by Brian Hodge
Dorinda's bed was made, which meant she hadn't been here last night. That meant she was okay and John felt grateful for that.
The living room was untouched and he realized Leon was keeping the room exactly the way his wife had left it. Leon had never lost hope that Darlene would come back someday. On the coffee table lay an open scrapbook filled with pictures from the old days. Pictures were dangerous. Their flat, shiny surfaces were like glaring ice that blinded a man to the darker water that ran beneath. The past was a dangerous thing. It looked safe but a man could drown in it.
The only place John hadn't looked yet was the basement. As he started down the squeaky steps he held on to the thought that maybe Leon was okay. That maybe he wouldn't have to be the one to tell Dorinda that her father was dead.
Because her father hadn't been too smart about picking his friends.
The basement was empty and John breathed a sigh of relief. He had been wrong. Then he saw the dark lump lying on the pool table. At first he didn't know what it was and when he did, he didn't believe it was real. As he moved closer, his flashlight catching the golden nails, he knew it was real.
It was Dorinda's hand holding Fast Eddie's leash. The dead boxer was arranged so that he was pointing at the refrigerator.
John walked across the room and opened the gleaming white door. The bulb inside popped on, but it was just a feeble glow. Something was blocking the light. John stared at the contents of the refrigerator for a moment before anything registered, and even then, his eyes refused to accept what he saw.
Leon had been stuffed inside.
All 327 pounds of him.
A distant part of John's mind marveled at how they had managed to make Leon fit into such a small space. They must have had to break a lot of bones was all he could think. Leon was holding a jar of pig's feet in his lap and Dorinda's other hand was inside it. Her fingers were grasping the edge of the jar as though she were trying to pull herself out.
John backed away, until the edge of the pool table jammed him in the spine.
The refrigerator door, still open, yawned wider, gathered speed, slapped into the wall with a clatter. Absolute silence. The compressor kicked on. Cool air met warm and Leon was wrapped in a shroud of thin, white mist. Leon sat in the too small space, his limbs broken and twisted into impossible angles, and John saw there were trails of ice beneath the large black man's eyes.
He had been crying.
"I just wanted to get Amy something for college," John explained to his dead friend in a faintly pleading voice. "A little present. You know how girls like presents." His words faltered. Crushed beneath the weight of his guilt.
John stared at the ashy gray face. The warmth of the room was melting the ice tracks beneath Leon's eyes. A tear, frozen in place, resumed its trek and trickled down, splashed into the jar of pig's feet. The dead man had become a mourner at his own funeral.
John touched Leon's cheek, wiped away the wetness with his fingers. Rubbed it on his own face. Felt its coldness. "Those two hustlers acted like they had plenty of money. I didn't think they'd miss a cue stick. I didn't know they were crazy enough to kill." John reached out, fastened one of Leon's pajama buttons before he realized the futility of what he had done. "I didn't know…"
The corner of something white protruded from Leon's mouth.
John realized it was a note. He pulled the piece of paper out, saw it was written in blood.
The note simply said: BRING IT TO CROWDER FLATS.
Chapter 7
Crowder Flats, Arizona, between the Fort Apache and Navajo reservations. The Broken R Ranch.
October 26th.
Bobby Roberts was launched into the air.
Launched, there was no other way to describe it. He swapped ends a couple of times while he was up in the air, his arms and legs wind milling wildly. His hat flew off. Drifted away like some ungainly bird. He kept rising, and then he hung in the air for a moment, suspended. Then he came down. On the wrong end.
Hard.
Martin Strickland, foreman of the Broken R Ranch, leaned against Bobby's old white Caddy and watched the action in the corral with a big grin on his face. Dust geysered upward, followed by laughter.
Bobby scrambled for the fence.
Today was Saturday and the men were mostly just fooling around, watching Bobby try to ride a huge yellow Brahma bull by the name of Desert Storm. Besides raising cattle, the Broken R supplied bucking stock to a lot of rodeos, and Desert Storm was Mr. Roberts's pride and joy. That bull had never been ridden. Today didn't look to be any different.
A couple of the hands herded the bull back into the chute. Bobby climbed on board once again.
The gate came open.
Desert Storm exploded.
And once again, Bobby went flying into the air, coming down on his back with a heavy thud. This time he was slow in getting up and barely reached the fence ahead of Desert Storm. A few good-natured catcalls greeted his sheepish grin. He was covered with dust. "Almost had him that time… I think he's afraid of me."
The bull butted the fence and charged around the corral.
"Yeah, he looks like he's about ready to beg for mercy," Martin said as Bobby limped over. "You'd better save something for the rodeo Sunday."
Bobby's pal, Kevin Paine, an amiable twenty-one-year-old who had just started at the ranch, joined them. "You'd better save something for tonight, Bobby," Kevin said, "there might be some ladies at Jake's looking for a ride, too." He nudged Bobby with an elbow. "Course, I heard they're looking for someone who can stay on more than eight seconds…."
Boyce Gates and Nash Tippins, two older hands, laughed a little uneasily. Bobby had a bad temper. You could never tell when a remark might set him off. Kevin didn't weigh more than 140 pounds with his glasses, saddle, and hat thrown in. Boyce and Nash hoped they could avoid having to break up a fight. They were already in their Saturday-night best, clean shirts and jeans.
Nash jumped in, diverting Bobby's attention from Kevin. "Shit, last time Bobby made out in that Caddy"—Nash took off his hat just in case Bobby took a swing—"his ass hit the horn, he thought it was the buzzer and bailed off."
Bobby sure looked like he wanted to take offense at the remarks, but at the moment, he was too out of breath to do more than glare.
Reaching down and picking up Bobby's hat, Nash handed it to him. He slapped Bobby on the back, causing dust to fly. "Come on, we don't want to keep the ladies waiting."
Bobby finally smiled and looked over at the foreman. "You coming with us, Mr. Strickland?"
The tall foreman shook his head no. "You boys go on. I got a little paperwork to take care of before Chester gets back. Besides, someone needs to stay here and look after things." He smiled. "It's about time for Amos Black Eagle to come calling."
"What's the matter with that old Navajo?" Kevin asked. "He do too much peyote like everyone says?"
"No," Martin answered, "he just likes to get drunk and chase off a few horses every once in a while. He ain't never done any real harm."
"I'd have his crazy red ass put in jail if I had my way," Bobby said.
"Well you ain't got your way. You boys cut Amos some slack." Martin laughed. "Me and that old man go back a long ways. He taught me how to ride, how to shoot a decent game of pool. And a few other things, too. A lot of folks don't know this, but that crazy old Indian taught John Warrick everything he knows about the game."
That got their attention.
"Some say Amos's son, Thomas, was better than John," Bobby said.
"Don't nobody know that for sure. They never played. Thomas used to…," Martin caught himself and shook his head. Sometimes he forgot Thomas Black Eagle was dead. It always took him by surprise when he remembered. "Let's just say it would have been a hell of a game." Martin glanced at his watch. "You boys better shake a leg or you're going to be several beers behind."
Bobby saw that the conversation was getting under the foreman's skin and he decided to change the subject. "If yo
u change your mind, Mr. Strickland, you know where we'll be."
"Yeah, I know." A look of distaste crossed Martin's face. "Jake Rainwater's bar."
They waited for the inevitable lecture.
"You watch your asses over there," Martin warned. "A lot of bad shit happens at Jake's."
Bobby and Kevin nodded. The only bad things that had ever happened to them at Jake's were hangovers and broken hearts. Nobody had ever died from either. Bobby walked over to the Caddy and started it up, causing a stream of blue smoke to pour from the tailpipe.
Boyce and Nash began edging away when the noxious cloud moved toward them.
Kevin watched the two hands take off their hats to fan away the smoke from the car. Somebody yelled out a strangled moo, and Bobby's face went scarlet with anger as he turned to see who had made the offending sound. "Who did that? I'm gonna kick his ass when I find out, I swear to God, I'm gonna kick his ass. You see if I don't."
Boyce and Nash gave Bobby their most innocent look. "Jesus, Bobby looks like he's about to pop a vein. What's the matter with him, Mr. Strickland?" Kevin asked.
"I guess he don't like to be kidded about his car," Martin said. There was something in the foreman's eyes. It might have been a twinkle.
"Everyone knows what the exhaust from that old Caddy can do," Kevin said. "Boyce told me it caused Mr. Roberts' best long horn bull to pass clean out. I guess something like that could make a man a little sensitive."
"Boyce tell you that? He use the words passed out?"
"Yeah," Kevin said, warily. "He said Bobby was bringing a bull back from Holbrook last summer, towing him in an open trailer behind the Caddy. And when he got here, the bull was passed out."
Martin was trying to suppress something that looked a lot like laughter. "That bull wasn't passed out, son. He was passed away. There was a big ruckus, finger pointing, even talk about lawsuits."
"What killed him?"
Martin leaned in close, like he didn't want anyone else to hear what he was about to say. "The county vet was called in to see what killed old Sparky. That was the bull's name, Sparky. Damned good bull, that old Sparky."
"Can we hold up on the memorial to Sparky?" Kevin cut in. "What happened?"
"Well, the vet said that old Sparky had been asphyxiated. By fumes."
"From the Caddy?" Kevin supplied. "He was killed by fumes from the Caddy?"
Martin nodded. "Old Sparky had enough ten W thirty in his lungs to change the oil in a Toyota."
"Are those Sparky's horns on the front of the Caddy?"
"Yep, Chester put 'em on there. He told Bobby if he ever took 'em off, he'd cut his ass off without a cent."
"Man, that's hard." Kevin turned to look at the car and had to turn back immediately so Bobby wouldn't see the smile. Kevin wasn't fast enough.
Bobby saw and his face went bright red for the second time.
He revved the engine, causing everyone to move back a few more feet. "You shitheads can walk to Jake's for all I care. It was an accident; I didn't mean to kill old Sparky. It could have happened to anybody."
There was another moo, followed by some coughing.
"All right, that tears it," Bobby said, climbing from the car. "At least old Sparky got laid before he died, which is more than any of you will be able to say."
While Nash and Boyce were trying to keep the car between them and Bobby, something occurred to Kevin. His expression went serious as his voice dropped to a whisper. "Mr. Strickland, what do you want me to do about the dogs?"
Martin stared at the boy, saying nothing, his smile gone now as though it had never been.
"Bobby said to turn them loose," Kevin said, reluctantly. "He told us he's supposed to be in charge while his dad's gone." Kevin hesitated, torn between his friendship for Bobby and fear of the foreman. He decided to plunge ahead. "Bobby said not to say nothing to you."
"He did, huh? Well, I don't give a good goddamn what that little shit said," Martin answered, anger contorting his normally calm face. "Nobody's going to turn those Ridgebacks loose on that old man. They'd tear him to pieces." Martin removed his hat and wiped the sweat from the band while he fought for control. "There's already been some dead stock up in the north pasture, ripped up real bad. I know those dogs did it."
The younger man digested this for a moment. "You going to do anything about it?"
"I can't prove anything." Martin replaced the hat. "But if I could, those dogs would be off this place—Bobby or no Bobby. You know what those dogs were bred for, don't you?"
Kevin shook his head no.
"They were bred to chase down runaway slaves. Those dogs can even climb trees, did you know that?" Martin jerked his head, dismissing Kevin. "Go on now. I'll handle Bobby and the dogs." With that he started back to the bunkhouse.
Over by the car, Bobby had given up chasing the two hired hands and was back in the car.
Boyce and Nash walked over to see what was going on.
"Martin looked kind of serious," Nash said. "What's going on?"
"Man, I wouldn't want to be in Bobby's shoes tonight," Kevin said. "Mr. Strickland looked mad enough to bite a nail in two."
"Yeah, I never seen him this upset in a long time," Boyce chipped in. "You'd think Doralee was back in town."
That brought a few nervous nods.
"Ain't nobody can get to him faster than Doralee," Nash said. "You remember that four-day drunk he went on last year? Nobody knew where he was."
More nods.
Bobby, over in the Caddy, was still beating the dust out of his clothes. It was getting down to a thin cloud now.
Nash stared at the departing back of the foreman. "That was when Doralee ran off with that car salesman from Dallas. She took Nicky up there to live with her. That was when the shit hit the fan."
"Yeah, it did," Boyce said, remembering. "Me and Mr. Roberts finally found Martin holed up at Jake Rainwater's, crazy drunk. I didn't think nobody but Mr. Roberts could talk to him. Martin hit me when I tried." Boyce smiled, showing where two teeth were missing. "He don't even know he did it. I told him a horse kicked me."
"Well," Kevin said, putting an end to the talk, "it looks like he wants to be by himself. So I say we let him. I say let's get over to Jake's and spend some of this money that's burning a hole in my jeans."
"That sounds like the best idea I heard all day," Nash seconded. "The wind's shifted. I think we can make it over to the car."
The three ranch hands, eager to be on their way, piled into the Caddy convertible, all scrambling for the front seat. Kevin made it first.
Nash and Boyce had to settle for the back.
Kevin looked at them and grinned his usual shit-eating grin. "You boys are getting slow. I guess that comes with age."
Boyce grinned back and knocked Kevin's hat off. "You pups need to learn to respect your elders."
Bobby yanked the gearshift down into drive, punched the gas pedal, and spun a rooster tail of gravel all the way to the highway. They were in a good mood, ready to blow off a little steam.
"I still think Mr. Strickland ought to come with us," Kevin said. "He spends way too much time around here. You'd think he didn't like us none, the way he acts sometimes."
Nash Tippins leaned forward and said in his slow drawl, "Ain't that at all. He likes us just fine. I wasn't going to say nothing about what I found out this morning, but you boys ain't going to let it go." Nash paused to consider his words. And to roll himself a smoke.
The rest of the group squirmed impatiently in their seats, waiting for him to speak. There was no way to rush the easygoing ranch hand. Finally, when Nash had his cigarette rolled and lit, he resumed his story. "It's his boy, Nicky, that's got Martin all worked up. He ain't doing no paperwork tonight. He's waiting for Doralee to call and he don't want nobody to know about it."
"How come you know so much about what he's doing?" Kevin asked suspiciously. "You been kissing up, bucking for a cushy job?"
"No, nothing like that at all," Nash said. "I
was building a fire in the stove this morning. That's when I found this scrap of paper that wasn't burned up all the way. It had Nicky's name on it."
"What did the note say?" Kevin demanded.
"Well, most of the paper was burned," Nash answered, "but I could make out a little piece of it. I think Nicky's run away from home again."
Boyce Gates adjusted his hat in the rearview mirror. "Jesus, how old is Nicky now, thirteen, fourteen?"
"Yeah, something like that," Bobby said. "Anybody know where the kid went?"
"The letter said Nicky might be on his way here," Nash replied. He elbowed Boyce out of the way and adjusted his own hat. "I guess that's why Martin's staying, in case Nicky shows up."
"Sounds like a lot of trouble to me. That's why I ain't never having any kids," Boyce pronounced solemnly, finally satisfied that his hat was cocked at the precise angle that would guarantee maximum female interest over at Jake's.
"I think we can rest pretty easy about there not being any little Boyces," Nash said.
"And why's that?" Boyce wanted to know.
"You gotta get a woman to have sex with you first."
Boyce let the remark and the accompanying hoots pass before turning his attention to Kevin. "Say, I heard you talking to Strickland about some dead stock over in the north pasture. What was that all about?"
"Mr. Strickland says the Ridgebacks killed a couple of cows up there."
"He gonna do anything about it?" Boyce asked.
Kevin shrugged, nervously watching Bobby out of the corner of his eye. "I don't know. He didn't say."
"You let the dogs loose like I told you?" Bobby casually asked.
Kevin said nothing, just stared straight ahead.
Bobby laughed at Kevin's silence. "Don't worry about it. I knew you didn't have the guts to do the job so I took care of it myself." He cracked the knuckles of his right hand slowly, thoughtfully. "One of these days I'm going to have to show old Martin who's boss."
