Nate Rosen Investigates

by Ron Levitsky

  After watching Baker work the crowd, Rosen stared into the pit, not so different in size and shape from the one where True Sky had sat as Albert Gates was being murdered.

  “Now Grace Jenkins on Curly!” the loudspeaker announced.

  Rosen heard a few boos from the crowd, with the words “True Sky” and “murderer.” He leaned against the arena’s fence beside Keeshin; further down stood Wendy and Will, whose arm rested on Stevie’s shoulder.

  Grace spurred her horse, so that it dashed toward the other end of the arena. Nearing the fence, she suddenly pulled on the reins, and Curly’s hind legs slid as the front legs churned forward to a perfect stop. Quickly turning the horse, she leaned forward in the saddle, running him the way they’d come, and executed a pattern of circles, again sliding to a stop. Curly ran forward, stopped, and spun, pivoting on his back leg, then again was off and running.

  All the while the horse’s mane flowed beautifully, as did the two reins Grace held in her hands. Rosen noticed that she didn’t use the reins to guide Curly; everything was done with her legs and the subtle shifts of her body. It was like gliding on ice, the horse and rider blending into a singular body of power and grace.

  The crowd along the fence remained quiet; it seemed that only Will, Wendy, and Keeshin whooped their support. As Grace ran Curly through the course, a few more people cheered, which only seemed to punctuate the silence. Even Stevie, hugging the fence post, said nothing.

  When she’d finished, Grace received scattered applause, and the judges announced her score.

  “Is that good?” Rosen asked.

  Will spat on the ground. “She deserved better. People are blaming her for what they say Dad did. It ain’t fair.”

  The boy bolted from the fence.

  Rosen followed Will, who caught up with Stevie in the parking lot. Will said a few words, then ran to his truck, returning with a bat, ball, and two fielder’s gloves. He and the boy walked past a bunkhouse toward the open field.

  Rosen was about to call to them, when Gil McCracken, Belle Gates’s foreman, stepped from the bunkhouse. He carried a toolbox.

  Approaching Will, the foreman said, “I heard your sister’s name on the loudspeaker and figured you’d be by the arena. Here.” He dropped the toolbox at Will’s feet.

  “What’s this for?”

  “We almost lost two horses through the fence you was supposed to fix for Mr. Gates last weekend. You remember that, don’t you, breed? That was two days before your old man killed Mr. Gates.”

  Will handed the baseball equipment to Stevie. “I’ve had enough of your big mouth.”

  “Fine with me.”

  Fists clenched, Will took a step forward.

  Rosen grabbed his arm. “Not in front of the boy.” To McCracken, “Mrs. Gates wouldn’t like this, not with everyone having such a good time.”

  “Everyone except Mr. Gates lying six feet under.”

  Rosen picked up the toolbox. “Come on, Will. Let’s get Stevie away from here.”

  Will’s eyes locked on McCracken’s, then he nodded and walked into the field.

  After a half mile, they came to within fifty yards of a barbed-wire fence.

  Will handed Rosen a glove. “Play the outfield. I’ll pitch to the boy. This is about the only thing that settles him down.”

  Trotting toward the fence, Rosen saw what McCracken had been talking about. One of the posts tilted almost to the ground, and the top strands of wire had broken loose.

  “Come in more!” Will shouted, then pitched the ball to Stevie.

  After dribbling a few grounders, the boy got his rhythm and hit several line drives, even lifting a fly ball almost over Rosen’s head. He reached up and speared it with one hand. He loved the game, even if it only meant shagging fly balls. He had never played baseball as a kid, and his daughter, Sarah, had only tolerated playing catch, until she sprained a finger and couldn’t practice the piano for a month.

  When Stevie and Will switched positions, Rosen stepped back. Will peppered the ball through the infield, hit a few bloopers, then connected, arcing a long fly toward the fence. Rosen ran, glove upraised, imagining himself as Billy Williams plucking the ball from the ivy at Wrigley Field. Suddenly his right foot stepped on something soft, and he tumbled to the ground.

  He lay on his back, eyes closed, listening to the crickets chirping, the sun strong against his face.

  A shadow blocked the sun, and Will asked, “You okay?”

  “I think so. Nice hit.”

  Will helped him up, and nothing hurt until he shifted his weight to his right leg.

  He took a minced step. “Twisted my foot. Just a sprain, but I think this puts me on the disabled list for today. What did I trip over?” He examined the ground. “It’s all soft over here, like someone’s been working the soil.”

  Will shrugged. “Sometimes gets like this when a horse kicks up his heels or rolls around. Maybe seeing the fence down got ’im all excited. Here, lean on me. I’ll walk you back.”

  “You’ve got that fence to mend. Stevie can help me back.”

  He put his right arm around the boy’s shoulder. Glancing at Rosen’s bandaged hand, Stevie stiffened as if being touched by a spider. They slowly walked away, Rosen limping gingerly beside the boy.

  “Sorry to take you away from your uncle. You two seem pretty close.”

  No reply.

  “You also seem pretty close to your grandfather. You’ve been hearing a lot of bad things about him. They must hurt, especially since we both know your grandfather didn’t kill Albert Gates.”

  The boy tried to break free, but Rosen held him tightly. “You know something about the murder, and it’s eating you up inside. You’ve got to tell the truth, Stevie, and not just for your grandfather’s sake.”

  The boy jerked free and faced Rosen. “My grandfather’s sake!” Tears rimmed his eyes. “What the fuck do you know? What the fuck does anybody know!”

  Turning, the boy ran toward the arena. Rosen let him go—what else could he do?

  He walked a few steps, then rested, shifting his weight to his good foot. Wiping his forehead, he adjusted his baseball cap and stared into the sun, just as a starling landed nearby.

  The bird looked up at him curiously, as if to ask, “You call this a scarecrow?” then pecked at his heels all the way back to the arena.

  Chapter Twelve – MONDAY MORNING

  George Manderson had built the old Pyramid Theater in the center of Tin Town during the heyday of the mine. When the mine closed, some local entrepreneurs had the theater moved to the edge of Bear Coat. It sure was one of a kind. Its tall columns, on either side of the doorway, were topped with replicas of the Great Pyramid. Inside, atop more columns along the walls, stood plaster pharaohs, each one bearing the likeness of Manderson himself.

  As a child, Grace had gone there Saturdays with the other kids to watch Doris Day, Elvis, and those teenage beach movies. She used to dream about Frankie Avalon, but even in her dreams she couldn’t imagine herself as Annette. That was somebody like Pearl, not a half-breed. It had never occurred to Grace then, that the man who had built the theater was her great-grandfather, and that the pharaohs’ faces resembled hers far more than they did Pearl’s.

  The theater had long ago stopped showing movies and was now used for high school plays, summer stock, town meetings, and an occasional court hearing. Today Judge Ted O’Hara would decide whether a road would be built through her father’s property.

  In contrast to the hot morning sun, the building’s interior felt cool and dark like a church. Townsfolk filed down the center aisle, nearly everybody sitting on the right. A dozen rows were filled with businessmen and ranchers supporting the town council’s plan. Only one row on the left was occupied. Grace sat between her father and Nate Rosen, with Andi, Will, and Ike taking the remaining seats.

  In front of the first aisle, three tables were arranged in a triangle. At the corners, Jack, representing Saul True Sky, and Roy Huggins, represe
nting the town council, faced Judge O’Hara. A stenographer sat on the judge’s right, and on his left stood a witness chair.

  Judge O’Hara, a small man with russet hair and a brush mustache, was known for his impish grin. Schools tacked on their walls one of his sayings: “Doing right is easy, if you don’t think about doing wrong.” O’Hara didn’t need to tap his gavel. Everybody was so quiet, his first words seemed to crackle in the air.

  “We’re holding this hearing in Bear Coat, rather than Deadwood, because it’s more convenient for the parties involved, as well as this court. Everybody knows why we’re here. Mr. Huggins, you have some witnesses to call.”

  Huggins was dressed in a crisp blue suit, which seemed a little tight around the waist. He coughed hard, then unbuttoned his coat. “To begin, I’d like to remind the court that both U.S. and state constitutions give Bear Coat the right of eminent domain and, therefore, the power to condemn private property when such condemnation will benefit the public. We will show there’s no question the town needs this land and that it is willing to pay Mr. True Sky more than the market price. If I may just cite U.S.A. v. Welch, which states that—”

  “Cut the applesauce, Mr. Huggins. I’ve read your citations. Let’s get on with your witnesses.”

  Huggins reddened but kept his temper. “Mayor Belle Gates.”

  Belle limped to the witness stand, and the judge swore her in. Hunched over the table, Huggins led the mayor through her testimony, the same arguments she’d given to Grace the week before.

  She concluded, “I can’t see how Bear Coat will make it much longer without this development.”

  Unlike Huggins, Jack walked around the table for his cross-examination. He wore a light-brown suit that tapered from his broad shoulders to his narrow waist. His suit, the color of sand, his tan and muscular body—it suddenly occurred to Grace that Jack could’ve been in those beach movies. He was the kind of guy she’d dreamed of as a teenager, and she’d already lain in his arms.

  “Mayor Gates, how do you define ‘making it’?”

  “I don’t understand your question.”

  “You said that Bear Coat wouldn’t make it without this plan to bring in gambling.”

  “That’s right. We need this development to save the town.”

  Reaching behind him, Jack picked up a large blueprint, which he unrolled like a proclamation. Belle fidgeted in her chair.

  Jack said, “These are the proposed plans for Wild West World, which include a gambling strip and other activities—panning for gold, a shooting gallery and such.”

  “Those are just some ideas, nothing definite. Besides, helping our economy will also restore Tin Town to what it once was. Just like Deadwood.”

  “Come now, Mayor.” Grace sensed Jack smiling, while Belle blushed like a schoolgirl. “This plan would no more make Tin Town look like it once was, than Disney’s Pirates of the Caribbean resembles a den of real pirates.” He glanced at Huggins. “The truth is, you’re exploiting the land to make a gambling strip and cheap amusement park.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “You’re right—I apologize. There’s nothing cheap about it. This plan will generate millions, and several people sitting in this hearing will be the beneficiaries.” He looked at the plans. “I see here a riding stable. That’s your ranch, isn’t it?”

  Huggins banged his fist on the table. “I resent this attempt to impugn Mayor Gates’s character!”

  “I withdraw the question and have nothing further to ask Mayor Gates.”

  Huggins next called the engineer, Chick Cantrell, who wore his suit as uncomfortably as Paul Bunyan. He testified that the most direct route from the highway into Bear Coat was through Tin Town “and the True Sky ridge.” He added that the road would alter the landscape as little as possible.

  After Huggins finished, Jack asked, “What about the plans for Wild West World? Won’t they inflict serious damage to the landscape?”

  “I guess it all depends how you define ‘damage.’ The way I see it, anything would improve the eyesore that Tin Town’s become.”

  “The road you propose building through Saul True Sky’s ridge. Won’t that affect the spiritual setting so important for his religious beliefs?”

  Huggins shook his head. “Mr. Cantrell is an engineer, hardly an expert in religion.”

  “That’s my point. People who know nothing about Mr. True Sky’s religion are trying to . . .”

  “True Sky’s religion is no reason to stop this project!”

  “It is precisely the reason the road and the entire project should be stopped.”

  “The Supreme Court has already—”

  Judge O’Hara rapped his gavel. “No doubt we’ll have the opportunity to consider the relevance of Mr. True Sky’s religion, when he testifies. Move along, Mr. Keeshin.”

  “Mr. Cantrell, have you heard of Bixby Engineering of Sioux City, South Dakota?”

  “No, I’m from Los Angeles myself.”

  Opening a folder on his desk, Jack continued, “I asked Bixby to do an independent survey of the area between the highway and Bear Coat. According to their findings, a road could be constructed into Bear Coat that would swing around the ridge, leaving Mr. True Sky’s property alone. Do you agree that such a road could be built?”

  “Sure, but it’d cost more money, be less direct, and wouldn’t go through a renovated Tin Town, which is key to the project.”

  Huggins said, “Your Honor, I need only refer to the case of Trans Continental G.P.L. Corp. v. Borough of Milltown to remind Mr. Keeshin that a municipality doesn’t have to justify a particular route, so long as the condemnation itself is valid.”

  “Your point’s well taken,” O’Hara said. “Anything else, Mr. Keeshin?”

  “No, Your Honor.”

  Huggins called Pearl, who sat primly on the witness chair. Wearing a white blouse with a high collar and puffy sleeves, she resembled a turn-of-the-century cameo, her thick red hair tied back with a tortoise-shell comb. Her legs looked smooth as ivory against a tan skirt.

  “We’ve had five independent realtors from the Rapid City area assess the land,” she said in that voice that was almost a whisper. “Remember, we’re only discussing Tin Town and an access road. Mr. True Sky would still be able to keep his house—it’s set far enough from the proposed road. We’re offering him the highest assessment, $105,000.”

  When Jack had his opportunity to cross-examine Pearl, he hesitated. For a moment, Grace wondered if he was falling for her too, like all the men did.

  Finally he asked, “As a realtor, can you tell us what will happen to property values if this project goes through?”

  “I suspect they’ll rise.”

  “If Deadwood is any example, won’t they skyrocket?”

  “It’s quite possible.”

  “I understand that you and your husband own considerable property in Bear Coat. In fact, over the past year you’ve purchased several properties in the downtown area. Wouldn’t this project—”

  “For Chrissakes!” Huggins bellowed. “Now, he’s not only questioning the integrity of this witness but also her husband, a respected member of the bench.”

  Judge O’Hara stroked his chin. “Mr. Keeshin, you may have gone a bit too far.”

  “Besides,” Huggins continued, “there’s nothing wrong with private interests benefiting from a condemnation, as long as it’s for the public good. I need only cite Re Chicago & N.W.R. Co. to prove . . .”

  “You’ve made your point. Mr. Keeshin?”

  “No more questions.”

  As Pearl returned to her seat, Huggins said, “We have nothing to add, Your Honor.”

  O’Hara turned to Jack, who nodded. “Just one witness. Mr. Saul True Sky.”

  Grace’s father walked slowly to the witness stand, while the townsfolk behind Huggins muttered to one another. He had on his old brown suit and turquoise string tie. His long hair fell loose, except for the small elk hoop he always wore above his right e
ar.

  Jack asked, “Does the reason you don’t want to sell your land have anything to do with the price the town’s offered?”

  Her father shook his head.

  “Is it because you have a grievance against its residents?”

  Again, a shake of the head.

  “Perhaps you’re against the idea of gambling and, therefore, oppose the project.”

  “I see what gambling does to people, leading them to crime and drinking. But it’s not for me to say what others should or shouldn’t do.”

  “Why won’t you sell the land?”

  “Since my people can remember, it has been a holy place. My grandfather would go up to the ridge and talk to those who’ve gone before us. He used to cry for a dream and would fly with the starlings to meet our ancestors—to hunt the buffalo with them.”

  Jack asked, “Have you personally had such experiences?”

  “When I was younger, I’d drink and get into fights. I went to prison. When I got out, my grandfather took me into his sweat lodge. He purified me, then took me up to the ridge. Together we dug a vision pit, and I sat there alone, with my chanunpa for three days, crying for a dream. On the third day, the sun suddenly grew dark, and from the east came a wind with the sound of hooves. It was then that I saw the elk. They came striking the ground like lightning and made me their brother. They taught me their secrets.”

  “What kind of secrets?”

  “How to care for those who are helpless, especially women, just as the elk protects his females.”

  “You can heal people?”

  “Those who are brothers to the elk have good power to help sick women.”

  That was true. Grace had seen him cure women with coughing and fainting fits, even white women who came to him. She herself had gotten over a bad fever with the tea he’d brewed.

  “Anything else?” Jack asked.

  “An elk dreamer can make a siyotanka, a love flute. When a woman hears a man play it, she’ll come to him.”