“Where are the boys now, Mrs. Jordan?”
She tilted her head, gave me another long look with her good eye. “You’re one of Krueger’s?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She hmphed like she didn’t think too much of that or of the chief. “Looks like you got dragged along ten miles of bad road. You don’t smell so fresh either.”
“It’s been a long night.”
“I never sleep at night, haven’t for years.” She sipped tea, just a little at a time like she enjoyed going through the motions. “When you get my age you either sleep all the time or you never do. I never do. So I’m up all night and hardly ever get any visitors.”
“I’m more than happy to sit with you a bit, Mrs. Jordan.” I sipped tea to show I meant it. “Can you tell me where Jason and the others got to?”
“You and Krueger need to leave them boys alone. We’re good God-fearing white people out here. Every whiskey drinking Indian gets more respect than us, government money, tribal money. Every son of a bitch in the state who can prove a redskin in the woodpile gets a card and all the benefits. Now they’re even changing all the names of the high schools so the mascots don’t give offense. And my own boys can’t do a few extra things to make ends meet without you lot harassing us.”
“I know what it’s like to be poor, ma’am.”
“That’s right,” she said. “But you and me can’t go open no casino, can we?”
“I don’t know anything about that. I’m just worried about people getting hurt. It’s my job to help look after everybody.”
“We look after our own. You want a graham cracker?”
“No thank you, ma’am.”
“Wait a minute.” With a little effort she stood, waddled to a shelf and brought back a photo album. It was black leather, looked worn and very old. She turned to the first page and set it in my lap before flopping back into the armchair with a little grunt.
I looked at the first photo, black and white, five by seven, thick paper. On the album page below the photo someone had written Antonia in thick pencil. A young girl in a Little House on the Prairie dress, maybe ten years old, fled across a field of high grass, a slanted log cabin in the background, a slightly blurry windmill beyond that. The sky a flat gray.
The girl looked back over her shoulder as she ran, raw glee on her face, eyes wide as if being chased by a parent or sibling. It was easy to imagine a squeal of laughter, a breezy sunny day.
“That’s me,” she said.
“Where?”
“Here,” she said. “The cabin burnt down in 1937.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me and my folks and six brothers and sisters lived in there. Coyotes stole all the chickens the third year. We fought drought and ice storms. My brothers and sisters grew up and scattered, but I stayed. I stuck, by God, and that should be worth something. It should mean something when you endure and stay and the whole world changes around you, changes and forgets you. It should mean something.”
“I guess so.” But I couldn’t say what it might mean. Maybe not anything good.
She sighed, deflated a little into the depths of the armchair. “There was nothing here. The land was raw and the sky was wide and there was nothing. No town. We took the land and made it submit to us. There was nothing, and then there were the Jordans.”
It was easy now to understand why the brothers strutted around acting like they were entitled to everything. I could imagine years of this old woman whispering her poison to the boys, making them out to be barons of the endless prairie. Might makes right. Cowboys and Indians. It was hard to think of the Jordans as a family dynasty instead of a mob of rednecks, but the old woman had her own view of the world. Old people always did.
I turned the page in the photo album and the decades flew by. Smaller black and white photos of people I didn’t know. A woman on a horse. A gaunt man in an Army uniform, sergeant stripes. A barely recognizable picture of Main Street. Somehow the town looked more prosperous then than it did now.
More pages and more decades. Faded color photos of young boys, shirtless, lined up and mugging for the camera. I recognized Jason Jordan. I looked into his eyes, tried to discern the seeds of evil that would bloom in later years. I wanted to believe it was easy to recognize the bad, that you could see it coming a long way off and have time to duck or hide, like the eerie green clouds that warned of tornado weather. But all I saw was some kid with buck teeth.
When I looked up from the photo album, I saw Antonia Jordan had nodded off, her chin against her chest, snoring lightly, tea cup precarious in her bony fingers. I set the album aside, and carefully took the cup, set it on top of the album. Delicately, I extracted the revolver from her lap and hid it beneath her chair. She’d find it later. Or not.
I tried to see the same evil in the sleeping old woman that I’d tried to see in the old photo of Jason but couldn’t do it. Still, I knew it was there, or if not evil then something broken, something that had gone wrong with her as a human being. It’s so easy to think of old folks as kindly and cute, but anyone can go wrong. The hardships and disappointments and tragedies of our lives can make us strong or they can twist us wrong and nobody is exempt from this crapshoot. Not old women or Mexican hellcats or part-time deputies.
You spin the wheel and you take your chances.
I stood, felt my knees pop, back sore, ribs still tender. I needed three cold beers and ten hours sleep.
I’d settle for the Jordan brothers.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The room beyond Grandma Jordan’s kitchen was a thin unfinished hall, cement floor, exposed wiring, a bare light bulb pumping out sixty watts overhead. A washer and dryer, some paint cans stacked on the other side. I looked at it a minute and thought the room was maybe some kind of buffer zone, a combo laundry storage room between Antonia Jordan’s add-on apartment and the main part of the house.
I had no intention of trying to make my way past Lucifer again, so I went through the door ahead of me. I drew my revolver as I went. I didn’t want any more Jordans to get the drop on me.
The main part of the house was mostly dark except for a tiny lamp on a roll top desk. It was enough to see, and I took a quick look. The desk was cluttered with mail, much of it going back several months. It seemed like the Jordans preferred to be reminded a few times before they paid bills. Gun accessory catalogs. Field & Stream Magazine. Cattle business stuff. Nothing too interesting.
I’d expected the Jordan home to stink as bad as the inside of Luke’s truck or strange like Grandma Jordan’s add-on rooms, but the house had an inoffensive pine odor which almost masked a faint cigarette smell. I took out a Winston and lit it. A few empty Budweiser cans here and there, ashtrays not too full but not quite clean either. Mismatched furniture. The sofa and most of the chairs were pointed at a giant fifty-inch television. CDs in a half-assed pile by the stereo. Dixie Chicks, Brooks & Dunn, more country stuff. A Def Leppard CD seeming slightly out of place.
The place looked like some kind of redneck fraternity house.
I searched four bedrooms and two bathrooms and a den before ending up in the kitchen. Nobody home, and I didn’t see anything that screamed proof of conspiracy.
This kitchen was bigger and better than the little thing they’d slapped together for Grandma, but there were dirty dishes in the sink and more empty beer cans on the counter. I opened the refrigerator and eyed one of the several cold Budweisers with lust. Bad idea. A beer might soothe my multiple aches and bruises, but it would probably knock me on my ass too. I searched for an energy drink without luck. A jar of dill pickles caught my eye. I opened it and took two. Crunchy. There was something in a Tupperware bowl that might have been meatloaf, but I decided not to risk it.
Not even cola, nothing with caffeine or sugar. Hell.
I closed the refrigerator and took a glass from the cabinet, filled it in the sink. While I gulped water I noticed something hanging on the wall, a chunk of wood carved in the shape of a k
ey. A row of small metal hooks lined the key for the purpose of hanging car and house keys. All the hooks were empty except for one. I took the key down and had to smile at the key chain.
The words Harley Davidson against an American flag.
I left through the kitchen door and found the Jordans’ detached garage. I was worried it might be padlocked, but it wasn’t and I threw the doors wide. I didn’t bother looking for a light switch. The Harley was close enough to the front of the garage to see the chrome gleam in the moonlight. I put up the kickstand and walked it out. Heavy and solid.
The bike looked exactly the same as it did that day Jason pounded Mark Foster at the Tastee-Freeze. I straddled it, a dopey grin spreading across my bruised face. I felt like I could ride this thing to the moon. It felt big. I put the key in and turned. The Harley thundered to life beneath me. I heard Lucifer barking his ass off in the back yard. Screw you, dog.
I gassed it down the driveway and felt like I’d been strapped to a fat rocket. The wind in my hair. I felt like a legend, the big rumble between my legs like I was riding an earthquake. I opened it up wide, tear-assing back south on the Six. I made a promise to myself to get one of these babies.
Thanks, Jason.
I made it back to Coyote Crossing fast and reluctantly slowed the Harley coming down Main Street. I tried to imagine myself back in high school in a cool leather jacket and a pair of shades, all the girls checking out just how fucking cool I looked. I held that thought a second before the grin melted from my face. I wasn’t in high school anymore, and there were no girls looking at me.
Still, the wind felt mighty good.
The pickup truck that roared out of the alley from my right missed clipping the motorcycle’s back tire by two inches. I flinched, gassed it, hopped the Harley up onto the sidewalk as the pickup swerved back at me and pulled along side. I tried to look over and see who it was, but I suddenly had to dodge a mailbox and a newspaper machine. I wobbled on the bike, swerved back onto the street, ten feet in front of the truck. It came up behind me fast, and I cranked the accelerator and took off.
I glanced at the pickup in the mirror. A black Ford, fairly new. I tried to remember if any of the Jordan brothers had a truck like that, but I didn’t think so. I opened up the Harley for all she was worth and put some distance between me and the pickup. I was really flying now and got a little scared. All I had to do was hit a stray speck of dust at this speed, and I’d splatter myself all over the road.
I passed the Mona Lisa Motel and kept going. The speedometer said I was hauling ass at 110 mph. I glanced at the speedometer again to make sure, waited for a cartoon skull and crossbones to roll across.
I slowed a little, killed the lights. I came upon a stand of trees left of the road, a dozen or so scraggly scrub oaks. I pulled into the tall grass, parked behind the trunk of the biggest oak. Five seconds later the pickup flew by and did-n’t slow. I counted to twenty slowly then got back on the road after them.
A minute later the old drive-in theater came into view. There was a big orange bonfire and about a dozen people milling around. The black pickup pulled in, circled the crowd once slowly then hit the road again and kept going. I wondered how long they’d drive before they gave up and came back.
Then I remembered Wayne telling me about the vagrants and a fire hazard. I rode the bike in slowly to have a look. I got within fifty feet of the people and stopped, put the kickstand down and climbed off. The vagrants were all Mexican, and I even saw my smoking buddy from the firehouse. They all stood to face me, and a couple carried makeshift weapons. The closest was a burly guy with a full beard. He carried a three-foot length of pipe.
I wondered if pulling my revolver would help or make matters worse. I decided to leave it holstered. They were clearly waiting for me to do something. I was waiting for me to do something too, but hell if I knew what.
Then my smoking buddy stepped forward. He had a younger guy in tow, a teenager with a thin pretend moustache and a shaved head. My smoking buddy mumbled Spanish to the kid.
“He says we are out of town,” the kid said. “Like you wanted.”
I didn’t know if the drive-in was officially in town or not, but it was good enough for me. “I’m not here to make trouble. Just be careful with the fire.”
The kid translated to smoking buddy who nodded and talked Spanish at the rest of the crowd. The tension seemed to sigh out of them and they went back to the fire, the level of conversation rising again. Smoking buddy motioned for me and the kid to sit with him at one of the half-rotted picnic tables near the concession stand. I nodded and followed along, sat down.
“Tell him I won’t bother you people,” I said to the kid. “But others will come along sooner or later. You can’t stay around here too long.”
He translated, and my smoking buddy nodded, scratched his moustache. The talk coming back the other direction lasted a minute.
“We are far away from where we were supposed to be dropped off,” the kid said. “We could call someone to come get us. We have a number. Enrique has a cell phone, but it doesn’t work.”
I shook my head and sighed. “We’ve never had cell reception around here, and all the phones in town are dead.”
The kid translated, and the other guy frowned and talked again.
The kid said, “We worry. The men can walk. We have endured worse hardships.” He gestured toward the concession stand. “But there are women and children.”
Women and children. Perfect. I stood, dusted myself off and headed for the concession stand, my new pals following. I opened the door, pushed my way inside. A dozen women sat against the wall. More than half held babies or toddlers in their laps. As a group they looked bedraggled, probably dehydrated and hungry.
Hell. What could I do with these people? What could anybody do? They don’t teach you this kind of thing at the academy. They threw a lot of civil codes and procedures at me, all in one ear and out the other. But nobody had taught me a damn thing about saving lost souls. You can’t arrest starvation or desperation. What these people must’ve been through, well, I couldn’t imagine. And I felt sorry for them, but I also wanted them to go away.
The cramped snack stand stank of sweat and diapers. I moved near the window for a breath of air, wracked my brain what I could do for these people, knowing damn well not a thing.
I leaned on the windowsill, tried to remember what this place was like back when they were showing movies. I loved the smell of popcorn. A chilidog and a Coke. Must’ve been nice. Mom and Dad had told me they’d brought me when I was two or three, put me in the back seat with a blanket. There would usually be a double feature, something for the kids at first, and then I’d drift off and the second movie would be for the adults. I didn’t remember, but I bet it was fun.
I looked up just in time to see the headlights swing into the Drive-in entrance. It was a black pickup truck. Jason’s Harley was parked in plain sight, no way they’d miss it.
“Son of a—oh, come on,” I muttered.
“Some sort of problem, señor?” the kid asked.
“That pickup truck means trouble.”
“For us?” “For me,” I said. “Listen. Get out there and tell them I’m gone. Say some other police car came to pick me up, and I left the motorcycle here. Can you do that?”
“Si, señor.”
“Best get everyone out of here.” I motioned to the women and children. “Maybe they’ll come in for me or maybe not, but it could get ugly.” I let my hand rest on the revolver.
He nodded and translated. The kid and my smoking buddy herded the rest from the concession stand. I backed into the shadows, watched through the window. The truck parked three feet from the Harley Davidson. Damn.
One man got out of the driver’s side, another from the passenger side. Both held shotguns. Damn. Damn. Damn.
I pulled my revolver, watched and waited.
The guy who’d been in the driver’s seat looked only vaguely familiar, a broad-shouldered co
wboy with messy brown hair and a square jaw, maybe a couple years older than me. I recognized the passenger immediately.
Blake Harper was a rat-faced string-bean, with hunched shoulders and a bony chest. His greasy hair fell into his eyes and down past the collar of his plaid shirt. Patchy Elvis sideburns. He looked so thin and brittle and bony, I thought one good punch would knock him into a thousand pieces.
Blake had been Luke Jordan’s toady little kiss-ass sidekick in high school. Back then, he’d been too cowardly to try anything too ambitious himself, mostly he just stood in the background and laughed at Luke’s stupid jokes while Luke pounded some freshman or snapped girls’ bra straps. Upon returning home, I’d heard Blake had moved up the food chain half a notch, ripping off cars stranded on the Interstate and stealing mail from people’s boxes. All of it rumors and nothing ever proved. Finally, Blake tied a chain to an ATM machine, tied the other end to his pickup and tried to take off. A security camera caught the whole thing, and he ended up serving a couple years.
He got out of prison and returned to Coyote Crossing to resume toadying duties with the Jordans. Apparently, they had the whole roster of douche bags out after my ass.
A group of five Mexicans approached Blake and his pal, including the Mexican holding the length of pipe. Blake lifted his shotgun, and the Mexicans backed off. They traded words, but I couldn’t hear. The Mexicans finally moved off toward the bonfire, and I saw Blake and his buddy put their heads together to confer. They pointed, nodded, and Blake’s pal headed for the big Drive-in screen.
Blake came straight at me.
I backed up to the service counter, swung myself over, keeping my eyes on the window the whole time, Blake still coming with the shotgun in his hands, not in much of a hurry. I was aware of the doorway to the kitchen behind me, and I was banking there was a back way out.
I let the darkness of the kitchen swallow me as I eased back, stopping when my butt hit something solid, some kind of counter or stove maybe. I kept the door and window in view, still watching Blake’s steady progress. He drifted out of sight as he got close, and I braced myself for the front door to open, a tight grip on my revolver.
The Deputy Page 11
