John-John stopped in front of me and wiped his brow.
“Looks like business is booming.”
“I’d hate to see what crazies it’d bring out if we actually ran happy-hour specials.” He tossed a handful of nuts into his mouth. His eyes locked onto mine. “Why are you palling around with Hope?”
“Last-minute thing,” I said, and didn’t explain further. “When it dies down, I’d like to pick your brain about a couple of things.”
“Did Unci put you up to grilling me about my mom?”
“No.” Was he touchy and snappish tonight, or was it just me? “She’s worried about Penny.”
“Join the club.” He pulled taps and opened the cooler.
I should’ve waited to get a better bead on his mood, but the question had just popped out. “Has Saro been in lately?”
John-John lifted his head abruptly. The war braid with the red feather tip swung into his face, and he impatiently batted it aside. “Why are you asking me for this information?”
“I’m asking because I’ve had Saro’s blade at my throat, and I’m not eager to repeat the experience.”
He shot me a look that I interpreted as distrustful. Before I could cajole him or try charm, he said, “Why don’t you ask your partner? He’s been in here several times.”
Partner? At first I thought he meant Dawson, but I figured out he meant Shay. “Why has Turnbull been in here?”
“I asked him the same thing. He said he can drink anywhere he wants. Which sucks for me. If I blackball him, he’ll show up with a federal raiding party to see what I’m hiding, even though I ain’t hiding a damn thing.”
Christ. Talk about paranoid. But my defense of my employer and Shay would only piss him off, so I bit my tongue.
“So I serve him. He’s been in here once when Saro showed up. They ignored each other, although the brooding G-man was awful damn interested in Saro’s new recruits.”
“And here I hoped Saro had given up his evil ways after his brother was murdered.” I sipped my beer. “Is Saro recruiting in here?”
“Doubtful. He’s only been in a half-dozen times in the last five months. But he don’t have to do much to recruit anyway. People line up to get in with him, even after all the shit that went down. People you’d never expect.”
That comment caught my notice. “Like who?”
“Like punks with no other job choice. Like idiots who have a falling-out with their family.”
I frowned. He wouldn’t give me names; he expected me to guess. Or he expected me to know. Except I didn’t have insight on the inner workings on the Eagle River rez. I never had. The one person who had that knowledge, Rollie, was currently pissed off at me. Rollie was pissed off at everybody, it seemed. Me. Verline. His son.
Wait a second. My eyes met John-John’s. “Junior Rondeaux?”
He nodded.
“Holy shit.” Jesus, I was an idiot.
It hit me, then, the seriousness of my rookie mistake, keeping the information Mackenzie Red Shirt had given me about Junior Rondeaux to myself. It could have tremendous impact on this case, since Junior had ties to that murderous bastard Saro, and to Arlette. Turnbull would have every right to dress me down when I finally came clean with him.
John-John leaned closer. “Why’s this so surprising to you?”
“Because I tried to track Junior down yesterday.”
“Why?”
“Some of that pesky fed stuff you don’t wanna know about and I can’t tell you about anyway.”
He shrugged. “Well, you ain’t gonna find him in here because he’s banned.”
“For how long?”
“Forever.”
“What did he do to get blackballed?”
“He’s a Rondeaux.”
“That’s it?”
John-John glanced away and then refocused on me with eyes as hard as concrete. “I know you’re friends with Rollie. But he ain’t no friend of mine or my family. I’d lose customers if him or any of his spawn stepped foot in here. So they ain’t welcome. Ever.”
“Rollie knows this?”
“Yep.”
“But … you let him in when Geneva’s group talked me into running for sheriff.”
“They didn’t give me a choice.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this Rondeaux clan ban when I worked for you?”
John-John ignored me and walked to the end of the bar.
Goddammit. I hated not knowing shit like this, even when I told everyone to leave me out of their family dramas. For years Rollie had made barbs about John-John’s psychic abilities. And about Sophie being uppity. I don’t know why I hadn’t drawn the parallels that there was bad blood between him and the whole Red Leaf family. I’d always chalked it up to Rollie being an ass.
I spun my bar stool toward Hope.
“What’s wrong?”
“Do you know why the Red Leaf family and the Rondeaux family are enemies?”
She picked at her thumbnail before she met my gaze. “No. And that’s not me protecting Jake. He won’t talk about it, Sophie won’t talk about it. But it seems to be more a problem between the Pretty Horses and the Rondeaux. The Red Leaf kids and grandkids got caught in the middle.”
Sophie had two kids—Penny and Devlin—with her first husband, Von Pretty Horses. After he died, she remarried Barclay Red Leaf, and they had three sons: Del, Jake’s dad; Terry, Luke and TJ’s dad; and Ray, who’d fathered a half-dozen kids before he’d passed on, leaving the small Red Leaf Ranch, adjacent to our ranch, to Terry. I’d never met Del or Ray. They’d both died by the time Sophie came to work for us.
“Even now that I’m married to a Red Leaf, they won’t discuss family matters if I’m around,” Hope said.
“But you’re family to them. Hell, I’m practically family to them.”
Hope shook her head. “Not in their minds.”
Maybe it was beer causing the sudden ache in my belly. “Is that because so many of them have worked for us for so long?”
“That’s part of it. Sophie is different to me when we go over to her house. She … snaps a lot. Not at me. Then she and her grandkids start speaking Lakota, and I can’t understand. It makes me uncomfortable.”
That piqued my anger, but I also realized Hope might be a wee bit paranoid. “Do they treat Joy like an outsider, too?”
“No.” Hope reached for her beer and sipped. “Still, because of … that and some other stuff, Jake’s even suggested to Sophie that she retire from workin’ for us.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard Sophie’s response to that. Do you think—”
Out of the blue we heard, “Hope Gunderson? Is that you?”
Hope faced the woman bellied up to the bar next to her where Lefty had been sitting. “Betsy? Omigod! What are you doing here?”
A lot of squealing and hugging, and then my sister disappeared into the back room with her old high school friend.
And once again, I was drinking alone.
After five minutes, the rush of people up to the bar sent me outside for fresh air. In hindsight I should’ve snuck out the back door. My one complaint about Clementine’s has always been the lack of lighting in the parking area. It’s a bitch even for people who don’t have my night vision problems.
I jammed my hands in my pockets and glanced up at the sky. No stars. No moonlight peeked through the thick cloud cover. I half expected to feel snowflakes hitting my face, the temperature had dropped so drastically since this morning.
I paced, mind racing, and I’ll admit none of my thoughts were very flattering to the Red Leaf, Pretty Horses, or Rondeaux families. But I wasn’t so deep in thought that I wasn’t aware someone moved between the parked vehicles off to my left.
Of all the times not to be carrying. I called out, “I know you’re there.”
No response.
“I’m not in the mood to play hide-and-seek.”
No response.
Screw this. I started to back up, slowly, facing forward,
hoping like hell I didn’t stumble into a hole and fall on my ass before I reached the bar door.
A shadow solidified into a man. He moved toward me, both his hands up in the air, his head covered by a hood so I couldn’t see his face.
“Stop right there. Keep your hands where they are and identify yourself.”
He stopped. “It’s Junior.”
“Junior … as in Junior Rondeaux?”
“Uh-huh. I heard you was lookin’ for me yesterday.”
“How’d you know I was here?”
“I got my ways.”
Somebody was spying for Saro at Clementine’s. “So Junior, you were just waiting out here in the cold hoping I’d come out alone so you could jump me.”
“I wasn’t gonna jump you. Doncha think I learned that shit don’t fly with you last time? When you held a fuckin’ gun to my head.”
“You armed?”
“Nope. Left it in the car.”
“You alone?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Drop the hood. I feel like I’m talking to Kenny from South Park.”
He used one hand to slide the hood back.
I took two steps closer. I’d seen Junior Rondeaux one time. During our lone meeting I’d used my gun barrel to shove his face into the dirt so I really didn’t remember what he looked like. Junior didn’t strike me as handsome. He looked nothing like Rollie. He resembled any number of the young Indian men on the reservation; pockmarked skin, prominent nose and cheekbones. His unkempt black hair hung past his shoulders. He topped my height by four inches, but with his baggy clothes I couldn’t tell if his build was lanky, muscular, or flabby.
“Who told you I was looking for you? Mackenzie? Or Verline?”
“Verline. But I’m sure Mac was talkin’ smack about me.”
“Why would you say that?”
Junior scowled. “She’s a drama queen. She lives for that shit.”
“Is that why she introduced you to Arlette Shooting Star?”
“Yeah. Mac’s the type of girl who racks up and trades favors. I owed her one. So when she asked me to meet this high school girl, I said no. At first.”
“What changed your mind?”
“Mac told me Arlette was the tribal president’s niece. I knew it’d piss my old man off when he got wind of it, because he hates Latimer Elk Thunder. And I thought, What the hell, right? It was only one time.”
“Did you meet with Arlette more than once?”
He nodded. “I was supposed to flirt with her, get her to like me, then Mac was gonna tell her a bunch of that catty, mean-girl bullshit to make her cry. I didn’t want no part of that.”
“So what happened?”
Junior blew out a short burst of air. “I realized that Mac is a bitch. She zeroes in on another girl’s weakness and goes for the throat. After I met Arlette, I told Mac to back off and leave me ’n’ Arlette alone, which is probably why Arlette thought we had a thing goin’ on. We didn’t. I hung out with her. We were friends.”
“Why? I mean, it started out as a prank. And you’re what? At least five years older than her? What was Arlette’s appeal?”
“Gimme a break. I wasn’t banging her or nothin’. Arlette knew a lot of history and Indian legends. The cool stuff that we didn’t learn in school. I didn’t tell no one about it, ’cause none of my friends would believe I cared about that kinda junk. Our meetings were on the down low, know what I mean? Her uncle woulda freaked if he heard we were hanging out.”
“Like your dad freaked when he found out?”
“Yeah. Like, I thought the old man was gonna have a stroke.”
Rollie. That lyin’ SOB. I don’t know what the hell kind of game he was playing with me. It was almost as if he wanted me to consider his son a suspect. “When was the last time you saw Arlette?”
“A little over a week ago. She told me she thought we were soul mates or some stupid thing like that. But we were friends,” he reiterated. “That’s it.”
“Did your friendship with Arlette contribute to your dad booting you out of his house?”
Junior muttered about Verline having a big mouth. “That had nothin’ to do with it.”
Since this wasn’t an official FBI interview, I could be more blunt in directing the conversation. “Why did Rollie kick you out, Junior?”
His attempt at a withering stare was almost laughable. But after a minute of silence, I knew I had to play my card first.
“Lemme guess when this all went down. When Rollie found out you were working for Saro?”
“Who says I am working for him?”
“Are you?”
Junior shifted his stance, making his answer obvious.
“Come on, Junior. Don’t try to bullshit me now. How long have you been Saro’s”—lackey—“associate?”
“Two months. And my old man can’t blame me for doin’ exactly what he told me to do: get a job. He’d been a real dickhead about it, too, but he wouldn’t hire me to work for him, even when I’m his kid.”
Unemployment on the Eagle River Reservation was around 70 percent, so jobs were damn scarce. I realized the appeal for young guys like Junior, working for Saro. It gave them something to do, money in their pocket, and a place to belong.
Too bad Saro was a crazy murderous bastard who used and discarded these young men just because he could.
“Do you wanna know what he did? He pointed a gun in my face and told me to get out of his house and his life and never come around again. Verline tried … to stand up for me. But Rollie told her if she sided with me, he’d kick her ass out, too. She don’t have anyplace else to go.” He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Sometimes I fucking hate him.”
I waited until he’d calmed himself. “I appreciate you tracking me down and explaining your side of the situation. But you will need to come in and repeat this on record.”
He took a step back. “No way. You think I did it. That I killed Arlette. You get me there as a trick, and then you’ll throw my red ass in jail.”
“Which is why you need to tell my colleagues exactly what you told me. It’d be best if you came in on your own instead of us trying to track you down.”
“I can’t. Don’t you understand? If Saro catches me showing up to talk to the FBI, he’ll never trust me again.”
“Hate to break it to you, but Saro doesn’t trust you now.”
“So you say,” he spat. “Typical bullshit FBI move. Man. I thought I could trust you.”
“Why? Because I’m friends with your dad? Wrong. My priority is to figure out who killed Arlette. And right now you’re pretty high on the suspect list.” I got right in his face. “Prove me wrong, Junior Rondeaux. Show up to talk to us.”
“I can’t.” Then he ducked and disappeared into the darkness before I could grab him.
Shit.
My first lead, and I’d let it slip through my fingers.
I returned inside, my foul mood palpable.
Some bimbo—around my age, wearing an extra hundred pounds and a polyester shirt straight out of the ’70s—had parked her fat ass on my bar stool. Looked like she’d even helped herself to my beer. She yakked at a guy who had the expression of a trapped rabbit.
I tapped her on the shoulder.
“What?” She deigned to half turn my way.
“You’re in my seat.”
“Don’t got your name on it.”
Where was John-John? He’d point out that’d always been my seat at the bar. “I just stepped outside for a minute.”
“Tough shit. You leave, and the space ain’t yours no more.”
I tapped her shoulder again. I’m nothing if not persistent.
“What the hell do you want now?” she snarled.
“To tell you to get your bloated ass off my seat.”
Then she and all her three hundred pounds loomed over me. “Or what?”
“Or”—I grabbed a handful of her oversprayed hair and yanked, turning her sideways so I could chicke
n wing her arm—“I move you myself.”
“Ow. Stop. You’re hurting me.”
“That’s the point.” I tried to make her body parts touch, jerking her head back and her arm up. “Sit. Somewhere. Else. Understood?”
“Yeah, yeah. Let go of my arm.”
I released her. Stupid mistake on my part. She threw a haymaker that clipped me in the lower jaw. Before she could throw another wild swing, I ducked, backtracked, and swept her feet out from under her.
She bounced on the dirty floor.
I left her there and returned to my seat.
But John-John shook his head, and I followed his gaze to where Muskrat helped the rotund one to her feet.
“That’s it, Mercy, you’re outta here.”
“What? You’re throwing me out? Why?”
“Because it’s not okay for you to just beat the shit out of Clementine’s customers whenever the hell you get an urge.”
“But—”
“No buts. I used to let it slide with you, but no more. You know better than to throw your weight around.”
I opted not to point out my opponent would’ve crushed me like a bug had she chosen to throw her weight around.
“You’re banned, Mercy. I better not see your face around here for a month.”
The bar had gone quiet, like the patrons were anticipating additional fireworks or some firepower from me. I looked for my sister.
But Hope was too busy glaring at John-John to look at me.
He lifted a brow. “Got something to say, cousin?” The last part with more sarcasm in it than I’d ever heard from my friend.
“Yeah, you’re a dick. You were a pompous prick to me even before I married Jake. You’ve had a bug up your ass about Mercy since we walked in. So go ahead and ban me, too. Your unci ain’t gonna be happy about this, cousin.”
John-John’s face turned a darker shade of red. “Muskrat. Get them outta here.”
Muskrat was smart enough to obey John-John, and to know not to touch me when he escorted us to the door.
I was too pissed off to be drunk, so I snatched the keys.
She sighed. “I’m sorry, Mercy. I didn’t mean to screw that up for you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been in there one time since I got back from Quantico. And it isn’t like my phone’s been ringing off the hook with calls from John-John to hang out.” Now that I thought about it, had John-John called me at all?
Merciless Page 9
