Murder of the Prodigal Father

by Mark Wm Smith

  I laughed. It created a white cloud that floated across Renée’s forehead. “The mayor of Miles City drives a Japanese car? God bless America!”

  “I’m glad you think that’s funny.” She plunked onto the hood of Mother’s car and put her heels on the bumper. The big coat swallowed her tiny frame. “It’s his daughter’s. She drives it like a four-wheeler. It’s the second time we’ve had it in for transmission work.” Most of the energy had drained from her voice. She clutched her knees with both arms.

  I stood next to her, suppressing a shiver. “I’ll talk to Akira. I wanted to see him, anyway.”

  Renée’s head came up. A question furrowed her brow.

  “He’s got a map of Okinawa,” I explained. “He’s going to show me where his parents were from.”

  “How sweet.” She rested her forehead on her knees. The top of her head, her thin hair dangling, reminded me of our childhood. “Dad couldn’t have been all bad. He kept a garden out back that he wouldn’t even let Bonsai-man touch. Probably burned up now.”

  “Yeah, well—”

  “How come he had to die?”

  I stared at the cars reflecting splashes of cold light from the fire brigade’s entourage. Dixon’s dream lived on without his mind to dream it. “I don’t know.”

  Her body began shaking. Against the ruckus of firemen wrapping up a night’s work, I heard her crying.

  My own chest ached with the sound of her. The pain of Dixon’s passing tried to strangle the ache of unfinished business. It pissed me off, and I scowled at the night. “That was always his way, wasn’t it? Just wing it. See what happens.”

  Renée’s sobs turned to small hiccups.

  The lot lights popped on, illuminating Dixon’s cars like soldiers at a burial. Something about it eased my mood. “That’s how he built this place. Just take off for California and come back with a vision.” I realized I was in awe.

  “I can’t do this,” Renée said after a moment. She lifted her head and dried her eyes with her fingers. “You need to help me, Connor.”

  “I’m going to talk to Akira. We’ll work something out.”

  “I meant—” She shot to her feet. “You need to help! As in be here at the dealership every freaking day!”

  My mouth fell open and icy air filled the passages behind my eyes.

  The crunch of heavy boots approached.

  I swung my lips together.

  The burly fireman came to a halt in front of us. “Which of you is in charge of this place?”

  Confusion must have shown on both our faces.

  “I mean, well, I talked to you earlier,” he said to Renée. He looked at me. “But you’re the boy, right?”

  The phrase tickled my gullet. I sniggered. The chuckle dipped into my belly and scooped out a whopper of a guffaw. Humor swamped my body. My eyes began to tear up and I couldn’t catch my breath.

  Renée stomped toward the door of the office.

  Puffs of white, vaporized breath blanketed everything on the lot. I thought I heard big boots crunch away. I remained in meditative hilarity. Dixon’s life ended with a great joke. Me, in charge of his dealership. The absurdity of it swirled the snow around my feet, and then swooped up into my chest, a perpetual laugh machine.

  Country music started blaring over the outdoor intercom. Garth Brooks was singing about his friends in low places.

  I huffed and I puffed my way back to ground. Though I never heard him say so, this song was probably Dixon’s anthem. As my breath slowed, it became obvious that the municipal workers had quit for the night. Not a truck or cruiser in sight. I turned my stiff neck.

  Renée stood behind the plate glass watching me, her hands on her hips. Sort of like Mom would do before she was confined to a wheelchair.

  The music came from the clock radio on Dad’s, correction, Renée’s desk. She reached around and switched off the intercom, leaving me to soak in my confusion.

  “Why in the hell are they even open at nine o’clock on the day we buried you?” I asked the night sky. Then I straightened myself up and headed toward the shop.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Hometown Detective

  Akira wasted no time getting back to work. I found him underneath a silver Acura Legend, outfitted with American Standard mag wheels. The oily tang of parts cleanser hung in the air.

  I stooped over him. “Fire didn’t slow you down, I see.”

  “Small time. Some kids acting the fool.”

  “Really? I guess that makes sense. I thought maybe the redneck nationalists were celebrating.”

  Akira laughed, the sound muffled by the weight of the car.

  “Can I help?”

  “Too late,” he said, following it with a grunt. “I’m just getting this last bolt tightened.” He rolled himself into view, a shining ratchet in his right hand. The stub where he’d lost the pinky finger stood out against the gleam of the handle.

  Yakuza. I kept the word to myself. “Renée says this car has been here before.”

  “About every three months.” He lifted himself easily from the creeper by rolling onto an elbow and toe, and then twisting his body over his legs. It defied the physics I recalled from either high school science class or basic training. “She beats the hell out of this rig.” He smiled.

  “The mayor’s daughter?” I forced myself to look into his eyes, avoiding that absent digit. Could he be a mobster? Maybe he’d joined on that visit to the homeland.

  “Yep,” he said. “She’s been through a couple transmissions already.” Akira walked to the side of the garage door and poked the large green up button. The door moved two feet and he punched stop.

  A breath of ice licked at my feet through the cracked opening.

  “Got to fire this up,” he said. “Roll her back and forth a couple of times. Make sure nothing flies out.” His grin was aimed at me.

  I nodded. Yakuza members had to prove loyalty for some reason I couldn’t recall. So they cut off the finger.

  Stepping to the bench, I touched a twelve millimeter box-end wrench hanging with several other metrics in a neat row on the wall. The surface felt cold and smooth.

  Akira fired up the V-6 and revved it to half max.

  If the Japanese mob decided they needed a handhold in the northern United States, would they choose a small dealership in Miles City, Montana? It seemed ludicrous, like a bad movie plot. What possible power could they gain from such an insignificant business in the Cow Capital of the American West?

  I pulled the twelve millimeter off its peg and examined it more closely.

  Akira rolled the little silver car forward in my peripheral vision. He braked, wrapped a few rpm’s, and backed it up.

  Say this crazy idea is right. Dixon finds out. Confronts Akira. Or maybe he investigates on his own. Doubtful he would look to help from Frieze or Crandall. He was stubborn, and they were more than a little skeptical of him. So, Dixon snoops around, Akira catches him, and has to kill him. It would make Akira one cold-blooded Asian, the way he just talks to me and smiles. Makes jokes.

  Akira killed the engine. The car door slammed.

  I gave the wrench a hard squeeze to subdue my enthusiasm for the theory. It needed to remain unspoken if true. And I’d want to save face if it was just a fantastic concoction of paranoia and grief.

  “Did I say I visited my parent’s home? In Okinawa?” He was standing beside me.

  My heartbeat jumped up a notch. I grinned to hide it. “Yeah. I remember,” I said, placing the tool back on its wall hook. “I actually came to ask you about that map you have.”

  “Come by tomorrow.” He gripped the three remaining fingers of his right hand with a red grease rag. “I really wish I could have stayed, it’s so beautiful there.” Noticing me staring, he released the hold and shoved both hands into his pockets. The grease-stained rag hung from his pants like a gangster’s bandana. “Can you help me with this lube? It’s getting late. Two could knock it out quicker than one.”

  “Su
re. I could stand to get my hands dirty.” I followed Akira to a Toyota already hanging in the air in the adjacent bay.

  He latched onto the tall drain can on the way. It’s wheels rattled across the cement. “Could you bring that fourteen millimeter wrench?” He pointed to the work area in front of the small red car.

  I walked over and grabbed it. Seeing the filter wrench, I snagged that as well.

  Akira took the fourteen mil, cranked the plug loose and spun it out. A thick stream of black poured into the drain pan with a sharp bloop. The smell of burnt grease came with it. “Remember me saying we were interned during the war?”

  “Yeah. You did say that.” Would he take it back?

  “We lived in California. People got crazy. I guess I was four or five at the time. I can still see the fear on my mother’s face.”

  “That’s hard, I’m sure.”

  “Very hard. Even at five. I was embittered for many years.” He had stopped working, and now he stared into me for a full five seconds. His eyes glinted with a shiny steel quality. “Pissed off is probably more accurate.”

  My feet shuffled. I dropped my gaze to them. “I’m sorry.”

  “Not your fault.” He pulled the filter wrench gently out of my hand. “I guess I just needed to tell you. Some things should be said.”

  The tool scraped against the dirty filter jacket. Another, shorter sounding bloop.

  “People keep things inside that should be outside. They wear the things outside that should be inside.”

  I glanced at him.

  He had a wide grin. “Okinawa wisdom.”

  We both chuckled.

  “You planning to stay and take over the business?” Akira asked.

  The question took some of my breath. “Huh?”

  “It’s traditional. The oldest son inherits the family concerns.”

  My embarrassment crept into my chest. I felt the heat of it on my neck. “This isn’t an Asian culture.” The words felt offensive out in the air. “I mean, I’m not sure what I’ll do. I’ve got my Air Force commitment.”

  Akira turned to replace the drain plug. “Family first. Doesn’t matter where you live.” He pointed toward the bench behind me. “The new filter is under that counter where you picked up the wrenches. Oh ess fifty-two.”

  I walked over. Squatting down so I could look inside, I searched and found several stacks. I picked out a fifty-two.

  “A friend of mine got out of the service on hardship,” Akira said.

  I carried the filter over. When he took hold of it, that pinky stub screamed for me to stare.

  He spun the filter into place. “You might try that.”

  Watching his lips move helped me keep my eyes off of the mysterious hand. “I really hadn’t even considered coming back.”

  “You should.”

  “You have any family left?”

  “In Oki? Doesn’t matter.” Giving a final hand tightening, he peered at it. “I can’t go back.”

  That sounded like a secret I needed to know.

  Akira glided back to the lift controls. “Clear?”

  The car sank to the ground, forcing me to duck my shoulder and step back.

  The lift jerked to a stop. “Sorry,” Akira said. “Clear?”

  I had to grin. “Daydreaming. Stupid.”

  He let the lift continue its downward trend.

  This option stymied me. Come home? Sounded crazy in my head. “Say, Akira. Do you recall seeing Dixon with a younger woman?”

  His attention stayed on the car, even after it had settled its full weight. “I can’t say who your father was seeing.”

  Did that mean he didn’t know, or he wouldn’t tell me? I tried to read the expression from the side of his face. With ideas of Yakuza schemes racing around my mind, I couldn’t tell a thing.

  “So, you’ll show me those maps tomorrow?” I asked.

  Akira looked up and smiled warmly. “Hai. Watashi wa shimasu.”

  “See you then.” I headed for the door.

  “Thanks for the help,” he said with a wave.

  I lifted my hand, the coldness biting my underarms and chest where sweat had collected. After today, a warm bed anywhere would be welcome. I climbed into the Chrysler and drove to Mother’s, not caring who might be there.

  Driving to the ranch in the bright, thirty-degree morning cheered me. Constant running since my arrival had culminated in a restful sleep. And a Sunday drive proved the perfect event to open my day.

  Turning onto State Route 489 from Highway 59, my mind warped to an earlier time. Dixon was driving, a monthly occurrence until the day he left home. The smells of Grandma’s cooking hit us before we made it up the steps and into the house. Ham and beans in this memory. My favorite. And Grandma’s solid country hugs, curling Renée and I into her arms.

  The memory knotted my throat. I swallowed hard to break it free.

  I loved the way this road began, winding parallel to the track of the Yellowstone River a few hundred yards southeast it. After a couple of miles, it straightened into a promise of adventure in the wild country.

  I chuckled, realizing the limited reality I’d built this fantasy on.

  It took less time to make the trip than I remembered. I almost missed the turn. Braking hard into it, I realized that I’d never brought Jasia out to see the Pierce farm. Had I been ashamed of my roots already, by the time I met her? I knew that was true for Nansi and the kids. But escaping that was easier. We’d never taken a trip home after the children were born. Nansi and I lit out of the U.S. like an International airliner following our wedding.

  I rolled into the gravel parking area.

  The shop sat on one side, and the house rested on a bump across from it. Granger’s pickup sat under the fuel tank on the opposite side of the barn.

  Gravel crunched beneath my tennis shoes, slightly muted by a fresh dusting of snow. The settling engine made an obnoxious rattle in the stillness of the Sunday morning. Even the heated engine oil smelled stronger out here.

  Grassland, lightly patched with snow, stretched in all directions, except out front. A plowed field took the section across the main road I’d just left. I’d spent an entire summer riding a tractor in that field and listening to a Canadian radio station play American Rock. They probably still did a better job picking songs in Saskatchewan than they could in Miles City.

  A glint of light clued me to Granger’s location. He wasn’t in the house, but out past the barn.

  I walked toward him. As I got closer, he put more energy into stretching the barbed wire strand before him.

  “Kind of like a country church out here,” I said.

  “I got no time for church,” Granger said without turning from his task. He squeezed a final notch out of the stretcher.

  I watched him work the barbed wire with bare hands. In freezing weather. I squeezed my own fingers into fists. “I imagine it’s tough handling this place on your own.”

  He whipped the piece of patch-wire into a knot on one end of the broken section before responding. “Most of what we got is leased to the Crandall’s. Sheriff’s family. Except that section across the road. I’ll put some corn in that this spring.”

  “And cattle?” I looked across the sweep of range toward the river.

  “Thirty head. Plenty for my needs.”

  “You don’t plan on feeding anyone else out of that?” It was round about. Shame warmed my neck, and then cooled.

  “I knew your mother before Dixon. Introduced them, matter of fact. A mistake, looking back at it.” He tied the last loop into the patch and popped the stretcher free.

  “I might take offense to that, being a product of their union,” I said.

  Granger took a moment to glance at me. “No offense meant.” Picking up the bucket of tools, he began hiking back toward the shop.

  “Why did you hate my father so much?” I said to his back.

  He stopped, and rattled the bucket. Then he turned to face me. “Your father spent a lot of
his time in trouble. It’s an ugly story, and you’d be best to leave it be.”

  “I’d think you could stop making stuff up now that he’s dead.” It was meant to egg him on.

  “Listen, boy.” The bucket shuddered. His knuckles whitened. “Dixon was no angel to you kids or your mother. I feel responsible for the mess she got into by hooking her up with my baby brother. Now I’m doing my best not to muddy his name any more than he managed while he was living. Let it be.” He spun around and started walking fast.

  I followed him to the shop, speaking before he could pull at the door. “Do you know who my father was seeing before he died? A woman he might have been seeing?”

  “I don’t know of any woman, and I really don’t care.” He swung the door open wide.

  “So you think seeing my mother is decent, even though you can’t say her husband was slipping around?”

  Granger slammed the door shut. “Boy, I keep a shotgun in this building. If I step back out and you’re still here, I might use it.” His upper lip had turned pale.

  I noticed a buzzing noise inside my head. A strange sensation that fed the desire for him to just go get the damn gun and bring it. I stared him down, the nature of my rage steadily clearing. It was a death wish. And of no worth to me or my family. I let my shoulders relax. A long breath escaped me and formed a cloud between the two of us.

  It amazed me how much hate had built up inside of Granger for his own brother. My memories of this place were of a grumpy, but reasonable man wearing my uncle’s skin. Now he appeared to be a raving lunatic, angrier at my father for being the first to die than he had been for all the success Dixon had in business.

  I decided to leave him alone with his rage. I’d almost caught it. Shaking my head at him, I turned away, and marched to the Chrysler.

  Granger still held the bucket as I made a wide turn in the yard and drove off.

  A repulsive thought began forming in my head, but I quickly crushed it as I skidded onto the blacktop. Slowing for the first curve on the way back to Mother’s, the idea I didn’t want bubbled up again.

  I didn’t like Granger. I didn’t want him seeing my mother in any romantic capacity. If he fell into the river while feeding cattle, I’d call it tragic and go have a beer with his enemies. But for all of that, I didn’t like the implication of his threat to me. How serious was he? It was likely just grief. Granger’s way. The only way a lonely, angry, abandoned man had to conclude his life of sibling rivalry.