Obsidian

by Thomas King

  “It’s solid logic,” said Moses. “When you think about it.”

  “Rifle?”

  “Bolt-action Remington 700,” said Cooley. “I’m taking Stas and Big Fish elk hunting.”

  “You know,” said Moses, “I’ve never seen the ocean.”

  “It’s beautiful,” said Thumps. “Another world.”

  “Maybe if I like that driving,” said Moses, “I’ll get that licence and that insurance, and I’ll drive to the ocean.”

  Thumps smiled. “If you do, can I go with you?”

  “See the USA,” said Cooley. “In your Chevrolet.”

  Moses broke a piece of bacon in half and set the larger half on Thumps’s plate. “Did you find any answers in that ocean?”

  “Some.” Thumps put his fork to one side. “Along with more questions.”

  “Sometimes questions are as good as answers.” Moses helped himself to the coffee. “And sometimes they’re not.”

  Sometimes, Thumps thought to himself, the trick was knowing which questions to ask and which ones to avoid.

  “Tell me about Claire.”

  Both Cooley and Moses stopped eating.

  “For instance, Stanley’s father,” said Thumps. “Who is he?”

  Cooley dumped the rest of the bacon onto his plate. “Claire’s never told you?”

  “Where is he?” Thumps paused and considered the next question. “Is he alive?”

  Moses closed his eyes and sat back in the chair. “You should probably talk to Claire. That way you get it right the first time.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  Moses shrugged. “Don’t think so. But with women, you never know.”

  “I can’t just ask her.”

  “That’s true,” said Cooley. “It’s hard to sneak up on something like that without being seen.”

  “You should just ask her,” said Moses. “Asking shows you care.”

  “And if she doesn’t want to tell me?”

  “That’s the trouble with life, all right,” said Moses. “Sometimes, when you ask questions, you don’t get the answers you want.”

  Five

  The car show was at the Chinook fairgrounds. Thumps hadn’t wanted to come, but Cooley and Moses had insisted.

  “Good to get out,” said Moses. “Sunshine is supposed to make you cheery.”

  “I’m cheery.”

  “You still got that badge Duke gave you?” asked Cooley. “Sometimes it’s hard to tell the healthy cars from the sad ones. People selling their cars tend to forget the problems.”

  “You want me to flash a badge at them?”

  “Most people want to be honest,” said Moses.

  “But a little encouragement never hurts,” said Cooley.

  Freddy Salgado was manning the ticket booth. “Hey, Mr. DreadfulWater,” he said. “You’re back.”

  “I’m back.”

  “So, that’s two adults and a senior?”

  Thumps frowned. “You have to pay to get into a car show?”

  “It’s just to help cover expenses,” said Freddy. “And where else are you going to get to see all these great cars. You guys in the market?”

  “Moses is thinking about a 1956 Chevrolet Bel Air,” said Cooley.

  “Fine car,” said Freddy. “My dad really liked that year.”

  “A convertible,” said Moses. “So I can feel the wind in my hair.”

  “So, that’ll be $12.50.”

  “Quick,” said Cooley, “show him your badge.”

  THE FIELD IN FRONT of the grandstands was littered with cars. Mostly they were well organized in neat rows, but as the rows ran out, the edges turned ragged. The ground itself was broken and churned up as though a cattle drive had come through on its way to a railhead.

  “Chinook summer roundup,” said Cooley, kicking at a chunk of grass and mud. “You missed it.”

  Cole’s Classic Cars were in a roped-off section by itself. Chevrolet, Ford, Mercury, Plymouth. There was a 1956 Studebaker Golden Hawk and a 1957 Pontiac Star Chief. There was even a 1958 Ford Edsel Citation convertible.

  “I read that the Edsel failed,” said Cooley, “because people thought the front grille looked like a vagina.”

  “You’d think that would be a plus,” said Moses.

  Cole had two 1956 Chevrolet Bel Airs. One was a hardtop, white and turquoise. The other was a convertible, red and white.

  “I like the blue and white,” said Moses, “but the red and white is also nice.”

  “Look at this.” Cooley raised the hood on the convertible. “It’s got the Power Pack V8 265 with a dual-quad carb.”

  “You know your cars.” The woman who came around the side of the car was tall and thick with a mass of red hair that ran off in all directions. Someone you would never lose in a crowd. “In ’57 you could get a 283 with fuel injection, but I’ve always liked the lines of the ’56.”

  “It’s a nice car,” said Cooley.

  “Anderson Cole,” said the woman, and she held out a hand.

  Cole was dressed in jeans and a black and gold “Cole’s Cars” T-shirt. There was nothing threatening about her appearance, but her voice reminded Thumps of Roxanne Heavy Runner.

  “You know,” said Cooley, “you sound just like my auntie.”

  “Yes,” said Moses. “My heart is already picking up speed.”

  “The normal-looking hombre is George Gorka,” said Cole. “George is my road manager.”

  Gorka was dressed in slacks, a Cole’s T-shirt, and a sports jacket that was at least one size too big. There was a bulge on the left side under the arm.

  “I know,” said Cole, “you were expecting a guy.”

  “Fooled me,” said Cooley.

  “My dad started the business. I turned it into a travelling show. We go to places the big auctions don’t. I bring in about thirty to forty cars, mostly late ’40s and ’50s. The rest of what you see comes in from other collectors and dealers. And there’s always individuals who show up with a car they want to sell.”

  “Can you test drive the car?” asked Cooley. “Before you buy it?”

  “No test drives,” said Gorka.

  “If we gave test drives, all we’d do is wear rubber and burn gas.” Cole slid in behind the wheel of the car and started the engine. “Frankly, test drives are overrated. You can tell a lot just by listening.”

  Moses patted Thumps on the shoulder. “Now, that’s good advice.”

  “But, you know, I feel like taking this one for a spin.” Cole adjusted the rear-view mirror. “Maybe you’d like to come along.”

  “You bet,” said Cooley, and he quickly slid into the passenger’s seat.

  “Some of the cars have a reserve. Some of them don’t,” said Cole. “But if your bid is the winning one, I’ll throw in T-shirts for all of you.”

  Cooley opened and closed the glovebox. “You got a triple X?”

  “George,” said Cole, “we got triple X?”

  “You’re wearing one.”

  “Damn,” said Cole. “I do have to cut back on the pasta.”

  THUMPS WATCHED COLE and Cooley and the Chevy head for the exit. He had to admit that the ’56 was a handsome car. He could see why Moses liked that model.

  “The specialty cars and some of the high-end collectibles are in the animal barn.” Gorka kept his hands at his side, like a gunfighter in an old western. “You guys should take a look at the ’67 Mustang.”

  “Yes,” said Moses. “Those Mustangs were certainly popular.”

  “Wait until you see the paint job on this one.”

  “Steve McQueen drove a Mustang,” said Moses. “In that movie Bullitt.”

  “That was a ’68 GT fastback.” Gorka looked over his shoulder. “I better get back to the cars. Don’t forget to check out the barn.”

  THUMPS FOLLOWED MOSES as he toured the cars. The idea that the old man could drive a car on his property without a licence was true, but only in a limited way. Yes, he could tour the riverbank in both
directions, and he could drive out across the flat to the foot of the coulees, but what was he going to do when he ran out of gas? Or when the car needed an oil change? Or new tires? Or a tune-up? Once he left the protection of the river bottom and the reservation, he would need a licence and insurance.

  “Victor Brandt,” Moses said as they walked. “Mohawk guy out of Six Nations. He came through one summer. Stayed a couple of weeks. When he left, Claire went with him.”

  Thumps kept pace.

  “Love at first sight,” said Moses. “Happens all the time when you’re eighteen.”

  “Claire was eighteen?”

  “No.” Moses slowed as he came to a cluster of vintage pickups. “Victor was eighteen. Claire had just turned fifteen.”

  Moses stopped at a 1959 Dodge. There was a sheet taped to the driver’s side window with all the specifications typed out neatly in large letters.

  “What do you think?” Moses walked around the truck. “Fleetside or stepside?”

  “What?”

  “Cooley likes the fleetside ’cause you can lay a sheet of plywood flat,” said Moses. “Cyrus Old Person over in Browning swears by his stepside ’cause he can get to the hay bales easier.”

  “What about Claire?”

  “Couple of years later, she came home with Stanley.”

  “And?”

  “We were all happy to see her,” said Moses. “And that Stanley, he was one cute baby.”

  There was a 1955 Chevrolet and a 1951 GMC, as well as a 1958 Studebaker. Of the three, Thumps liked the pale blue and white two-tone Studebaker half-ton. It had soft edges with gentle lines. It looked like a truck that would be sympathetic and listen to you when you were down.

  “A pickup would be the practical choice,” said Moses.

  “What about Victor?”

  “I could load firewood in the back and drive right up to my front door.”

  “Claire’s never mentioned him.”

  Moses rested against the Studebaker and let the sun warm his face. “But if I got a convertible, we could drive it to the coast, and you could show me the ocean.”

  Stas Black Weasel came tramping across the field. “Hello, hello, old car lovers,” he shouted. “I am here to save you from myself.”

  “Yourself,” said Thumps. “Save you from yourself.”

  People who didn’t know Stas reasoned that, because of his last name, he must be Blackfeet. In fact, the man was Russian through and through. From Kazan. He had come to North America to see the Rockies and met Angela Black Weasel, who was working as an interpretive guide in Glacier National Park.

  “You are thinking of ancient car, yes?”

  “Collectible,” said Thumps.

  “I’m leaning toward a pickup,” said Moses.

  “Mercedes-Benz make pickup trucks,” said Stas. “Very good quality.”

  “Mercedes makes a pickup?”

  “Sure,” said Stas. “BMW also. But not in North America.”

  Thumps tried to imagine Moses behind the wheel of a Mercedes pickup. “They must be expensive.”

  “Yes, yes,” said Stas. “When you buy, you must sign agreement not to put firewood in the back.”

  “What?”

  “Also cannot drive into woods and get mud on tires.”

  “That’s a joke, right?”

  BEFORE STAS MARRIED ANGIE, his last name had been Fukin.

  “Good name in Russia,” he would say, “but not so good in English.”

  Stas was a master mechanic, had worked for Mercedes-Benz in Stuttgart, and after he and Angie settled in Chinook, he opened Blackfoot Autohaus. Stas’s specialty was high-end European and Asian vehicles, but his passion was hunting and fishing, and whether or not the garage was open depended on the season. Blackfoot Autohaus had posted hours that Stas didn’t necessarily keep and a phone in the office that he seldom answered.

  “Elk do not have office hours,” Stas liked to joke. “Fish do not take calls.”

  If you wanted an appointment, you drove to the garage and hoped that Stas was there and that you didn’t find a sign on the bay door that said, “Closed for Moose.”

  Stas ran a hand along the Studebaker’s flank. “Old cars are very beautiful. Interesting designs. Works of art.”

  “Ho,” said Moses.

  “Not so good as cars.”

  “Ho,” said Moses.

  “So, you look at old cars,” said Stas. “Enjoy, enjoy. Then you come see me. I find you good car, good truck. Something safe. Something dependable.”

  Some people found Stas a bit abrupt and opinionated, but Thumps liked the big Russian.

  Stas took a folded sheet of paper out of his pocket. “Also,” he said, “I have a list of questions you must answer.”

  Thumps wasn’t sure if Stas was talking to him or to Moses. “Me?”

  “Yes,” said Stas. “But before I begin, there is a . . . disclaimer. This is correct?”

  “Yes,” said Thumps, “‘disclaimer’ is correct.”

  “So, these are not my questions. These are women’s questions.”

  “Ho,” said Moses.

  Thumps could feel his mouth go dry. “Women?”

  “Angie,” said Stas, counting on his fingers, “Delia Fox, Crystal Bull . . .”

  “Stas . . .”

  “Brenda Many Bears, Mercy Smith, and Angie’s older sister, Thelma . . .”

  Moses leaned in. “Are some of the questions about Thumps and Claire?”

  Stas looked at the sheet. “Yes,” he said. “Several.”

  “And do the women want to know what happened on the coast?”

  “Yes,” said Stas, “they do.”

  “And why Thumps came back?” Moses turned to Thumps. “Boy, it must feel good to know how much people care about you.”

  Stas held out the sheet of paper as though it were a piece of hazardous waste. “So, this is for you.”

  Thumps put his hands up. “I don’t want it.”

  “If you’re lucky,” said Moses, “when the women stop by to talk, they’ll bring food.”

  COOLEY WAS BEHIND the wheel now, and he looked good as he drove the Chevrolet across the field. He was sitting up ramrod straight, and if he had had a top hat, he could have been a latter-day Geronimo in his Cadillac. Only the car in the famous photograph wasn’t a Cadillac. It was a Locomobile, probably from 1904.

  The shot had been staged at the Miller Brothers 101 Ranch, and in the photograph, the Ponca, Edward Le Clair Sr., sits next to Geronimo in full feather headdress, while two other Indians lounge in the back seat. One of the men is wearing a fur cap. The other sports a single feather. Geronimo is the only one in a black top hat.

  Thumps knew the photograph well, had looked at it any number of times, and he’d always wondered where Geronimo had gotten the top hat.

  And what in the world had possessed him to wear it.

  “Mr. Small Elk is a natural.” Anderson Cole patted her hair into place and touched the corners of her eyes where the mascara had started to slip. “I think this car has his name on it.”

  Cooley rolled his shoulders. “No power steering, so you got to be firm with the wheel.”

  “When you drive a car like this,” said Cole, “people stop and look.”

  “Don’t know that there will be that many people at my place,” said Moses, “but curb appeal is certainly a strong selling point.”

  Cooley took his cellphone out of his pocket. “Ms. Cole has invited us to a party.”

  “That’s right,” said Anderson. “Pre-auction party. Tomorrow night. Going to be right here with the cars. We got a tent in case it rains. Hot dogs, burgers, beer, soft drinks. Even some live music.”

  “Hot dogs and beer is excellent.” Stas held out the sheet of paper. “But you must take this or Angie will put me in cat house.”

  “Dog house.” Cooley raised an eyebrow. “What is it?”

  Moses rocked on his heels. “The women made up a list of questions for Thumps.”

 
“Is my auntie involved?” asked Cooley.

  “Roxanne Heavy Runner?” said Stas. “Yes, she is leader of questions.”

  “You might consider leaving town again. Just to be safe.” Cooley handed the phone to Thumps. “But in the meantime, maybe you could take a picture of Moses and me with the car.”

  Six

  It was well after three before Moses and Cooley dropped Thumps off in front of Chinook Pharmacy. The show had proved to be more fun than Thumps would have imagined. Not for the cars. They were interesting, but after one circuit of the show, he was ready to go.

  It was Moses.

  The old man had wandered up and down the rows, stopping every so often at a car he recognized. And for each car he stopped at, there was a story.

  “Delbert Night had one of these. One winter, he tried to drive it across the Ironstone. The ice was thick enough, but he couldn’t get up the bank because he couldn’t get any traction. So Delbert decided to try it from a running start. He was probably doing forty or fifty when he hit the bank and buried the truck. He had to walk home. The next morning, a chinook came through and melted the ice enough so that the back end of the truck broke through the ice. That night, everything froze up again and the truck wound up sitting in the river until the spring thaw.”

  Moses found a 1948 Dodge sedan with a heavy visor over the front windshield.

  “Edna Gladstone’s dad bought her one of these when she graduated from nursing school. Edna took us all out for a drive on the lease road. She was real nervous with her new car, so she drove extra slow. Frank Bad Bull began teasing her about how slow she was going, saying that he could walk faster than she was driving. Finally, Frank jumped out and began walking circles around the car. At one point, he put his shoulder against the trunk and began pushing, which was when Edna hit the accelerator and left Frank to walk home by himself.”

  Moses was particularly pleased to find a 1957 Ford Thunderbird.

  “This is just like the car Dwayne Sachs and Howard Goodstriker took down to Mexico. They stopped in Ensenada to do some deep-sea fishing and the car ended up in the ocean. If you ask Dwayne, he’ll tell you that someone stole the car and drove it off the pier. If you ask Howard, he’ll tell you that Dwayne had been drinking and thought the pier was the main road.”