned her face and looked up at me. “How is she now?”
“An assistant attorney general down in Cheyenne with an eight-month-old, who is named after you, well, in a way.” She continued to stare at me. “Remember, she’s the one who named my granddaughter after the car that is named after you?”
“I like her already.” She smiled. “Anyway, that gives me hope.” Her eyes were drawn back to the unmoving face and the array of EEG electrodes. “They had to shave some of his head; he’s not going to like that.”
I now noticed where they had removed the hair from his temples. “I don’t suppose he was wearing a helmet?”
“No.”
I struggled to think of something positive to say, knowing from experience how she was feeling. “It’s good that it didn’t mess up his face.”
“And he’s so totally unaware of how good-looking he is.” Her hands came off the glass, and she stuffed them in her jeans. “You should see the girls hanging off of him; it’s obscene.”
“Like mother, like son?”
I wasn’t sure, but I was willing to bet that she blushed just a bit. “More like father; he was really handsome—an asshole, but a handsome one.” She studied her son a bit more and then, glancing at a fancy gold watch with a turquoise face, stepped away from the glass. “They’re going to open the room up for an hour in about ten minutes and that’s when I go in there and hold his hand and talk to him. I’d invite you, but they say that too much stimulation can agitate him and raise his blood pressure, so . . .” She reached into a pocket and handed me a set of keys. “I didn’t mean to strand you, so just take the Caddy and do whatever you need to do. I’m staying at the Hulett Motel, too, so you can just leave the car there when you’re done.”
“What about you?”
She nodded toward the Buddha in the waiting room. “Big Easy or somebody can give me a ride. Just leave it at the motel with the keys in it.”
“You’re sure?”
She took my hand and forced the keys on me. “I like you, you seem like the real deal.” Then she added. “Don’t let me down.”
• • •
When I got back to the hospital parking lot, there was a dog sitting in the driver’s seat of the ’66 DeVille, which was now parked next to a battered pickup. We’d put the top up before we had gone into the hospital, in an attempt to contain the were-creature I referred to as Dog, and, wagging and smiling, he looked at me through the glass. I was about to unlock the thing when a voice sounded from behind me.
“What do you think you’re doing, bud?” I turned to see Brady Post walking across the parking lot toward me. “That’s not your car.”
I went ahead and unlocked the door of the Cadillac. “Yep, my highly developed powers of deduction tell me that.”
He shoved my shoulder, hard, when he got there. “Do you know whose car this is, bud?”
I turned and squared off with him, both of us suddenly aware of the growing growl resounding like a speedboat at idle behind the window of the Caddy. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Post gave Dog a look and then turned his eyes back to me. “Then what the hell are you doing?”
I studied him, getting a read on the way he held himself. Better than the usual barroom brawler, he was steady on both legs, with his weight evenly distributed and his arms hanging relaxed, but with his shoulders turned just a bit to give him the trajectory he’d need to take that first swing with the chrome-plated, three-link belt he held in one hand. I imagined that he wasn’t likely to let me up after that if I went down and would use the steel-toed boots to finish the job. “That’s really none of your business, Mr. Post.”
Dog, a shrewd judge of character, lunged at the glass and snapped his big alligator jaws, and I watched as the biker started. “Gimme the keys, bud.”
“No, I don’t think I will. Post. Is that your real name, or is it an honorary title they gave you because you’re dumb as a . . . ?”
He wrapped the chain one more twist in his hand, and all I could think was that I was tired of being hit and tired of hitting. I went through the choreography of violence and saw myself raising an arm to effectively block the chain, then wrapping my hand around his head and bringing it forward to where I would introduce my right fist to his face. If he really was tough, it was possible it might take two shots, or I could just bounce his head off of the pickup in an attempt to save the quarter panel on the gold-toned Cadillac.
All of these things were running through my head when I hit upon a simpler response. Pushing the button on the handle of the Caddy, I swung the door wide.
You would think that, at over 150 pounds, Dog wouldn’t be that fast, but I’m pretty sure that DNA strain of his used to run down buffalo and maybe even my ancestors a few thousand years ago.
Say what you want about the Enforcer’s intellectual capacities, he knew a life-threatening situation when he encountered one and scrambled for his very existence. He got the lead on Dog, and I reached out to get hold of the beast, but the monster was too fast and was scrambling on his claws and sliding sideways to get around the back of the jacked-up pickup in order to lock his massive jaws into the biker.
Post, realizing that his lead wasn’t going to last long, hurdled over the far side of the truck and fell into the bed as Dog leapt up after him, but it was just too high. The biker scrambled backward toward the cab and was getting ready to swing the chain at Dog when I walked over and motioned to get his attention. “You hit my dog with that chain and, in the words of my old boss and mentor, Lucian Connally, I will scatter your chickenshit brains all over this parking lot.”
Dog was still throwing his bulk against the side of the truck, and I would’ve been worried that he might hurt himself, but the thing looked like it had been dragged from a salvage yard. The Enforcer stayed in the middle as Dog, trying to find a way up, circled the truck.
“Call off the fucking dog, bud!”
“Drop the chain.”
He did, and I patted my leg. “Dog!”
In the great balancing equations of Dog’s mind, there are two things he cannot resist—ham, and me holding open a vehicle door. I’m pretty sure that ham is first and the only reason me holding open a vehicle door is in the running is because it might mean that we are going somewhere to get ham.
The beast looked a little disgruntled, but with one last glance at his prospective lunch, he hopped in the DeVille and sat in the passenger seat as though nothing had been amiss.
I glanced at Post and tipped my hat at the biker as I climbed in after Dog. “Happy motoring, bud.”
• • •
The Rapid City Police Department’s evidence impound lot happens to be wedged in between the city cop headquarters and the Pennington County Jail. Knowing on which side my bread was buttered, I entered the sheriff’s office and asked for him.
They asked me who I was, and I told them that I was a sheriff too and that we needed to touch badges so we could recharge. The nice receptionist looked doubtful and then disappeared across the large room just as I heard Irl Engelhardt’s voice. “Walt Longmire!”
Venturing across the room, I met the lean man at his doorway, and he invited me in. I stood next to the guest chair in his immaculate office and glanced around at the startling order of the place. “You ever do any work around here?”
He sat on the corner of his desk and folded his arms, palming his chin. “As litt
le as I can get away with. Have a seat, Walt. What are you doing on this side of the Black Hills?”
I continued standing. “Maybe I’m vacationing.”
He shook his head. “Try again—I’ve known you for too many years to count, and I’ve never heard of you taking even a day off.”
“Maybe I’m changing my ways.”
“Uh huh.” He looked down at the blotter on his desk. “Hey, I heard about your son-in-law.”
“Yep.”
“I’m sorry.”
I nodded. “We all are.”
“How’s Cady holding up?”
“Surprisingly well—Joe Meyer gave her a job.”
“Down in that nest of smiling vipers in Cheyenne?”
“Yep.”
“Well, she should be able to fend for herself; she comes from good stock.”
“Thanks, Irl.”
He laughed and stood. “It’s funny, you know. . . . I guess if we didn’t all think we were ten feet tall and bulletproof, we wouldn’t do this job.”
I sighed. “I’m beginning to think I’m about nine two and only bullet resistant.”
“What can I do for you, Walt?”
“You’ve got a motorcycle in your evidence impound lot that has to do with a traffic incident up in Hulett, near Devils Tower.”
He nodded and gestured toward the door. “Somebody have one too many and run off the road looking at the scenery?”
“Something like that.”
We moved back through the bull pen, out another door, and down a stairwell. “I can’t tell you how much of that we get this time of year, and it gets worse as the baby boomers get older. These guys finally get enough money to go out and buy the motorcycle of their dreams—the one they wanted when they were eighteen—but they seem to forget that they’re not eighteen anymore and that they haven’t been on one of the things for thirty years.”
He pushed a heavy door open, and we were back on the sidewalk where I’d parked. “You mind if I get my dog out of the car and let him have a little walk?”
“No problem.”
Sheriff Engelhardt raised an eyebrow as I freed Dog from the Cadillac. “Is this what the stylish Wyoming sheriff is driving these days?”
An Obvious Fact Page 4
