Guests were only beginning to arrive, and Sally went straight to the stage to get ready for the sound check.
Hawk went to the bar, requested a Budweiser, and sauntered over to talk to Dickie, who was pounding sushi and washing it down with Coca-Cola. The sheriff looked the part in a dark brown western-cut suit and brand-new Stetson hat.
“Glad to see you got the night off, Dick,” Hawk greeted him. “Are you sure the criminals will be able to get along without you?”
“If there’s one thing I know,” Dickie replied, “it’s criminals. And if you consider the fact that this party is being given by a banker and a Realtor, you’re led to the obvious conclusion that the most corrupt assholes in Laramie will be here tonight. Perfect place for a peace officer, wouldn’t you say?” he asked, cramming another piece of rainbow roll into his mouth. Casually, he glanced at Sam Branch, who was tuning his guitar and surreptitiously eying Sally’s butt as she bent over to adjust the volume on the vocal monitors. “Good thing most of them are mostly reformed.”
“Present company included,” Hawk observed.
“That’s so,” Dickie agreed genially.
By nine, the band, decked out in tuxedos with the exception, of course, of Sally, was ready to start. The ballroom was filling up with people who were, Dickie noted, “dressed to impress.” Quite a few of them had been around when the original Branchwater had plied its raunchy blend of country, rock, and soul. For years on end, they’d paid money to buy watered drinks and listen to Sam and Dwayne play, and they had been glad to hear that Mustang Sally was back in the saddle. When the Millionaires opened up with “Wild Night,” the dance floor filled immediately.
Sally hadn’t had a real gig in years, and she was fully in hillbilly heaven. She’d missed the sweet harmonies, the driving rhythms, the soaring solos. And she’d missed the crowds dancing and stomping and yelling for more. When she was onstage, she forgot about all the angling and wriggling that went on in a bar or at a party. She didn’t have to worry who was checking who out, who had some kind of agenda or grudge, who was falling in or out of love, who was thinking about picking a fight with whom. On stage, she was Emmylou and Linda and Bonnie and Patsy and Loretta and Tammy and Etta and Aretha. She was above it all.
As a longtime bar owner, Delice watched the crowd with keener eyes. There could, of course, be fights, but there was always plenty of subtler and probably more dangerous stuff going on. On occasions like this, Delice considered herself a twentieth-century Miss Kitty, and dressed the part in tight-fitting crimson lace and dangling antique gold earrings. She danced a couple of fast dances with Hawk, then went to get herself a whiskey and sat at a table, taking in the action. She made a quick scan of Langhams. Dickie and Mary were going nuts to Sally’s best Queen of Soul version of “Chain of Fools.” Like Dickie, Mary had put on a few pounds over the years, and like many women her age, she covered up the extra with flowing draperies, in this case, chiffon cascades in a blushing shade of peach. She looked like a big happy dessert.
Josh and Jerry Jeff, in sport coats and bolo ties, were assaulting the buffet table; imagine them going for raw fish like that! Delice made a mental note for the Yippie I O menu. Nattie was standing against a wall in her Cruella DeVille outfit—black and white and some kind of feathers. Scowling. Delice could tell that she was bored with Dwayne again and was probably getting ready to try to have another affair. Maybe this time they’d actually get rid of her.
Brittany looked fabulous. Her dress was silver, short, and bare, perfect with her white-blond hair and creamy skin, looking deceptively fragile. Delice figured some fool would fall for it, and Brit would, as usual, break his fucking heart. The probable victim appeared to have signed on for the night. Brit was sitting at a table in the corner, talking to somebody Delice didn’t know, a big, buff guy in a tux. Or rather, the guy was talking, and Brit appeared to be bored but listening. He had big blue eyes and a winning smile, which he was really turning on at just that moment in a way that made Delice nervous. She might just have to get herself a refill and see how old Brit was doing.
For Bobby Helwigsen this was a huge chance to observe and interact with a number of Laramie people, some of whom he might shortly be suing. Sam Branch had graciously extended an invitation to his bash, and Bobby had eagerly accepted on the grounds that he wanted at least to have a look at the horrible Sally Alder, symbol of Feminazism, usurper of the Dunwoodie millions. He also wanted to check out Sheriff Dickie Langham, who was evidently continuing to question people regarding the whereabouts of Shane Parker. Bobby had gotten out his old Harvard debutante ball tuxedo (still fit!), rented a room at the Holiday Inn so he wouldn’t have to drive, and climbed into a Johnnie Walker. He could get up in the morning and enjoy his hangover with a bad cup of coffee and the Sunday morning Boomerang, in which he would find a story about the threat of a faculty group lawsuit against the University’s acceptance of the Dunwoodie money.
Bobby liked to think of himself as a completely rational, greedy man, but even he had his failings. And one of them had walked right past him ten minutes ago, on her way to the bar. He liked them young, blond, pale, skinny, and sulky, and she fit the bill. As an active member of the Harvard Alumni Club of Wyoming, he was at least aware of every straight-A student who had managed to get out of the state in the last ten years, and—Praise the Lord—he’d never laid eyes on her transcript.
Advantage: Helwigsen.
She ordered pink wine.
Game and set. His serve.
Bobby approached the bar, gulped the last of his first Johnnie, and received a refill. He managed to brush against Brit, and she gave him half a glance. He wasn’t somebody she knew. She’d already sidestepped passes from three geezers her father’s age who had known her before she was toilet-trained, and had been studiously avoiding a guy she’d slept with once, in an uncharacteristic fit of stupidity, two years before. The guy in the tux was big, extremely good-looking, and smiling at her in a friendly way. Tux-man looked like the kind who might stand around for hours talking about himself, but at least it would be someone she could pretend to be interested in while Mr. Fit-of-Stupidity tried to catch her eye. She smiled back.
Bobby introduced himself to her and steered her to a table. She identified herself as just “Brit,” no last name. He didn’t care if her last name was Manson with legs like that. She was supposed to be impressed that he was an oil and gas lawyer from Casper, and a friend of Sam’s, but Brit did not appear visibly overwhelmed. He tried a different gambit, one he’d used to excellent effect on a couple of occasions. He asked her about herself.
There was something about his voice, his posture, the shape of his body, that told Brit she had seen him somewhere before, but she couldn’t remember where. Until she figured it out, she wasn’t volunteering much information. She drank a little wine, told him she’d graduated from the University last May and was working part-time at present. He asked if she was from Laramie, and she said, “Yeah.” She wasn’t working at being a conversationalist, but that didn’t seem to bother him in the least. He went back to talking about himself a while until the band played “San Antonio Rose,” and he asked her to dance.
This guy Bobby had some moves, Brit had to give him that. But he’d acted like she ought to think it was so great that he knew both Dwayne and Sam, through business and politics . Big whoop. Brit had cast her first vote for the presidency for Ralph Nader. She hated even Dwayne’s milky middly Republicanism, but put up with him because he was her uncle and a nice guy. Sam Branch was another story, not just because she despised his pandering to right-wing assholes and split-leveling every pretty place he got his hands on, but most importantly, because it was common knowledge that he’d been boinking her Aunt Nattie, not to mention half the women of Laramie, for years. Sam had goggled a big leer at Brit when she walked in tonight. Really, the man was in a class by himself.
It was unfortunate, she thought as Bobby spun her in an intricate, graceful western swing pattern, that a guy
who could look and dance that good was probably a fan of Pat Buchanan. Oh well, she didn’t have to do anything but dance with him tonight, and that was turning out to be not all that bad. They stayed on the dance floor until the band took a break, then went to the bar.
Delice caught up with them there, introduced herself to Bobby. Now he understood that Brit was Dwayne’s niece, and more importantly, Sheriff Dickie’s daughter. Bobby failed to notice that Delice had seen the way his eyes shifted ever so slightly when he heard Dickie’s name mentioned.
Delice suddenly realized who this Bobby looked like. The fact that it was Oliver North only made her more suspicious.
Soon Brit and Bobby were sitting at a table, joined by Dickie and Mary, Dwayne, and Dwayne’s wife, Nattie, who was looking at Bobby as if he were a perfectly cooked steak. The conversation was all about the party— how great the music was, how inspired cousin Burt’s catering. Bobby was putting considerable effort into not letting Nattie make eye contact.
Her dad, Brit noted, had gone into his sheriff routine. He was teetotaling, as always, but was acting even more laid back than usual, and not all that obviously bright. He did this when he wanted people to think he was a hick cop who didn’t see much action beyond drunk driving and lost dogs. Was that for Bobby’s benefit? Dickie was so overprotective when it came to guys who were hitting on her.
And obviously, Bobby was interested. He was cruising on several ounces of decent scotch, doubtless contemplating whether it might be worth trying to get Brit to go to bed with him. She had barely spoken to him. She made a habit of not bothering to talk to men who were trying to get into her undergarments. But she was dancing with him, so why wouldn’t he think she’d be up for a little horizontal boogie?
Maybe she would. Sometime. But she was not going to rush into anything that might make her wake up in the morning, having designated somebody Mr. Fit-of-Stupidity, Jr.
When Sally Alder came over to the Langham table to say howdy, Bobby Helwigsen got his first close-up look at the woman he was being paid to get rid of.
Sally was flushed and high on performance adrenalin, working on a Jim Beam and hanging onto a man who looked, to the uninitiated, like nothing more than a skinny hippie in a black suit. If this was the formidable holder of the Dunwoodie Endowed Chair in Women’s History, thought Bobby, he was John Wayne. What the hell was a flesh-eating vampire feminist doing in a skin-tight fondleme dress, belting out “Feelin’ Single, Seein’ Double”? She laughed her head off at something the sheriff said, rubbed against the hippie, laughed some more at a rude remark by Delice. Bobby sized Sally up in a phrase: more tits than backbone.
If she didn’t fold at the first threat of legal unpleasantness, he bet he could get her out of town quick with a cheap payoff. If Elroy wanted to keep paying him to take Shane’s challenge to the old lady’s will, he didn’t mind billing a few thousand more hours. He only wished he could dispose of Danny Crease and Dirtbag Robideaux as easily as he’d get rid of Sally Alder.
Delice and Dickie had both watched the Casper lawyer dancing with Brit, and wondered now why he was so evidently interested in Sally. They exchanged a look, then cut their eyes at Hawk. His posture was relaxed, a pleasant smile on his face, and behind his glasses, his own eyes were genially blank. Whatever this Bobby Helwigsen was up to, Delice mused, not much of it was getting past Hawk.
“Break’s over!” crowed Sam Branch, swaggering over to the table, waving an arm at Dwayne, grabbing Sally by the hand, and pulling her away from Hawk. “Glad to see you met my friend Bobby, Sal. You guys have a lot in common.” Everyone wondered why he said that, but he let it lie there. “But that’s enough fun for now. Time for all good little chick singers to get back to work.”
Hawk blinked, once.
“If I were a good little chick singer, Sam,” Sally smiled, removing her hand from his, “I probably wouldn’t succumb to the urge to tell you that your fly is open. And since I’m in a rare mood, I’ll give it a pass this time.” She turned to Hawk, gave him a strong kiss. “Don’t mind Sam, honey,” she told him. “He’s been this way ever since the lobotomy.”
Late into the evening, Hawk and Dickie stood by the ravaged buffet, sampling petit-fours, listening to Sally singing the line, “You’re no good” about a thousand times.
“Great lyrics,” said Dickie.
“Unpredictable,” assented Hawk.
“So who’s that asshole dancing with my daughter?” Dickie asked him, warily eying the by-now very sweaty Bobby, who had taken off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, and loosened his tie. Brit still managed to look cool, but she’d been dancing with Bobby all night. “You know anything about him?”
“Never laid eyes on him before tonight. I guess he’s some big Casper lawyer Republican pal of Branch’s, which is about all I need to know,” Hawk observed, deciding against a second petit-four and starting on his last Budweiser.
“Looks just like Ollie North,” Dickie noted. Hawk nodded.
“I find it rather interesting,” Dickie said, daintily picking out a small chocolate eclair and swallowing it whole, “that even as it’s apparent that he’s hitting on my little Brittany, he’s quite obviously watching your girlfriend’s every move.”
“My girlfriend?” asked Hawk, very intent on peeling the label off his beer bottle.
“Give it up, Hawk,” said Dickie, sending a small cream puff after the eclair. “For all your ‘lonesome fugitive’ routine, you’ve been hanging with Sally pretty steady these past few months.”
Hawk crumpled up the shreds of wet beer bottle label. “I’m enjoying her company,” he said.
Dickie wiped his mouth with a cocktail napkin that had millionaires’ ball embossed on it in gold letters. “Gee,” he told Hawk, “that sounds like a major declaration of love coming from you.” Hawk said nothing, so Dickie shifted the subject. “What was that crap Sam was slinging about this Bobby and Sally having a lot in common?”
“I’ve got no idea,” said Hawk. “Sally told me she asked Sam about it, but he said it was just a joke. Weird joke.”
“I confess I’ve never appreciated Sam’s sense of humor,” Dickie agreed.
Hawk raised an eyebrow, shifted his gaze to the bandstand. Sam had moved over from his own mike to sing harmony into Sally’s, their heads close together. “The scum-sucker has been leching after her all night.” He sneered a little. Sam had been giving Sally the intense gaze every time they sang harmony on a love song, touching her a lot more than absolutely necessary. “I may have to shoot him yet.”
“Which scum-sucker?” asked Dickie, watching Bobby dancing closer to Brit than he found comfortable. “The lawyer or the Realtor?”
“All of ’em,” said Hawk. “I may have to rid the world of them. Or at least the county.”
“As an officer of the law, I didn’t hear that,” Dickie remarked.
“In self-defense, of course,” Hawk amended.
“Still deaf as a post,” Dickie said.
“And as a law-abiding civilian,” Hawk returned, “I will avow my ignorance in the event that any particular scumsucker comes to a bad end not of my own making, due to his evil and ignorant attempt to take advantage of beautiful daughters of local officials.”
Dickie pursed his lips, thought. “But in the event that local officials find themselves in a position to have use for information regarding any or all scum-suckers, I do hope you’ll keep us in mind.”
“I do my duty,” said Hawk, grinning widely and clapping as Sally finished off the song and avoided a hug from Sam. “And should any information come to light regarding the reasons for the Casper lawyer’s untoward interest in the person you’ve referred to as my girlfriend, I would appreciate your assistance.”
Bobby had his hand in the middle of Brit’s back now, moving in circles, slowly south. Dickie looked at them, then looked at Hawk. The sheriff’s eyes had gone cold. “This ain’t Casper,” he said. “And in my town, I always render assistance.”
Chapter 22
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br /> Take It or Leave It
Late Sunday morning, the snow was falling thick and piling up. Sally woke up alone. Hawk had made a date with Tom Youngblood to go cross-country skiing, and they’d agreed to leave at eight o’clock. She vaguely remembered being kissed goodbye, but he’d gone quickly and quietly, as was his custom. They’d made an agreement: They were to come and go in each other’s lives, as they pleased. Sometimes it made her feel panicky in a way she found embarrassing.
Her head felt snowed in. They’d played until one in the morning. She wasn’t used to staying up that late any more, much less sitting around until two drinking nightcaps and doing post mortems on the gig. But then again, back when she’d done this sort of thing on a regular basis nobody had set her phone ringing before noon, let alone at—she looked at the alarm clock—8:55 a.m.
“Sally,” breathed Edna McCaffrey.
“Edna,” Sally managed to breathe back.
“Have you seen the Boomerang?”
“Rumor-bang?” mumbled Sally through the echo of a last Jim Beam.
“Wake up!” Edna ordered. “Get out of bed, get a cup of coffee, and get the damn paper. We’re being sued.”
“Sued?” asked Sally, beginning to notice the daggers stabbing into her skull, and not liking that old-time feeling. “Why?”
“Some of our concerned colleagues evidently think we’re a threat to academic freedom,” Edna snarled. “Do you want me to read you the story?”
“No. No. I’m waking up now,” Sally said, stumbling out of bed, swaying a little as her head swam. “Give me half an hour, Ed. I’m going to take a shower, make some coffee. I’ll read the paper and call you back.”
Brown-Eyed Girl Page 20
