In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Devouring. Devoured.

  That Charlie? True Shot said.

  No, I said. Charlie was long and thin, but that guy don’t look like Charlie at all.

  He’s from the plains, True Shot said.

  He pulled over to the curb. Just like that, the guy was right next to my window. I moved my arm and the guy leaned in the window, his long black shiny hair falling soft around his face. Halston. The guy was wearing Halston.

  Name’s Crystal, she said. What’s yours?

  I’m Will, I said. This here’s True Shot.

  Nice van, Crystal said. Room for three in the back.

  I didn’t say anything. True Shot said, We’re looking for somebody.

  Two somebodies, I said.

  Aren’t we all? Crystal said.

  You studlies are two somebodies, Crystal said, and put his glitter eyes on me and his big-lips smile. Crystal pulled his hair behind his ear. An earring, shells, and mother-of-pearl.

  One’s an Indian guy, True Shot said. Name is 2Moons, Charlie 2Moons.

  And the other guy’s got a shaved head, I said, And a full moon on his forehead tattooed above each eyebrow. His name’s Ruby, I said, Ruby Prestigiacomo.

  Crystal’s voice all at once got lower.

  You guys cops? Crystal said.

  No, I said. We’re just, I said, Looking for old friends.

  Are they dragons? Crystal said, and drew her hand, her long fingers, red Lee Press-On nails, slow across the skin of her neck.

  Dragons? I said.

  You know! Dragons, darling! Crystal said. Life’s a drag if only you know it. Like me, Crystal said.

  Crystal’s red Lee Press-On nails went from below her clavicle to over her shoulder to the dragons on the street corner behind her. The dragons were mostly young, mostly thin, mostly dark-skinned, all strapped into tight hot pants and miniskirts. In the light from the streetlamp, their faces glowed, faces painted on faces. They all looked at me through the faces on them. Patti LuPone, Diana Ross, Patti LaBelle, Donna Summer.

  The dragons all clucked their tongues and pushed their hips out and raised their arms, oo-la-la, shaven armpits, Evita, “Don’t Cry for Me.”

  Like them! Crystal said.

  My face was smiling. I stopped smiling.

  Where’s this Charlie Two Spoons from?

  Moons, I said. He’s from Fort Hall, Idaho.

  And Ruby? Crystal said.

  From Mars, True Shot said.

  It’ll cost you, Crystal said.

  How much? True Shot said.

  Twenty, Crystal said.

  True Shot and I both went to our wallets. True Shot had a couple fives, I had a ten. I went to give the guy our twenty dollars but True Shot grabbed my hand.

  That’s when True Shot said something to Crystal in another language.

  Crystal’s eyes were the deer in the headlights. Set in her jaw, the Mack truck.

  Look, Crystal said and flipped her hair, Halston, seashell, and mother-of-pearl earring flash. I don’t know these fucking guys, Crystal said. Just because I’m Injun don’t mean I know some Injun. And just because I’m on the street don’t mean I know a guy with two moons tattooed on his forehead.

  Two moons.

  My breath in. My breath out.

  The first time I’d heard the two words, two moons, put together that meant Ruby.

  Splash down through my heart into my stomach.

  Crystal had four long bottom teeth. The better to eat you with.

  South Dakota is a long ways away, Crystal said, and squatted down the way Charlie and his grandfather always squatted down.

  Crystal put her hand in between her legs, pulled the black lace codpiece aside, and there was her cock and her cock started pissing. The stream down between the black stilettos onto the curb into the street.

  Dragon piss.

  It’s a place I’ll never see again or want to, Crystal said.

  Then Crystal started singing. Baritone:

  It isn’t very pretty what a rez without pity can do.

  Crystal shook her cock, put back the lace codpiece, stood up.

  White people, Crystal said, got no special privilege to those little-town blues.

  Crystal put her Lee Press-On nail under my chin.

  What town without pity you from, honey?

  Pocatello, I said, Mostly.

  Fuck Pocatello.

  Crystal’s Lee Press-On nail was a sharp blade.

  People like me, Crystal said, Don’t fit anywhere but here. This island where we land.

  Headlights from behind Door of the Dead van went past, slow radials on the cobblestones. Crystal’s eyes followed the headlights, big snake little snake, prey.

  There’s hundreds of comers on this island, Crystal said, And there are thousands of us. Exiles from the heartland without a heart. Out of the old country, a brand-new tribe, dancing to new tunes around a bucket of fire in a vacant lot.

  We all know each other’s stuff, Crystal said, But that don’t mean we know each other.

  True Shot took off his mirrors and looked right at Crystal. I looked at True Shot, into his eyes, Saint-Vitus’-dance jade. True Shot said something in the language, something really beautiful and soft. He let go my hand with the money.

  I took the yellow Post-it with my phone number and Charlie’s info and Ruby’s info on it along with the twenty dollars and handed them out the window.

  Please, I said. Here’s my phone number.

  A car behind us blinked his headlights, bright to dim, bright to dim.

  How do I look? Crystal said.

  Perfect, I said. Just perfect.

  Crystal dabbed her eyes with the pad of an index finger, the red Lee Press-On nail sticking straight up. She sighed deeply, lots of shoulder, put the yellow Post-it and the twenty dollars down her dress, turned her back on the blinking headlights, pulled the back of her dress up, poked her smooth brown cayenne ass at the blinking headlights, looked into the headlights, her spotlight for life, moved her dragon lips, the bottom four teeth.

  Got to go, honey, Crystal said, and looked in at me, right at me, put her palm against my cheek, Lee Press-On nails on my ear.

  If I find him, Crystal said, I’ll call. Right now, I’ve got to go.

  Love ya, mean it.

  Mr. Right, Crystal said, Is waiting.

  TRUE SHOT AND I in Door of the Dead van on Gansevoort in our Saint Carlotta parking place. Meat trucks were parked all along the narrow streets. No Charlie 2Moons. No Ruby. Across Greenwich, on the other side of a Premium Meats truck, a woman—I was pretty sure she was a woman—on her knees on the sidewalk, sucking off some guy. All you could see of the guy was his potbelly and a cigar in his hand.

  Why don’t you get yourself one of those? I said to True Shot. I can go for a walk.

  A cigar? True Shot said.

  A blow job, I said.

  True Shot’s mirrors.

  It is this way, True Shot said. When the Little People told me to quit drinking, quit smoking, quit picking pockets, and quit with the drugs, they also told me to quit whoring. It’s not good for the spirit, True Shot said. And especially these days.

  Then out of the blue: True Shot, I said, Those purple bumps on Ruby, I said, Could be AIDS.

  True Shot turned his mirrors back to the windshield, put the clutch in, shifted down into first.

  All Dodges sound the same when you start them up.

  * * *

  AT 205 EAST Fifth Street, True Shot stopped the van. I put my hand on the door handle, then pulled my hand away. I started rolling a cigarette.

  True Shot, I said, You know so much about me, I said, I’m the one who’s always talking. What about you? I don’t even know where you live.

  True Shot’s mirrors straight ahead out the windshield.

  Bedford, True shot said, First stop on the L train after the river. Eighty-five North Third, corner of Wythe and North Third.

  What’s it like over there? I said.

  Over there, True
Shot said, There’s a motorcycle shop on the corner, the guy who runs it’s called New York Slicker and the place is crawling with Rottweilers. An old aluminum diner across the street vacant since I’ve been there.

  What apartment? I said.

  You can’t really call it an apartment, True Shot said, Let’s just say I live in a shed on the roof.

  Where do you park the van, I said.

  Across the street, on the fourth floor in the southwest corner of the parking garage.

  Then: So what do you do? I said.

  I live there, True Shot said.

  I mean sexually, I said.

  True Shot’s breath in, his breath out. Mirrors straight ahead out the windshield.

  Do you Green Date? I said. Masturbate?

  Like that, True Shot said. And I have two friends.

  The E.T.-phone-home guy, I said, Sticks the phone receiver up his ass. You ever stick things up your ass?

  As far as my ass is concerned, True Shot said, No things go in, things only come out.

  How do you like it best? I said.

  True Shot turned the key off. His hand, all the silver rings, playing with the turn signal.

  Sex is best for me, True Shot said, With me on top, on a bed or on a couch so my back doesn’t get kinked. I like my feet up against something solid, like a wall, and I like her with her legs spread wide and me just fucking the shit out of her.

  So your two friends are your girlfriends? I said.

  Like that, True Shot said.

  Do you fuck them a lot? I said.

  I fuck one of them about once a week, True Shot said.

  Only girls? I said.

  Only girls, True Shot said.

  Yeah, I said, That’s what Ruby said.

  True Shot’s mirrors over at me.

  What did Ruby say? True Shot said.

  That the only dick, I said, You’d ever have in your hand would be your own, I said. And in your mouth, the only dick would be your own dick, but you’re too fat to get to it.

  Yeah, well, True Shot said, Ruby’s lucky to even find his dick these days.

  Then: What did you say to Crystal the Dragon? I said.

  Just some things, True Shot said.

  What language was that?

  Sioux.

  Where did you learn Sioux? I said.

  Wounded Knee, True Shot said.

  Wounded Knee? I said. Charlie was at Wounded Knee!

  You never told me that, True Shot said.

  Not yet, I said.

  Maybe you knew Charlie 2Moons? I said.

  I didn’t know him, True Shot said.

  Do you know Leonard Peltier? I said.

  It is this way, True Shot said. It’s best I don’t talk about Wounded Knee.

  Are you wanted by the FBI?

  True Shot’s mirrors. On the surface, the color from another incarnation.

  It was a sacred time for me, True Shot said, And I made a promise not to talk about it.

  I could tell True Shot wasn’t going any further with Wounded Knee, but I tried one more time.

  I said, True Shot, I tell you everything. Just about everything.

  I promised, True Shot said.

  Inside the van only silence. For the first time, there was a space between us. Outside, the moon came out, a little bit of a slipper of a moon.

  True Shot, I said, there’s something wrong. I can feel it. There’s something wrong.

  With his right hand, True Shot swiped the dashboard and killed the Virgin Mary. Ripped the green-sequined photo of Brigitte Bardot off the ashtray. True Shot threw his mirrors out the window. Then, just like that, he let out a long coyote howl, his chest up and down, up and down.

  You stupid asshole, True Shot screamed, You gullible stupid fucking Idaho spud motherfucker! Can’t you see I’m a total fucking fraud? I’ve been lying to you all along.

  True Shot’s spit all over my face.

  But it’s not the truth.

  True Shot hadn’t moved. He just sat there and stared out the windshield.

  True Shot, I said, Did you tell Ruby Prestigiacomo about Charlie 2Moons?

  No, True Shot said, I didn’t.

  What about Ruby’s full-moon tattoos? I said. Two of them, I said. Two moons.

  Not a word, True Shot said.

  Promise? I said.

  Honest Injun, True Shot said.

  All Dodges sound the same when you start them up.

  Then: Charlie’s got a scar, I said. A big scar. Goes from his forehead through his left eye and down his cheek.

  True Shot shut off the van and took off his mirrors, pushed his face right into mine. My God, the color of those eyes, the way they moved.

  You never told me that! True Shot said.

  My eyes started blinking blinking.

  Not yet, I said.

  My father, I said, After Bobbie died, I said, Took his bullwhip to Charlie.

  True Shot leaned back quick into his seat, put his mirrors back on. He reached up and touched the buckskin bag, held it in the palm of his hand.

  I rolled a cigarette, lit the cigarette.

  Lots of silence.

  True Shot? I said. Are you sure you’re OK?

  The horrific whisper: Fine, True Shot said. Just fine.

  CHAPTER

  TWELVE

  Jupiter walked into the Residency yard one day, a little black dog with long hair and tail and floppy ears. Bobbie didn’t ask Mother or anything, she just scooped the dog up and named it and made the dog hers. Bobbie tied a red bow around Jupiter’s neck and an old rhinestone bracelet of Mother’s, and the red bow and the shiny bracelet against Jupiter’s black hair made him look real pretty, and at night Jupiter running around in the moonlight looked like pictures you saw of fireflies.

  Jupiter and Bobbie were always together up in her room, her hair up in rollers, listening to the hi-fi stereo. Jupiter even slept on her bed with her.

  The trouble with Jupiter was Father. He didn’t allow us any cats or dogs. Said they would interfere with his animals, and his animals was how he made a living, so we never had cats or dogs, let alone a dog in the house, let alone sleeping on the bed.

  But it was summer and we never saw Father in the summer, sometimes not till November.

  It was a scorcher, and the sun was unrelenting light through my bedroom window. Charlie and I were lying on the bed. Charlie was reading My Ántonia, and I was playing Chinese checkers with myself.

  The unmistakable sound. I ran to the window. It was hard to see anything with the cottonwood right there, but Charlie and I were scouts and we knew how to look through the leaves down into the shade of the cottonwood lane, and sure enough, from in between the branches and the leaves, there was Father’s atom-bomb swimming-pool-blue pickup and matching camper and matching horse trailer, coming up the lane. In August.

  There were two things fast we had to do. We had to get to Bobbie so we could figure what to do with the dog, and we had to get Charlie out of the house. The two things were in that order, because Charlie and I figured Charlie could go out the window and climb down the cottonwood without being seen, no problem, once Father was inside the house.

  Charlie stayed in my room and I beat it down to Bobbie’s room. When I knocked on Bobbie’s door, Jupiter started barking.

  I just went ahead and opened the door and Bobbie was painting her toenails coral and listening to “Chances Are” and she was about to lay into me with What the fuck? when I said, Father’s here. He’s pulling in the yard.

  Bobbie jumped up fast, which made Jupiter bark all the more.

  Oh, shit! Bobbie said.

  I said, Give me the dog!

  Give you the dog? Bobbie said.

  I’ll put him in my room, I said.

  He can stay in my fucking room, Bobbie said.

  No, my room, I said.

  Why your room? Bobbie said.

  Father doesn’t ever come in my room, I said.

  Bobbie with her shades drawn in the Marilyn Monro
e light, and the map of the Known Universe, standing by her perfectly made bed with her coral toenail polish brush in her hand, “Chances Are,” Jupiter running around barking—Bobbie looked at me, and everything that had ever gone on that we never talked about was right there in the room between us.

  OK, Bobbie said. Take the dog.

  Charlie and I waited till we heard Father, too loud, in the hallway, calling his family to him.

  Charlie jumped out the window and scaled down the tree, Jupiter under one arm. I watched Charlie and Jupiter all the way until they crossed Highway 30.

  FOR DINNER, MOTHER got a roast out of the freezer, and we had roast and potatoes and canned beans. She even made a pie. Peach. Mother hadn’t made a pie since before the baby girl in her had died. We sat in the dining room, at one of the long tables. Mother at the foot of the table, in her violet dress with the sequined orchid all the way down the front, her hair done up, Orange Exotica lipstick, her nylons with the swooping seams, her high heels with no toes; Bobbie on one side of the table, in her sundress with the yellow daisies on it and her white Keds, her hair all bouffant. She wasn’t tanned at all, from being in her room. I was on the other side of the table, in clean Levi’s, boots, my white shirt; Father at the head of the table, behind his Crown Royal and Coke, needing a shave. His Levi’s shirt was open a few buttons. He smelled like the inside of his pickup.

  Just before we started eating, Father proposed a toast.

  To the Pendleton Roundup! Father said, and Bobbie and I raised our milk glasses and mother her iced tea.

  Assholes fired me! Father said. Artistic differences.

  After dinner, Father did some of his tricks. He pulled a quarter out of Bobbie’s ear, made his Crown Royal and Coke disappear, pulled the ace of hearts from the front of Mother’s dress. Did his imitation of Al Jolson imitating a black man singing “Mammy.” He was asleep on the green couch in front of the fireplace by eight-thirty.

  MOTHER DID PRETTY well for about a week, fixing her hair and wearing dresses and cooking dinner. Dinners the first week were things like mashed potatoes and gravy and steak, pork chops and french fries, baked trout and potatoes au gratin. The first week, Mother was pretty and she smiled at Father, and when Father said things—like I’ll show ’em! I’ll take my show to Madison’s Square Garden! What the hell does Pendleton, Oregon, know about putting on a show?—Mother would smile and say, Oh, Cotton!