For all of his exuberance, his hands were painted with the grease of a mechanic. Underneath the winter coat I could see his jumpsuit. The red Z of his first name peeked out at me.
“And you are?” I asked.
“Oh. Sorry. Zach. Zach Polson.” His eyes widened a little, if that was possible. “Hey! You’re the boy.”
The title made me smile. “I’m Connor Pierce. Dixon’s son.”
“Yeah, yeah. Cool. I’m a total fan.”
“Excuse me?”
“Oh, I mean Dixon was the coolest. Just the balls to come up with this idea and people around here being so square just blows my mind.”
“He was a little ahead of his time.”
“Say man.” He ducked his blonde head and tipped it a bit. “Maybe you could tell me more about how he got this place started?” He glanced toward the office.
“I really need—.”
“I mean, Renée don’t say jack. And Dixon. Well he was into telling a story now and then. Maybe you could clear the clouds? Like, I guess he started this out of a junkyard. For real?”
I scrunched my brow meaning to stop the blonde surfer from trying to climb onto a big wave. His curious blue eyes and enthusiasm changed my mind. Some part of me wanted to tell this story. A memorial to Dixon.
“Yeah. That’s true,” I said.
“Cool!” His shoulders straightened and he rocked his head back and forth like he was grooving to an internal rhythm.
“He chose this spot for his auto-salvage yard in 1966.” The boy’s surfer rhythm invited more. “Dixon’s uncle had fronted him the money for a tow truck in high school. Dixon always liked cars more than cows.” I chuckled. “He’d take a hundred mile tow job to avoid working cattle.”
Zach’s mouth stayed open and his eyes lightened. He appeared as translucent as the sign board over us.
“Dixon always said that free enterprise defined America.” I turned to stare at the long lines of Hondas and Toyotas. “One summer weekend in ’72, always looking for an extra dollar, he flew to California and procured a bright red Datsun 240Z.” I visualized the Riddell kid the car was meant for cruising Main with a cheerleader waving from the passenger window. “Monte Carlo Red, he called it. Hundred-fifty horsepower straight six. Local rancher wanted to surprise his son for high school graduation.” I puffed a light cloud from my nose and nodded my head in deference to my father’s crazy pluck. “The return trip sold my dad on Japanese cars.”
“Damn.” Zach’s rocking had intensified.
“My mother still maintains that it was the most rebellious act since 1876.”
“Ha!” Zach spouted. “1876. When Miles City got started. Some guy with a girl’s name sold whiskey to the soldiers at Fort Keogh! Pissed General Miles off by moving his whiskey bar to within walking distance.”
I raised my eyebrows. Maybe this kid wasn’t so shallow after all. “So what’s your story, Zach? This salesman gig. What’s that about?”
He stopped moving, his eyes stuck wide open for a few beats. “Oh. Hey man, that was your dad.” He touched his name tag. “I mean I’m just a mechanic dude. But I like selling you know.”
“I guessed.”
He started rocking his head again. “So Dixon finds out. We’re talking. I say selling cars must be pretty easy. He says, sure kid. Meanwhile, this guy’s strolling the lot. Dixon likes to let them whet their appetite before pitching a meal. Then, right out of the horizon line, like a wicked wave, he says, hey kid, why don’t you give it a shot?” Zach froze, arms out and knees bent like he was standing on a surfboard.
“Amazing,” I said.
“I’m like, in my work clothes, and he says, give it a shot.” Zach shook his head. “I didn’t even think. I just went off like gun smoke and started talking to the guy.”
“What happened?”
“Sold him. Unbelievable man.” Zach’s breath ceased. Little wisps of vapor floated away.
Stuck in this state of immobility, I began wondering if he’d just topple over. And if I’d just give him a curious look and continue inside to say hi to my sister.
CHAPTER THREE
Detective Connor
Zach took a deep breath. The cold must have hurt his lungs because he coughed. “Dang dude. That was a major rush.”
“Selling your first car.” I remembered the feeling. “Didn’t make the same impression on me. I’d rather get my hands greasy.”
“I dig. Anyway, being shorthanded, Renée asked if I’d keep an eye on the lot. Since Dixon…”
I let him avoid the word.
“Vicky always takes Thursdays off.”
“Vicky?”
“’The other sales person. Me and Vicky.” He grinned, that gleam of superiority returning.
I encouraged his dream with a poke of my chin. “I best get inside, Zach. Haven’t spoken to my sister since the plane landed.”
He made an O with his lips. “Oh yeah, dude. I mean, sir. Yeah. I don’t mean to keep you.”
“Thanks, Zach.” I put my hand out.
His eyes reignited.
“For reminding me of my dad’s,” I searched for the best phrase. “Adventurous nature.”
“No problem. Glad to have you back.” He gave me a lightening quick squeeze of palm, turned, and jogged back toward the mechanic’s bay.
Such a confounding memory of Dixon forced a dry chuckle from my throat. The puff of white vapor dissipated in seconds. I slapped the quarter panel of the New Yorker and the sting of cold metal hastened me across the lot.
Inside the showroom door, an envelope of warmth and new car smell wrapped around me.
I slowed to capture the reassuring moment. Skirting a white Toyota Corolla not much different from the one Nansi drove on the Rock, I pointed myself to the sales office. The trek threaded me around two other Toyotas and a couple of Hondas inviting buyers inside for a comfortable, foreign ride across the American West.
My hands traced their lines, stirring memories of those first days on Okinawa, wandering the small dealerships with Nansi. Losing the nostalgia of working in my father’s car dealership, I hurried, wanting this first meeting with Renée to be short and unsentimental.
My sister sat behind our father’s desk, peering at the computer screen. She bent to scratch figures on a sheet of paper. Seeing her like that made the room appear unsteady, upside down backwards.
Stacks of files no longer decorated every flat surface in the room. Trashcans contained only a few scraps of paper. The windows were clear and the stale scent of old cigarettes had been replaced with potpourri.
I took a slow, deep breath. “A novel freshness.”
Renée glanced up. Her mouth went wide and she screamed, “Connor!” Jumping from her chair and knocking it backward, she ran pell-mell across the room and threw her arms out.
My heartbeat jumped ten beats a minute. My travel bags thumped to the floor.
She bear-hugged me with stick-thin arms, her joyful hum tickling my ear.
I suddenly felt foolish for assuming she’d be angry. “You act like you didn’t expect me,” I squeezed out.
“I’m so sorry.” She stepped back to survey me. “I got buried in finances. Lost track of time.” Her hard blue eyes held a sharper edge. Her blonde hair seemed thinner too, like string. The droop of the green and red sweater on her shoulders startled me.
“Well, a greeting like that is worth waiting for.” I smiled and held my hand against her gaunt cheek. “You look good.”
She pulled it down and clutched both of hers around it. “You’re a liar.”
I grimaced. “You sent Jasia?”
“I wanted to get you myself.” Her gaze went to our hands.
“But Jasia?”
“It’s been hell around here and I feel it all over me.” She looked back into my eyes. “Still, I’m so glad to see you.” Her tone warmed toward enthusiasm. “This place is driving me crazy with paperwork and people coming in offering condolences right off the street.”
&nbs
p; “It’s nice they remember.”
“You’d think they had a little more compassion and wait for the funeral. I mean I’m trying to keep the place running.” She looked at the ground between us. “It’s not like it will keep going by itself.” Her eyes darted up, filling with anxiety. “I just wish I could stop feeling glad the creep is gone and then feeling guilty about it.”
After Jasia’s joy ride, Renée’s emotional trough could pull me right into despair. I scrambled for a way out. “It must be hard, doing this alone.”
“It’s so crazy. Such a mixed up time.” Her words slowed and sped up like an old tape machine dragging and recovering. She shook her stringy hair.“Who would have thought… this insanity. Dixon dead.”
Her tone made me fear a sudden outburst of uncontrollable tears. Or screams. My shoulders tensed involuntarily. I squeezed her shoulder, not too hard. Its boniness surprised me. How could I uncover the details of our dad’s death without bursting her emotional dam? “It looks like you’re holding this place together all right.”
“Looks like.”
I stood quiet, unqualified to slow her dogged descent into negativity.
Renée pulled away, spun, and grabbed her coffee. “I don’t know what happened. One day he was coming into work, the next day he wasn’t.” Her sickly state was more apparent from the back, shoulders hunched, gray slacks dangling.
“They didn’t tell you anything?”
“They told me he had a heart attack. What else could they tell me?” She faced me, ice blue eyes peering over the edge of the coffee mug. Stark printing on the side read, O.J. for President!
“I just thought—.”
She kept on. “It’s a mystery how he lived so long. I mean, our father the party hound, always drinking, carrying on like a teenager. Then one day I come into work—.” Her shoulders heaved and she shuddered. Most of her face remained shielded by the large porcelain billboard.
I took a step closer.
She was sobbing behind the bawdy political slogan.
Did this odd cup have a subconscious meaning for her? Maybe she believed Dixon’s killer would walk away from crime in the same way? But I wasn’t here to create trouble. Just get in. Say hi. Get out. So far, I wasn’t managing that well.
“Hey.” I pulled at the mug, freeing it. “It’s going to be okay.” Draping my arm around her, I pulled her face into my chest, a memory flooding in with the force of a waterfall. Comforting Renée took most of my adolescence. She lived under constant belief of Dixon’s disregard for her, internalizing every one of his efforts to distance himself. Longing for a fatherly touch had broken her heart at least once a week for Dixon’s entire life.
She pressed her head into my chest. Her sobs grew louder. Her body shuddered.
I held her tightly. Stuck as caregiver. Again. Mother’s familial role remained a bigger mystery than Dixon’s, acting like everything was as it should be. Right up until the day she threw him out, while Renée and I watched from the staircase landing high above them, eyes shocked wide open as our mother physically backed Dixon out the door with her wheelchair. “Stay away,” she hissed. “Forever.”
He complied. Apparently without protest. Fishing, camping, showing up for a recital or sporting event, anything remotely domestic was out for Dixon. When we were old enough to work, we each took a job at the dealership. By then Dixon had established a detached lifestyle. Renée never really stabilized, often curling up in her room for days at a time over any small slight from Dixon. Mother’s response never wavered. “Girl. You don’t know how I’ve saved you. Buck up.”
Now, here we stood again, Renée wounded by our Dad leaving her stranded without notice. And, I was sure, Mother expecting her to deal with it unaided.
We stood like that, without thought of car-shoppers or workforce, just two kids alone and helpless. Her sobbing receded once, and she said, “I wanted him to die so many times, Connor. I wanted him to die.”
Tears filled my eyes. “Yeah, I know. Me too,” I whispered, hoping she wouldn’t hear.
And then her betrayal frothed over, and she beat her fists against my back, and I held her tighter, knowing the torment but not knowing exactly how her version was playing out.
Occasionally I’d offer, “It’s okay,” and rub her skeletal upper back.
Somebody may have peeked through the glass panel wall to my left, but they disappeared and left us alone.
A flash of southwestern noonday sun glinted off the showroom automobiles before we broke apart.
I prayed that this would be the last time Dixon Pierce would hurt my little sister. Or me. But inside, I felt that it might be too much to expect.
A lithe, young blonde with a pixie cut holed up behind a panel of bulletproof glass.
“Tony Ruiz?” I pleaded. My voice sounded timid. Cops made me nervous. Even cops I thought I knew pretty well.
Pixie smiled at my driver’s license and buzzed me in, flirtation showing around her mouth.
I rallied a teasing wink, pushed through the security door, and stood just inside. I’d decided to forego an immediate reunion with Mother after the emotional visit with Renée. So here I stood, determined to face another of my abandoned relationships in the hope that Tony could shed light on Dixon’s last hours.
He appeared from a room down the corridor, his jet-black hair and light brown complexion pulling up memories of high school. He entered the foyer with his arms wide. “Connor!”
His embrace pushed hot guilt into my hairline. “I should have called, Tony.” I forced myself free.
He grimaced. “First things first.” He pulled me around the corner and into the dispatcher’s cube. “Cheri. This is the guy that ditched me at the military enlistment station.” He tipped his smile back and slapped my shoulder. “The smart one.”
“I believe that.” Cheri smirked.
A radio at her control panel squawked about a lost dog on Truscott. Cheri twisted her chair into position. “Roger that. Tell Momma I’ll be home at nine-thirty.”
The male voice responded, “Ten four, sis.”
She tapped the mike button twice.
Tony placed a hand on her shoulder. “Cheri’s beau hasn’t called in two days.” He winked at me. “Supposed to be camping. Up near Deer Lodge.”
“Shut up, Tony,” Cheri said in a flat tone.
Tony patted her with a gentle hand. “We think he might be stuck in the state penitentiary.”
“I see you still have your heart,” I said.
He hitched an eye brow.
“Thought you might have traded it in for jungle boots.”
The Pancho Villa grin returned. “Nah. They gave me a chit. I retrieved it when I left the Corps.”
“Considerate of them.”
“Connor once took a beating for me in middle school. Got up the next day and went in for round two.”
Cheri twisted her chair enough to look into my eyes. “Impressive.”
I blushed. Followed with a scowl.
Her eyes held surprise, but she didn’t say it.
I forced a smile and a nod.
Tony ignored my discomfort. “If it starts to look bad for Joey, well, no prison will stop Connor and yours truly from a break out.”
“He’s a bit of a handful,” Cheri said to me before turning back to her work.
Tony shifted his body to face me.
My lips pursed to give him an ear full for going on about my superpowers.
His smile faded. “Sorry to hear about Dixon.”
The change in emotional temperature triggered a surge of grief. I clutched the hand he offered. “Thanks,” I said, turning my head to swallow the knot in my throat. An inch shorter and twenty pounds lighter, Tony’s compassion still brought me down to size. “I was hoping to get some info on his death,” I said over my shoulder.
“Sure. I’ll take you by his place. Then we’ll get coffee. Talk old times. Cheri, I’ll be over at the Montana with Connor. Then we’re headed for a sweet roll at th
e 600. Unless,” he fluttered his eyes at her, “Captain Frieze needs me.”
Cheri snorted. “Sounds like the Tony Ruiz I know. Beer and a sweet roll.”
Tony hooted and grabbed a light brown, deputy’s jacket and matching stetson from a hook of four or five others. “You be good to me, girl, or I won’t rescue your boyfriend from those prison guards.”
She tossed a crumpled wad of paper.
Tony dodged.
They giggled like happy siblings.
Warmth buttered my fragmented heart. The cozy repose butted uncomfortably against feeling like an intruder peeping through a neighbor’s window in the dark.
Tony tugged on his hat and shrugged into the coat. He took the stairs two at a time. We forced our way into the frigid morning, small gusts of zero windchill bracing us.
My ears prickled. Crisp, neat air filled my nostrils. I pulled the watch cap I’d found in the trunk low, glad for Mother’s qui vive.
We walked briskly, cutting across 10th Street to the Library. Long shadows from the afternoon sun made the town less mean.
Rounding the corner onto Main, I pointed up the street. “They still running movies in the Montana Theatre?”
“Barely. Mostly second runs. Don’t get the kind of business they’d like. Folks are too busy gambling these days.”
His step was long and we moved quickly. The Library already behind us, 9th street’s stoplight held us for a frozen moment.
“I expected more growth from this town.”
Tony turned to indicate three or four teenagers in front of the theatre. Their laughter bounced across the street. Smoke from the cigarette they passed clouded their faces. “Kids still hanging around the old haunts, though. Same as the old days.” His chuckle mingled with theirs. A puff of white enveloped his face and dissipated.
“Probably cutting school.” I grinned. It was hard to hold. Not because of the frozen moisture in my skin. The distance from that old theater felt like the space I’d planted between me and my parents, my sister, my home. And Tony— the guy who insisted on being my friend in spite of me.
Murder of the Prodigal Father Page 3
