Death on the Greasy Grass

by C. M. Wendelboe

  “Are you gentlemen looking for my brother?”

  “Yes,” Manny stuttered. He quickly recovered and grabbed his FBI ID wallet. He flipped it open. Chenoa leaned over and took it. Manny looked away as she read the information.

  “Who’s this?” Wilson nodded to Willie.

  Manny nudged Willie out of dreamland. He grabbed his own ID wallet and showed it to Wilson. “One of my homies,” Wilson said, deep voice controlled. Manny could see him speaking at campaign rallies, not even needing a PA system, his mellow voice reaching even those in the back rows. “You’re a little out of your jurisdiction, Officer.”

  Willie nodded and continued staring at Chenoa.

  “We’re here on vacation,” Manny said. “When I got a case dropped in my lap. Willie’s helping me. Unofficially.”

  Chenoa returned Manny’s ID wallet. “Doesn’t explain why you’re looking for Sam.” She leaned against the Hummer and crossed her arms. “He must have done something serious this time for the FBI to be hunting him.”

  “He might have information about Harlan White Bird’s murder,” Willie blurted out.

  Chenoa smiled at him, and the dreamy look in Willie’s eyes deepened. “We heard it was an accident.”

  “Heard the security man screwed up,” Wilson added. “Allowed real ammo into the reenactment. How’s that murder?”

  Manny gave them the headline version that would be buried on page six of the Billings Gazette today. When he finished, Chenoa laughed.

  “Harlan’s death funny?”

  She shook her head, Manny’s gaze returning to the pendant dangling between her breasts and bouncing with her laughter. “Let’s just say Harlan lived longer than he had a right to. The booze should have killed him years ago. Sam, too.”

  “But Sam is alive. Is he home?”

  “He a suspect?”

  Manny looked past her but saw no activity around the dilapidated house. “He may have information we need.”

  Chenoa jerked her thumb toward the house. “He’s not here.”

  “Have any idea where he may be?” Willie finally summoned the courage to speak.

  Chenoa shrugged. “We looked at his usual haunts, starting with Harlan’s Auction Barn. And Sam crashes in an old school bus parked across from the IGA when he’s too drunk to stagger home. Sometimes under a couple nearby bridges. Nada.”

  “You never said just why you’re looking for Sam.” Wilson adjusted his buffalo bone bolo tie. “What information could he possibly have?”

  “And why are you here?” Manny asked.

  Chenoa’s smile faded. Her eyes narrowed, fixated on Manny’s as she stepped closer. “I didn’t know it was a crime to visit one’s brother.”

  “Agent Tanno’s not implying anything.” Wilson rested his hand on Chenoa’s arm a bit longer than Manny thought appropriate. Unless there was something between them. “He’s just doing his job.”

  Chenoa’s smile returned. A practiced smile. “Of course,” her voice soft, no traces remaining of anger that had been there a moment ago. “Sam’s name is on paperwork for the ranch. In my father’s wisdom, he chose to give Sam the power to veto anything I might do concerning the Star Dancer Ranch.”

  “Has he?”

  Chenoa glanced to Manny’s car. Stalling. “Has he vetoed anything I’ve ever done? No, and he’d better not if he expects to get his monthly drinking money.”

  “Which brings us back to why you’re here.”

  Chenoa’s face reddened, but Wilson stepped between her and Manny. “The Star Dancer Ranch is selling my Eagle Bull Ranch forty bred heifers this week. That is, if we can get hold of Sam to sign the papers.”

  “And if you don’t find him?”

  Wilson shrugged. “Then I go back to Pine Ridge with no deal.”

  “Any ideas where we should look?” Willie stuttered.

  Chenoa turned to Willie and smiled, a disarming smile that spread across a face framed in just the slightest amount of makeup. Manny glanced at Willie, fearing he’d get a hernia catching the big man when he fell over. “Like I said, we looked in all his usual haunts. But check inside if you want. It’s not locked. Sam never had anything worth stealing.”

  Chenoa turned to her Hummer, and Wilson held the door for her before walking around and squeezing in the passenger side. Like Willie, it looked as if nothing fit Wilson as he ducked his head to clear the doorjamb.

  They looked after the Hummer disappearing around the corner, and Willie turned to Manny. “Do you not think it odd that Wilson came here to buy heifers? He’s got hired hands that could do that.”

  Manny elbowed Willie back to the present. “Forty heifers is a large sale. I’d come myself if my money was on the line. Besides, if you had a chance to take a ride with a lady like that, wouldn’t you?”

  Willie backed up. “She’s married.”

  “Doesn’t mean she’s ready for sainthood. Let’s check out Sam’s crib.”

  Manny stepped over the broken-down picket fence, between a rusted ringer washer and a dented Dodge fender half-buried in the yard. Or what was once a yard, the sunflowers growing among thick jagger bushes choking out any semblance of grass. He stepped lightly onto cracked wooden steps that creaked under his weight. He turned back to warn Willie, but it was too late.

  Willie yelled as he fell through, rotten boards stubbornly grabbing his legs. His chest stuck out of the porch and he struggled to free himself. “What you laughing about? You could have told me about that step.”

  Manny held out his hand to help Willie, but he slapped it away as he grabbed onto a porch pole and hoisted himself back onto the porch. Manny waited until he was sure Willie wasn’t going to fall through another board, before he turned to the screen door devoid of a screen. One hinge had sprung and rusted and the wounded door sat at a sharp angle against the house missing most of its front siding.

  A sparrow flew out of a broken window and Manny jumped. Willie brushed past him and nudged the front door with his foot. It groaned on rusty hinges as it swung inward and banged against a garbage can just inside the room. It toppled over, spilling beer cans across the dirty and yellow-stained carpet.

  Willie bent to pick the cans up when Manny stopped him. “You think anyone coming in here will notice beer cans strewn over this floor?”

  “Got a point.”

  Manny led the way across the room, past the kitchen with its two-burner stove caked with last month’s government commodities, into what Manny thought must be the living room. A mattress had been tossed beside more empty beer cans, and a greasy pair of jeans occupied an occasional chair missing both arms.

  “How the hell can anyone live like this?” Willie stood in the center of the room, careful not to touch anything, shaking his head. “I’ve seen pigsties neater than this.”

  “Remind you of any place back home?”

  “Too many,” Willie answered. “And it doesn’t bring us any closer to finding Sam.”

  Manny looked around the room and smiled. “Sure it does.”

  CHAPTER 10

  Stumper’s voice mixed with loud radio chatter in the background.

  “What’s that about Sam? Tell me you’ve found him.”

  Stumper’s voice became clearer as he moved away from the dispatch office. “We’ve turned over every rock where he usually crashes. Nothing. But we found the next best thing—Itchy Iron Cloud. He’s climbing the walls in our interview room as we speak.”

  “Meth?”

  Stumper laughed. “He’s tweaking big-time. How soon can you get over to the police station?”

  “As soon as I get Willie to bring my car around.”

  * * *

  “We caught him trying to crawl through that broken window in Harlan’s spare room.” Stumper jerked his thumb at the closed door of the interview room. “The piece of shit’s crashing. Big-time. He�
�ll need to score soon or he’ll really be climbing walls.”

  Manny grabbed his briefcase and started to dig out his pocket recorder. “Good thing we got here so quick.”

  “Too bad you got here so quick. It’d do the little bastard good to suffer a little longer.”

  Willie smiled. “Stumper’s right. The worse off Itchy is, the more he’ll want to get back out on the street where he can score. . . .” He turned to Stumper. “What’s usual?”

  “Itchy will be lucky if he can get enough bucks to buy a quarter gram.”

  Itchy jumped when they entered room. His head jerked from Stumper to Manny, then widened as he looked up at Willie walking through the door.

  Manny drew in a quick breath. Itchy’s BO filled the room, a retching odor like a combination of floor cleaner and someone who hasn’t bathed in months. Manny walked quickly past Itchy and opened both windows.

  Itchy’s fingers started tapping the table, sounding more like a dog’s nails on a hardwood floor. A cornered dog. “When can I leave, Stumper?” Itchy had stopped tapping the table with his fingers and started tapping the floor with his foot as if he could hear some secret aria no one else could. “I got places I need to be.”

  Stumper and Willie said nothing as they stood against the far wall, while Manny pulled a chair close to Itchy. He backed away and snatched the faded brown stocking cap off his head. He looked to the door as he began fingering his cap nervously. Manny put his recorder on the table and noted the time and date.

  “What’s that for?” He dropped his cap but made no attempt to grab it as he clasped his hands together tightly.

  “Just to keep us honest,” Manny answered, digging out the small notebook he often used as a prop to distract the interviewee.

  “You’ll use that against me.”

  Manny shook his head. “It’s harmless. It helps me talk with you.”

  Itchy wrung his hands that were clamped together as if to stop their tapping. Manny opened the manila folder and studied Itchy’s sparse information from previous arrests. “Mr. Iron Cloud—or do you prefer I call you Franklin?”

  “Call me Itchy.” He forced a smile that showed his choppers had decayed into the typical meth-head grin, teeth rotted by lack of brushing, poor nutrition, and grinding. “Everyone calls me Itchy.” He picked at skin underneath his shirt, while he rocked back and forth in his chair, his feet resuming their tapping.

  “Okay, Itchy. By your files, it looks as if you spend as much time in jail as out. Problems?”

  Itchy twirled his food-matted hair that fell down over his stooped shoulders like dyed mop strings. He had plucked at the hair, frustration caused by being somewhere between tweaking and crashing. “Not me. I got no problems.” Foot tapping. Body rocking. “I get a little stinko now and again.”

  Manny flipped to a summary of Itchy’s arrests. Older brother Cubby had raised Itchy when their parents died in a car accident outside Denver. He’d lived with Cubby and Chenoa until Cubby married her, then it was hit-the-bricks time. “Says here your first arrest was at fourteen. Jacked a tourist’s car at the Little Big Horn Memorial. Amazingly, they found a Baggie of weed on you when they arrested you.”

  “Someone planted it.”

  Manny ignored him and flipped to the next page. “Two months later for shoplifting, and breaking into cars at the casino.”

  “For which I paid dearly.” Itchy picked at his arm, the sleeve wearing thin from the scratching. “Cubby didn’t believe it was someone that just looked a lot like me.”

  Manny handed Willie the folder. “And it’s not because of your meth habit?”

  “I got no habit.” Itchy backed his chair away from the table. His eyes darted to the windows, to four young girls kicking a soccer ball across the grass. “I don’t do crank.”

  Manny stood and walked to the window. The afternoon sun shone on a sky boasting gentle cumulus clouds, and Manny wished he were anywhere on vacation besides in this musty, smelly interview room. He pulled the blinds and turned to Itchy. “You got no habit?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Then why are you wearing long sleeves and it’s a hundred degrees out?”

  “Don’t know what you mean . . .”

  Manny grabbed Itchy’s arm. He tried jerking it free, but his frail attempt was feeble at best. Manny pulled his shirtsleeve up. The button ripped to reveal tracks on Itchy’s arm nestled between open sores that he had been picking.

  “Did he have his kit with him when you found him?”

  Stumper shook his head. “He had his syringe and rubber tubing last time we nailed him, but this time he dumped it before I could put the habeas grabeas on him. He got away.”

  Itchy jerked away. “I said I don’t do crank. But what’s that got to do with me being hauled in here?”

  “Ever see this?” Manny ignored him and motioned to Willie. Manny grabbed Itchy’s arm and turned it over. A four-inch scar ran the length of the inside of his arm. “He got this when he tried cutting out the bugs crawling under his skin. Isn’t that right, Itchy?”

  Itchy jerked free and stood pacing the room, his foot tapping as he walked, picking at one of the many open sores that fought his acne for possession of his face. He turned back to Stumper like he was the only friend Itchy had in the world. “I’m trying to go straight, Stumper.”

  “Like two weeks ago when we found you shooting between your toes. Something about not being able to find a vein? The only thing you’re going straight in is an early grave.”

  Itchy looked away. Another clump of hair came away from the top of his head. He looked at it for a moment before dropping it to the floor and turning to Manny as his newfound friend. “Can’t you just help me? I need to be places . . .”

  Manny put his hands on Itchy’s thin shoulders and eased him back onto the chair. “We’ll talk about help in a moment. But first, we need information about Harlan White Bird.”

  “What? All I did is help him out around his shop sometimes.”

  “He pay you? How do you get your crank?”

  “I said I don’t do . . .”

  Manny held up his hand. “Where do you get your money?”

  Itchy looked at the ceiling, the floor, and that secret aria started somewhere in his head again and his foot began tapping. “Harlan gave me some lucky bucks for helping him. Or he did.” He tilted his head back and turned to one corner of the room as if someone was there sharing his humor. “And Cubby gives me money now and again. What are big brothers for, huh? Anyway, I don’t know nothing about Harlan’s murder.”

  Manny scooted his chair back, recognizing Itchy becoming more paranoid. “How do you know it’s murder and not an accident?”

  A tic started on Itchy’s cheek and his hand shot to it as if to calm the muscle. He started picking at a sore instead. “It’s all over the rez. Everyone knows Thelma Deer Slayer’s camcorder got a guy switching ammo in some cavalry dude’s gun. That’s why Harlan got killed.”

  Manny grabbed Frankie’s photo from his briefcase and dropped it in front of Itchy. His eyes darted around the room, anywhere but the photo.

  “Who is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Sure you do.” Manny slid closer. “You jumped just now when you saw his photo. Who is it?”

  “I don’t know. Just some baashchiili. Can I go?”

  “You’re lying, Itchy.” Manny moved his chair closer, and Itchy moved his back. “Just like you lied when you claimed someone planted that Baggie of grass on you. And that someone else busted into the cars. I think you know the tall man, and we’ll sit here all night until you tell me.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “That’s reality.” Manny scooted his chair closer. Itchy started moving his back but it butted against the wall. “Who was he?”

  Stumper leaned over the table and poked Itchy in t
he chest. “You said a moment ago he was baashchiili. How’d you know he was White when everyone else thinks he’s Indian?”

  “I don’t know,” Itchy blurted out. “I just saw him once at Harlan’s when I crashed there. Scary dude, but I don’t know who he is or why he was there. He might have been there looking at the Beauchamp Collection.”

  “Why would he want Harlan dead?”

  “I can’t say. It’s not like he fought with Harlan or anything. He was just scary, the way he looked through you when his eyes fell on you.” Itchy’s foot tapped incessantly, and his eyes darted to the door guarded by Willie and Stumper. “I got to leave.”

  “Why would he want Harlan dead, Itchy?”

  “Let me go.”

  Manny turned to Stumper. “I think a night in the drunk tank will do Itchy some good.” Manny stood and started gathering his recorder and arrest files when Itchy bolted from his chair.

  “Don’t lock me up tonight. I gotta get out of here.”

  Manny turned to him, amazed at the man’s ability to tremble and shake and still be able to stand. “What did Harlan know that would get him killed?” He put his hand on Itchy’s arm and he jumped back, nearly knocking the chair over. “Why would the tall man want him dead?”

  “The journal,” he said at last, almost a whisper this time.

  “What about the journal?”

  Itchy slumped in his chair. “Harlan read the journal.”

  “And you think that’s why Harlan was killed?” Stumper asked. “That just your imagination talking again?”

  Itchy looked up and stared at Stumper through eyes with pupils as big as liberty dimes. “Me and Sam and Harlan was polishing off a case of Bud last week. Harlan was reading the journal, and Sam was going over the Beauchamp sale flyer.”

  “What were you doing?” Willie asked. “A gram?”

  Itchy’s jaw dropped as if Willie had just slapped him. “Just Budweiser that night.” His eyes dropped. “Maybe later.”

  Manny put his finger to his lips and Willie became quiet. Manny turned back to Itchy. “Still doesn’t explain why you think that was enough to get Harlan killed.”