by Chuck Redman
Well, if we learned one thing tonight, it’s that a jumbo pack of Scampers diapers can stop a .38 caliber bullet at twenty feet. And, if hurled with enough ginger by a feller who was in a sour mood to begin with even before gettin shot at, it can knock out a bad guy who’s high on medium-grade methamphetamine. Plus seven beers. Make that two things.
By the time Laertes gets to the Good Samaritan Hospital E.R., his boss is stitched up and resting pretty comfortable, with thick pressure bandages on the side where the bullet went through and a little half-pint of orange juice in his hand. “Guess what,” says Laertes, with a lowered voice and furtive glance at Kenny in the gurney cross the aisle, who’s staring over their way with a blissful kind of expression which mayn’t be entirely due to the painkillers he was give. There’s a young nurse wrapping up Kenny’s shoulder, the one that he heaved them diapers with.
“The bastards got away.” But Cosetti’s grin ain’t destined for longevity as it crumbles pretty quick into a fit of hurtful coughing. “Aghhh,” groans the poor feller as the nurse trots over to check his dressing.
The ex-Husker looks down with pity on his boss while the nurse fiddles around and probes whatever it is she thinks ain’t been prodded or probed enough times already. Meanwhile, Kenny continues to stare kinda enraptured from his stretcher, so Laertes gives him a hefty smile. “How’s your shoulder, man?”
“They popped it back in.” Kenny ain’t blinked in quite some time.
“You’re a crazy dude, you know that?” says Laertes. Kenny just shakes his head once or twice real slow and then essentially replies Nah: he just don’t like the idea of innocent people being ripped off of what they’ve worked hard for. Kenny don’t usually sound like John Wayne, but I guess it could be the morphine. “Well,” says Laertes, “it was lucky for us you showed up, dude. You made it three on two, you know. Three on two is always an advantage, man.”
Anyways, when the nurse trots back over Kenny’s way Laertes leans down and, speakin pretty confidential, assures Cosetti that Sheriff Wendy’s got the outlaws shackled like a chain gang, and they’re spilling their guts as we speak. “But,” and he flings another guarded glance toward Kenny’s vicinity, “you’re not gonna like it, boss.” Cosetti don’t have to say What, he’s got one of them faces. “Those two scalawags work for us, boss.”
That there piece of intelligence don’t seem to register for a few seconds with Cosetti, then finally his one eye narrows and he mutters a word suitable for the moment. But not for broadcast. “Where?” he says after a bit, in a voice that’s chiseled flintrock.
“Riverside plant, mostly graveyard.” Well, this time Cosetti picks the other suitable word that was left over from last time. Laertes pulls a scrap of paper from his wallet and reads off the names, in as near a whisper as the big guy can git: Marco Antonio Zamora, he reads, that was Harvard the triggerman. Victor Hugo Castaneda was Bama, the lookout fella. Job descriptions according to their company I.D.’s that was found on em: Harvard, he’s a Grade II Slaughterer, job is to perform needle lobotomy or sever jugular. Bama is a Grade I Slaughterer, job’s to skin the animal, sever head and body parts, eviscerate and trim the carcass. Both is been at the plant upwards of five years, according to what Laertes found out.
“You know what kind of field day she’s gonna have with this?” says Cosetti, his voice low and gritty. “Mmmh. We’re sunk, hot shot. I can see the headline now.”
“No way she’s gonna find out, boss. Not til it’s too late. I had me a little talk with Wendy—uh, Sheriff Healy. She says she’ll keep the entire incident under wraps til Monday evening, after the council meeting. In the interest of ongoing investigation, she says. We’re frickin heroes. These two bozos are meth heads, boss, they’re gonna lead her to the exact location of the drug lab that she wants to bust more than anything. And I don’t mind telling you,” big guys sometimes look goofy when they get dreamy-eyed, “she gave me a kiss I won’t forget for—well, I don’t know how long, to be honest with you.”
“Okay, Mr. Cosetti,” says Dr. Chowdhury, not quite shouting and appearing out of nowhere, “we will have you out of here straightaway. Nurse will be in to go over the discharge papers directly.” Doc’s got kind of a brisk and lilty way with his words, you know. Which I spose is the way most folks talk back east in Doc’s hometown of Calcutta. “You just do the needful, are we clear? Take it easy for next twenty-four hours. No lifting,” and he does a spreading thing with his hands like a umpire calling safe. Doc had to wait to finish speaking before he can smile. But a handsome smile.
So Steve hints around to Dr. Chowdhury, in so many words, that he sure don’t want this shooting incident leaking out to the public. “Not to worry, Mr. Cosetti. I’m sworn.” Steve kind of apologizes then, says he was stupid to mention it, any first-year law student knows the physician-patient privilege. “You’re a lawyer, Mr. Cosetti?”
“You’ve heard of the Fifth Amendment, Doc?”
“Ah, that’s a good one, Mr. Cosetti.” Doc gets a kick out of that one, to the point that his voice starts to squeak. “You better believe I know the Fifth Amendment, I watch reruns of Dragnet on my days off. I have seen every episode thoroughly twiceover.”
Doc vanishes and Cosetti’s demeanor seems to have brightened up a bit, until he looks over and sees Kenny settin there propped up in wide-eyed euphoria. You know, a feller don’t necessarily appreciate it when the smirk that ought to be on his own face shows up on somebody else’s.
Exhaustion got the better of Lark at some point in them wee hours—she’s only human ain’t she. So sleep she did. But every little while the Sioux maiden awakes in this snug Arapaho teepee and her eyes got to dart around a bit to recollect where she is and the mishaps that got her there. Then they turn kinda disappointed beneath a furrowed brow but little by little the brow smoothes out nice and them eyes take on a almost peaceful aspect as they stare at the two old Arapaho aunties betwixt which her bedroll’s laid. Only a trace of soft moonlight seeps through the stretched buffalo skins of the teepee, and sleep soon folds her brave eyelids like tender blankets over tuckered-out tots.
Thursday
Neon signs are sorta hard to read in daylight when they’re turned off. Jever notice that? So motel owner Lyle Griff decided by golly he’d turn on his Best Midwestern sign this morning. Well, in fact it’s almost dark enough. And out of that dark sky in the last two or three minutes has come big fat raindrops, which sizzle when they hit the halogen floodlights in the shrubbery all around the sign. Now Lyle is mainly absorbed in nudging Cosetti, gradually you see, over to just the right spot in front of the Kids Stay Free sign, which flashes every three and a half seconds. A press conference needs a proper backdrop, don’t you know.
Cosetti, I guess, is used to folks prodding and nudging him around, with his one eye situation and all, but how can he bury every single trace of pain when Lyle nudges too close to that place that got shot? His two interns are by his side, plus a bearded fella looks vaguely familiar, dressed almost as swanky as Cosetti. Everybody’s hunkered under their umbrellas, of various shapes and sizes. The press corps is there in force: Janet, Rossiter, and the Cat photographer under big black umbrellas, and the KOTT sound gal and news guy beneath a portable awning contraption. The entire motel housekeeping staff is behind them, uncovered, but as the wind and rain picks up them folks start to flee. Off to the side is Sheriff Healy and Laertes, under one small umbrella and not too awful interested in anything outside of that umbrella. Probly discussing the ‘06 K-State Nebraska game, which was a humdinger. Sure. Traffic-wise it’s pretty sparse out here on the outskirts of West Cottonwood Way, but now and again a car with lights and wipers on high will slow down to see what’s what.
Everybody looks slightly peeved at standing in the rain, and Rossiter keeps pestering her boss about why don’t they move this garden party inside. Her boss, on the other hand, don’t seem quite here, editorially speaking. You’d think Janet’s covering the funeral of the guy who invented quotation marks
by the way her face looks: like two semicolons squished together. And her body: a wilted question mark. Like she’s aiming to burrow under that there umbrella if she can and never come out. Ain’t like her.
“Okay, we’ll make this quick,” announces Cosetti and, cept for Janet, the press snaps to attention. Cosetti coughs once or twice and winces with pain but tries keepin it under his belt so to speak while he introduces the bearded gent. Now, you may never have thought that there’s such a calling in this world as North American Tree Carving Analyst—and Rossiter’s face shows pretty clear that she’s never heard of any such thing when Cosetti says it—but apparently here he stands and his name is Mr. Colin Krolak, PhD, and he’s the leading expert in the country and. Well. Say. Now that I get a better look at the fella as he tilts his umbrella up and assumes a grave demeanor, there ain’t no doubt. Twenty years can alter a person but if you was here and you had Janet’s copy of her old year-end edition from college, you would almost certain agree this is that same serious fella. The one beside her in the picture. Not that Janet is looking, cause she ain’t. She’s hid in that umbrella and kinda paralyzed I think. But shivering.
Well, the tree carving doc starts explaining his findings the way a judge pronounces sentence, and it seems the arborglyph found up on O.G.’s neighbor is a cheap hoax. The carving was made to look aged, says Krolak, the prankster used pure maple syrup for the effect. He could smell the maple syrup ten feet away. Underneath the syrup the carving was fresh as new lumber from a sawmill. Cosetti now, he’s glancing towards Janet’s umbrella and grinning but it’s kind of a disappointed grin since he can’t see nothing whatsoever of the publisher’s reaction.
Well, what with the rain and wind fiercer by the second, Rossiter and the KOTT news guy each ask one question, then Krolak steps back solemnly and Sheriff Healy steps up and announces that Felony Vandalism charges will be brought against the young suspect as soon as—. Steve quickly whispers in the sheriff’s ear, and Sheriff Healy throws a questioning glance at Laertes. Laertes nods and she smiles a sweet unsheriffy smile. “Misdemeanor Vandalism charges will be brought against the young—” Steve leans in again and whispers. Sheriff gets another reassuring nod, and swallows. “No charges will be brought against the suspect. The young perpetrator will be referred for counseling.” Well—Justice, they say, is blind. But She hears pretty good.
Anyways, they wrap up the press conference pronto. Folks is ready to dash for shelter when a big lashing gust of wind wallops the area. The squall batters everybody and Janet’s umbrella almost flies from her hands and pops clean inside-out. There she stands under the stinging rain in a state of shock tryin to resurrect her poor parasol, and the fella Krolak does a double take.
“Janet?” he says, staring at her drippiness, demanding to know is it really her, and if it is what she’s doing here at his press conference. “It hadn’t occurred to me,” says the fella while he strokes his beard in meditative fashion, “that you live here.” Well, Janet tries puttin a brave face to that and says what she can that might halfway establish that she’s not a stalker or a homeless bum, then he nods and favors her with a weighty saga: how he was boarding his flight from Tallahassee to Portland where he has his consulting firm and lives with his wife and four children ages eighteen to ten when they paged him to do a stopover in Nebraska, since he’s the only recognized expert in the lower forty-eight. And while he further edifies Janet with his impressive resume, she stands under her collapsed umbrella with a look that says Please God I just wanna shrivel up and wash down the nearest storm drain. Finally Rossiter crowds in, umbrellas her boss, taps her foot on the wet asphalt and glowers. Lyle Griff, promising coffee and sweet rolls, leads Sheriff Healy and the Euphemion folks toward the motel lobby. Steve Cosetti almost trips on a ornamental rock, lets out a cry of pain and grabs his side. Poor fella. He needs to watch where he’s going, I would say, not be lookin backwards at people standing in the rain.
With newsprint on their fingertips and the morning’s Caterwauler in shambles, Milt, Ray, and Bill has just about given up. Given up on Nickano Jr. ever whistling that new country tune in a better key than the one he orchestrates while he bangs things around in that kitchen of his. And, given up on their missing fourth wheel when in he rolls.
Ray stifles a yawn and picks up the Farm News section to make room, and Kenny slides in and don’t say a word while they stare. Number one: Kenny’s already been to the barber and spruced up, which ain’t all that abnormal for Kenny. But number two, with his right arm hangin down, his shoulder’s all poofy under the shirt and, while Ray pours, he holds his coffee mug in his manicured left hand. Then three, there ain’t hardly a trace this morning of sarcasm nor scorn in Kenny’s smile: the independent agent looks for the first time in a long time like he might actually be what you could brand as happy.
Why would a guy be so chipper just because he strained his shoulder lifting weights? is what Milt seems to be thinking when Kenny gives him that scenario as a excuse. Milt eyes Kenny’s bony frame suspiciously and finally he lights up all lurid like a red fox on the prowl. “Somebody got lucky last night and got a little too frisky, didn’t they?”
Kenny gives a sheepish shrug of his one good shoulder and opens that hand like it’s got Milt’s bank deposit in it. “You got me, Milt. You know me too well, you old dog.”
“Yeah I knew it, you sly rascal. Sock it to me, eh!” Milt tops off Kenny’s coffee with glee. Well, they’re a jubilant bunch for the rest of their coffee break though nobody says another word about Kenny’s shoulder. Kenny announces everything’s on him today, and he even calls back to Nickano Jr. that he wants a dozen assorted scones and muffins to take home. Nickano Jr. found a new key to whistle at, one of them keys that mostly you only hear from your local high school orchestra.
Well, an hour or so after the press conference finds the precip startin to let up and the City of Cottonwood wearin a green glittery gown to welcome the sun back, as Steve sets in his limo outside of the Stucko Fasteners manufacturing plant out east of town near the fairgrounds and checks off the name Laura Ryder who happens to own that company and is name number two on that little memo on his phone. Then he speed dials, while he adjusts the pillow under his side, and gets Janet on the horn to see when she’s planning on printing a retraction.
“There’s nothing to retract. We—”
“Right, you only said it’s under investigation. I get that. So now that we know the outcome of that investigation—”
“Of course we’re printing the outcome, Mr. Cosetti. But that’s not all we’re reporting.” For a couple seconds it’s like she has to let herself just breathe. “There’s a human interest side to this thing, too. I don’t expect your company to understand.”
Cosetti don’t say anything but just sets in his limo with a uneasy look. Cause there’s a flatness in Janet’s voice, that ain’t never been there before. And after the two of them hang up she just sets kinda sunken at her desk. In a brown study, as they used to say in them old classic stories. She stares at her computer screen but there ain’t one ounce of feeling—what you’d call life—in her right now. No more than that empty wastebasket at her feet. At least not so far as you can see from the outside. I hate to think what might be wastin away on Janet’s inside.
Young gals with babies in cradle boards on their backs, older gals burdened with camp gear, all slow their pace and come to a gradual halt. Kids playin the Arapaho hoop game over the plains catch their spinning hoops and stop to stare. Fellers with eyes peeled for buffalo tracks or for danger tense their muscles and exchange signals and ready words. Headin eastward with the Platte River always in sight, Chief White Raven’s village ain’t met up with any buffalo yet this morning, but they’ve got company. Fast approachin is a small band of strangers, and these fellas and the Arapaho ain’t always on the best of terms.
Lark Laying Eggs, who’s spent the morning meandering these grassy lowlands with the Arapaho and hauling her share of the load, shields her eyes fro
m the sun and is as curious as anyone. As the strangers grow near so that their looks and manner of dress is quite evident, Lark begins to smile a careful smile—and it’s the only smile in the neighborhood right now. While the other gals hang back, she edges up closer and soon the words that these unfamiliars speak amongst theirselves can just be made out. They come up face to face with Chief White Raven and all the leaders of his village, and pretty soon there’s a full-fledged pow-wow.
Well, through sign language and knowin some of one another’s lingo, the two parties engage in various parleys and summits, and Lark is standin there the whole time particularly engrossed in the proceedings. Then it starts to become kinda apparent that she’s the thing that they’re mainly all discoursing about, and she pretty quick gets self-conscious of herself and even quicker hides that little smile away. Yup, them strangers is eyeing her like she’s breakfast on the stove, and Chief White Raven comes and fetches her and brings her to the middle of that conference.
Now, that looks scary, don’t it? And Lark looks duly petrified and timid—in the midst of this lively debate—as she should. But thanks to her sis, Lark knows pretty good Pawnee, which is what these new fellers is. And she may be able to fool these folks, but I can tell you for a fact that beneath that anxious crease of her features, she’s one happy lady. Finally, the chief looks up and there’s an eagle spiraling way above, and to the Arapaho that’s the most sacred of all creatures, messenger to the Great Spirit. The best omen there is.
