DreadfulWater Shows Up

by Thomas King

  As Thumps swung the corner at the 7-Eleven and headed out to the reservation, he began the slow process of asking the kinds of questions that cops ask when they don’t have a clue and have to start somewhere. If this were a television movie, Thumps mused, he’d already have two or three good clues and a limited number of suspects.

  In the distance, clouds began to pile up against the mountains in a way that reminded him of Ansel Adams. He wasn’t a great fan of Adams’ landscapes. Or more precisely, he wasn’t a fan of the thousands of Ansel Adams’ landscape look-alikes, black-and-white photographs of craggy peaks and syrupy mountain streams that cluttered every gallery in the west.

  Still, the bright clouds against the darker mountains made a nice picture. And if Thumps had had his field camera with him, he might have been tempted to stop and blow off a couple sheets of film so he’d have something to sell to the collectors and tourists who believed in the concept of abstract art, but who ran back to realism whenever they went looking for their wallets.

  He had picked up photography when he was a cop in Northern California. Ron Peat who had done all the crime-scene photographs for the department had retired, and somehow or other Thumps had wound up with the job. He didn’t know a thing about photography, but Ron came in a couple of times a week and showed him how to load the camera, how to use the flash, how to develop and print the film. And before long, what had been simply a part of his job became a hobby, and what had become a hobby turned into an avocation. By the time Thumps realized that being a cop was something he could no longer do, photography was his only other good option.

  Except for golf. Thumps’ secret passion was to play golf. To be sure, golf was an activity that helped explicate the more obvious elements of race and class. Thumps knew that. But the game had a leisure and grace that he loved. You didn’t have to rush up and down a court. You didn’t have to worry about being sacked in the backfield or cross-checked into the boards. You didn’t have to jump. And it was one of the few games involving clubs and balls where you didn’t have to sweat. Everything was slow. Everything was civil. Thumps especially liked the rolling, tree-lined fairways, the long walks in the fresh air, the feeling of well-being that came from having nothing better to do with a day.

  He had learned golf as a kid growing up in central California. He and his mother had lived in a trailer park that bordered the back side of the Sierra Springs Country Club. And every day on his way to school, if he walked the perimeter of the chain-link fence, he could see the men strolling down the green fairways in the morning light.

  But the fastest way to school was not to walk the fence line. It was to cut across the course itself. There was an opening in the wire at the fourteenth hole, just below the No Trespassing sign, and if you timed it right and waited for the gaps in the players, you could work your way across the valley to the tee deck of the fifth hole without being seen. And slip out through the fence on the other side.

  Better yet, as you made your way across the fairways, you could find lost golf balls buried in the thick rough, or hidden behind trees, or tangled up in the cattails at the edge of the ponds.

  The golf balls were gold. Every Saturday morning at seven, Thumps would take what he had collected to the farmer’s market, set up at an empty table, and sell golf balls until the man who collected the table fees came around at nine.

  One Saturday, as Thumps was getting ready to walk over to the farmer’s market, an old pickup pulled into the park, towing an even older trailer, its sides painted to look like the Grand Canyon. Thumps watched as the man in the pickup manoeuvred the trailer into a spot by a large oak tree and got out.

  “Hi.”

  The man was old, with grey hair, a scruffy grey beard, and skin the colour of dark water. And when he walked, it looked as though he had broken something in his hip and had had to fix it quick with fence wire.

  “This a good place, kid?”

  “Sure,” said Thumps. “You paint your trailer?”

  “What you got in the bag?”

  “Golf balls.”

  “You play golf?”

  “Sure.”

  “How many you got?”

  “Don’t know,” said Thumps. “Lots.”

  The man shoved his hand into his pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. “I’ll take them all.”

  The man’s name was Gabriel Garcia, and so far as anyone in the park could tell, he was retired and travelling around. Thumps had seen pictures of the Grand Canyon on postcards, but it was more impressive painted on the side of a trailer.

  “What do you think of the new guy?” Thumps asked his mother.

  “He seems nice.”

  “Did you see the side of his trailer?”

  “Don’t be bothering him.”

  “It’s the Grand Canyon.”

  “I have to work an extra shift tonight,” said his mother.

  “Remember that postcard Dad sent us?”

  “You’ll have to make your own dinner.”

  “That was the Grand Canyon, too.”

  The next Saturday, when Thumps came out of the trailer on his way to the farmer’s market, Gabriel was waiting for him. “More golf balls?”

  Leaning against Gabriel’s pickup was a set of golf clubs.

  “You want to buy some more balls?”

  “Come on,” said Gabriel, and he limped out toward the field in back of the trailer park. “Bring the clubs.”

  By the time Thumps caught up with him, Gabriel had cleared a place in the weeds. “Show me what you got.”

  Thumps dumped the balls out on the ground. Gabriel pulled a club from the bag and sorted through the balls until he found one he liked. “You see that flag?” he said, gesturing toward the sixteenth green on the other side of the fence. “How far you figure it is?”

  “I don’t know. Hundred yards.”

  “One hundred and fifty-five yards.” Gabriel rolled the ball to a flat spot, set himself, and swung the club behind his head with a smooth, slow swing that looked as though he wasn’t even trying. The ball exploded into the air, climbed over the fence, and landed on the green as soft as butter hitting the floor.

  “Neat.”

  “Show me what you got,” said Gabriel, and he handed Thumps his club.

  “You want me to hit a ball?”

  “That’ll be a good start.”

  The first swing missed the ball completely. The second buried the club face into the dirt. The third sent the ball rattling into the fence. Thumps was lining up a fourth ball when Gabriel held up a hand.

  “Wait till they clear the green.”

  Four golfers in carts emerged out of the trees on the edge of the fairway. Four large men in slacks and polo shirts.

  Gabriel squatted down and gestured with his chin. “Watch the big guy in the red shirt,” he said. “He’s going to hook it right at us.”

  Sure enough, the ball rocketed off the man’s club, took a hard left turn, sailed over the fence, and landed in the thick weeds.

  “His alignment was all wrong.”

  The man in the white shirt got to the green first and picked up the ball Gabriel had hit. He looked at it and showed it to his friends. Then he put it in his pocket.

  “Hey,” said Thumps. “That’s my ball.”

  “Not anymore,” said Gabriel.

  “I found it.”

  “Finding something doesn’t necessarily make it yours.”

  “What about the ball they hit over the fence?”

  “You see where it went?”

  Thumps got up and searched the weeds. In a matter of minutes, he had found six balls. “Not bad, eh?”

  Gabriel looked at each ball in turn. “This one’s okay,” he said. “This one is cut. This one is shit.”

  The men were laughing as they marked their balls and lined up their putts. One of them lit a cigar and clamped it in his teeth as he bore down on the putt. Gabriel lay down in the grass.

&nb
sp; “Let me know when they finish,” he said, and closed his eyes.

  The men spent a long time on the green, shouting and laughing, trying to get their balls to go in the hole. When they finally put the flag back and headed to the next tee, Gabriel sat up and tossed a ball to Thumps. “Try it again.”

  For the rest of the morning, between the foursomes that came and went, Thumps tried to hit golf balls over the fence and onto the green.

  “This is the easy part of the game,” Gabriel told him.

  “Not sure I’m interested in playing golf,” said Thumps.

  Gabriel got up and took his club. “No point stealing golf balls if you’re not going to play.”

  “I don’t steal them. I find them.”

  “That’s private property,” Gabriel said quietly, as if he were thinking. “You see that fence?”

  “It’s not hard to get in,” said Thumps. “There’s a hole in the wire over by those trees.”

  “Fence is for show,” said Gabriel. “It’s just there to remind us.” He pulled a longer club out of his bag. “This is the driver.” He kicked the dirt into a small mound, put the ball on top of it, and made a couple of lazy practice swings. “The idea isn’t to hit the ball.”

  Thumps had watched golfers hit balls before, but he had never seen anyone strike a ball with such power. And he had never seen a golf ball go so far.

  “Wow!”

  “The idea is to make the swing.” Gabriel walked to the fence and put his fingers through the links. “Next time, don’t worry about hitting the ball. Any idiot can hit the ball.”

  When Thumps got home, his mother was peeling potatoes in the kitchen.

  “Dad ever play golf?”

  His mother turned and looked at him the way she did when he had done something wrong. “Golf?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No.”

  “Okay.”

  That evening, after supper, Thumps went out to the field and found a stick. Gabriel’s swing hadn’t seemed like a swing at all. Not like baseball or tennis, where the object was to hit the ball as hard as you could. Gabriel’s swing had been more like a dance.

  Thumps found a flat area beyond the field, down near the creek where no one could see him. The first few tries felt awkward and rushed. The swings had none of Gabriel’s smooth, coiling power. By the time it was dark and he came back to the trailer, his neck was sore and his shoulders ached.

  “I don’t want you messing around on that golf course,” his mother told him.

  “They don’t mind.”

  “They don’t want you there, either.”

  The next day, when Thumps got up, Gabriel was already in the field. Beside him was a bucket of balls.

  “Where’d you get these?” said Thumps.

  “These are mine,” said Gabriel, and he sent a ball spinning into the green.

  For the next few minutes, Thumps watched Gabriel hit balls onto the green. He never missed, and none of the shots landed any farther than twelve feet from the pin.

  “You want to collect those before the next group comes along?”

  “Sure.”

  “You know how to repair ball marks?”

  Thumps wasn’t much better than he had been the day before. Most of the time he’d skip the ball into the fence.

  “Something about the club you don’t like?” said Gabriel.

  “Nope.”

  “Then why are you trying to choke it to death?” Gabriel rearranged Thumps’ hands on the club. “Hold it soft.”

  Thumps gripped the club again and set his feet.

  “Now what are you going to do?”

  “Hit the ball.”

  “Is that right?” Gabriel stepped in front of Thumps and picked the ball off the tee. “How about now?”

  “You can’t play golf without a ball.”

  “You can’t play golf with a ball.” Gabriel took the club from Thumps. “That little ball’s not important. As long as you’re looking at it, as long as you’re thinking about it, you’re never going to play golf. You understand?”

  “Sure.”

  “’Course you do. Smart boy like you understands everything.”

  “What about the ball?”

  “Forget the ball.” Gabriel shook his head. “What’s important is the swing. Golf balls don’t run down the fairway by themselves. Golf balls don’t go into the hole by themselves. And they don’t go anywhere just because you hit them. They go where they go because of the swing.”

  Gabriel swung the club and clipped the tee out of the ground. “You want to be a good golfer, you’ve got to learn to swing as though the ball’s not even there.” He slid the club back into the bag. “Come on. I’ll show you something.”

  The inside of Gabriel’s trailer was small and ordinary. Except for the walls.

  “Is that you?”

  “I was younger then.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Arnold Palmer.”

  There were photographs on every wall. Thumps’ mother had a few pictures of family in frames on top of the television. Gabriel’s photographs were simply stapled to the walls.

  “You played with Arnold Palmer?”

  “No. I was a caddy.”

  “You caddied for all these guys?”

  Gabriel nodded.

  “Did you ever play?”

  “This photograph here? This is Lee Trevino.”

  Thumps followed Gabriel around the trailer. Every so often, he found a golfer he recognized. “You think I could be a professional golfer?”

  Gabriel’s face softened, and he closed his eyes as though remembering something. “Maybe,” he said. “But first, you got to clear the fence.”

  For the rest of the summer, Thumps hit golf balls. Over the fence. Into the field. Several times, when the weather was bad and there was no one on the course, he and Gabriel would sneak in and play two or three holes. Woods, irons, wedges. Until Thumps’ swing was spring-steel and velvet, and the ball went where his swing took it.

  “Not bad,” said Gabriel. “You’re almost as pretty as me.”

  “Prettier,” said Thumps.

  “Maybe you are,” said Gabriel, but he said it as if someone close to him had been hurt or had died. “For all the good it’s going to do either one of us.”

  Toward the end of the summer, Thumps’ mother took him into town to get clothes for school, and when they got back to the trailer park, Gabriel’s trailer was gone. Thumps found Mr. Sullivan, who ran the park.

  “What happened to Gabriel?”

  “The Mexican?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He left.”

  “Is he coming back?”

  “He left something for you.” Mr. Sullivan went into his trailer and came back with Gabriel’s clubs and a large cloth bag of balls. “He said you’d know what to do with them.”

  The rest of that day, Thumps hit balls over the fence. Until each swing was the swing before. Until all the balls were gone. Until the green looked as though a spring storm had come through suddenly and covered the land with hail.

  The Ironstone was straight ahead. As soon as Thumps crossed the river, he would be on Indian land. He wondered whether Hockney had found the car yet, or whether there was a car at all. Thumps could think of all sorts of ways that a dead body might have wound up in one of the condos, but most of them involved transportation. The man might have driven himself out to Buffalo Mountain. In that case, there should be an orphan car. This is what Sheriff Hockney had been looking for when Thumps saw him in the parking lot. Thumps hadn’t seen a car, and he didn’t think Duke was going to find one.

  The killer could have brought the man out to Buffalo Mountain, dead or alive, and then driven off. In that case, there would be no car. But if Al was right, and Cooley’s brother Floyd had been driving the dead man around, then Floyd could have driven him to the reservation and dropped him off. But then Floyd would have returned a
t some point to pick him up.

  Unless, of course, Floyd has killed him.

  Thumps didn’t like that option. It raised the nasty possibility that Cooley was involved in a murder. Cooley might scare the hell out of you if he could get that grin off his face, but he was too good-natured to kill anyone. Floyd certainly had a temper, but why would he kill a man he barely knew?

  One thing was sure. If Floyd was driving the man back and forth between Shadow Ranch and Buffalo Mountain, then the dead guy had to be doing business with the tribe. And Thumps knew who to ask about that.

  It would help to know who the dead man was. A name wouldn’t answer all the questions that dead bodies create, but it might go a long way toward explaining why a stranger had wound up sitting in a chair in a condominium, staring out the window at the view.

  FIVE

  It was early afternoon when Thumps crossed the river and hit the lease road, a long ribbon of loose gravel and dirt that ran in a straight line from the bridge to the townsite. Once a year, the band council would grade out the ruts and oil the gravel. Not that these efforts helped a great deal. At its best, the lease road was a bone-rattling, oil-pan-busting game trail that ruined front ends, split tires, and sent tremors up steering wheels in never-ending shock waves.

  Normally, the band office would be closed on a Sunday, but Thumps was betting that today was not an ordinary Sunday. Claire hadn’t answered her phone when he had tried her from town, and if she wasn’t there, the band office was the next best bet. Of course, she could have gone to the resort to see the situation for herself.

  In the distance, as he drove through the ruts and the dust, Thumps could see the water tower on the bluff, and he wondered for the hundredth time why anyone in their right mind would want to suspend tons of water in an enormous metal ball on stilts. If you were determined to keep water locked up in a steel tank, why not bury it? At least the water would stay cool and out of sight.