Junkyard Dogs

by Craig Johnson

  He continued to study me, and I thought about the damage we all did in life simply by being ourselves and getting up in the morning.

  “I made your eye appointment.”

  “I know. Ruby said.” I had stopped in at Isaac Bloomfield’s office after discovering that George Stewart’s room was empty. “Did you release Geo?”

  The Doc looked up through his thick glasses at the floating dust motes in his office. “No, he pulled a Longmire.”

  I leaned in the doorway and hooked my hat on the handle of my Colt. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Isaac closed the book in his hands and reshelved it on top of the fifth of the precarious stacks that were on his desk. “He checked himself out and disappeared into the night, not unlike another individual we periodically treat here at the hospital whose escapes have become so regular that we have now made his name a part of the lexicon.”

  I dipped my head along with my smile and studied my boots in contrition. “Any idea when he left?”

  “The night nurse reported him missing at one o’clock rounds.”

  I thought about it. “How did he get home? He didn’t have a car, and as far as I know Duane and Gina were in Sheridan.”

  Isaac adjusted his glasses. “What?”

  “Doc, did anybody see Betty Dobbs around here last night?”

  He looked surprised. “That’s the second time you’ve asked about her in twenty-four hours. Is there anything I need to know?”

  “You don’t need to know, and trust me, you don’t want to.”

  I thought about the time line. It had been around ten-thirty when I’d left Betty and after midnight when her son had confronted her, but she could’ve collected Geo before or after she’d gone home. I’m not sure why it was I was dwelling on the details of the previous night; maybe it was habit, maybe it was because I preferred those thoughts to the Saizarbitoria debacle, or maybe it was something else.

  The Basquo had checked all the medical records and was waiting for me when I got to the reception desk. He was sitting in one of the waiting chairs and gazing out at the gray day.

  “Is Marie here yet?”

  He looked up at me with an indifferent look on his face. “She’s here with the baby now.”

  I stared at him. “Everything all right?”

  He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

  I nodded and sat in the chair beside him. “Well, good.” He nodded this time but still seemed distracted, so I changed the subject. “What’s the word on the cooler?”

  “Nothing much. The bar code is actually three years old, and the cooler was bought at a Pamida discount store. The nearest one is in Worland, which is seventy miles away, and there’s one in Moorcroft and Douglas.” He paused for a second and finally looked at me. “You’re not going to make me drive to Worland, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Or Moorcroft.”

  “No.”

  “Or Douglas?”

  “No.”

  His eyes returned to the window. “Good.”

  “Anything from the hospitals?”

  “A guy died on a three-wheeler in Story over the weekend, but it would appear both of his thumbs are accounted for.”

  “I thought they outlawed those things.”

  Sancho remained still, his eyes reflecting the dead of the afternoon. “They did, but more than a few still turn up.” He sighed. “How’s the Municipal Solid Waste Facility Engineer?”

  “Released himself on his own recognizance.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep, and it’s possible that Betty Dobbs is missing in the short term.”

  He took a long breath. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.”

  “About what?”

  He leaned in a little and spoke in a low voice. “Boss, were Betty Dobbs and Geo Stewart kissing?”

  I laughed a short laugh and sighed. “Vic is referring to the case as Love Among the Ruins.”

  “Wodehouse?”

  I shook my head. “Evelyn Waugh by way of Robert Browning.”

  “It have a happy ending?”

  I shrugged. “As much of a happy ending as a hermaphrodite having disfiguring cosmetic surgery to have her beard removed and an orphaned government official returning to a life of pyromania can be.”

  The Basquo rolled his dark eyes. “Now, why would someone write that shit?”

  It was risky, but I thought I might be able to transition the conversation. “I think he was making a satirical statement about the inherent failure of the pursuit of happiness and the ability of any state to provide for it.”

  He nodded as he stood. “I can get behind that, but where do the bearded hermaphrodites and government pyromaniacs come in?”

  “It wasn’t his strongest work; maybe you should try Brides-head Revisited.” I stood. “Where are you headed?”

  He looked at his wristwatch, another chronographic monstrosity like Vic’s, with at least thirteen dials. “Marie should be finished with Dr. Gill so I thought I’d give her and the baby a ride home and then head back to the office and see if the NCIC has anything on the thumb.”

  I nodded, aware that that was the third time he’d referred to his son as the baby; at least he wasn’t calling Antonio a critter. “How ’bout you let me take Marie and Antonio home and you can go ahead to the office?”

  “You’re sure you wanna do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t mind.”

  “Okay.” I put my hand on Sancho’s shoulder and steered him toward the glass doors that whipped apart like magic when we stepped onto the rubberized mats. He smiled, and I was starting to feel like a baby seal in a Louisville Slugger factory.

  I knew where Dr. Gill’s office was and leaned against the wall by the closed door, near enough so that I could hear them talking but far enough away to not understand what was being said.

  I thought about Martha and how unprepared we’d been for our daughter. As it turned out, we hadn’t screwed up that bad, and the ongoing project was now a lawyer in Philadelphia and engaged to a fine young police officer, who was Vic’s younger brother. I think Martha would’ve approved of all but Vic, and then I thought about how unprepared I was for Cady getting married.

  The door opened, and Dr. Gill looked at me over his bristle-brush mustache. “Well, we were expecting a uniform but not the big star himself.”

  I took his hand and shook it. “Hey, Trey. Sometimes I take the more difficult jobs.”

  He turned and looked back at the beautiful young woman now standing in the doorway, who glanced up at me with a frank and appraising look. She held Antonio swathed in a blanket in her arms. She wore gloves, fur-lined leather ones, a simple green dress, a heavy, shapeless coat, and sensible shoes—a wise choice, considering the conditions.

  “I’m your ride.” She gave a brief nod and carefully made her way past me. I glanced back at Trey and shrugged. He smiled, waved a little wave, and shut the door between us.

  “So, how’s the Critter doing?” Had I just said critter? I stumbled ahead. “Colicky?” She watched her feet as she walked, the dark hair forming an impenetrable hood with only a small upturn at the end of her nose evident.

  Again, the slight nod.

  I had a mild panic attack, my natural response to feminine silence. “Cady, my daughter, was like that; the first six months, we thought we were going to die.”

  Marie and I turned the corner at the end of the hallway, and I followed her through the automatic doors. It had gotten colder, and she hunched her shoulders up around her neck in an attempt to protect the bare skin at the nape and pulled the tiny bundled person a little closer.

  I opened the passenger door of my truck, and Dog leaned forward to sniff at them. Sancho had put the baby’s car seat in, and Marie installed him. I supported her hand, and she slipped onto her seat. I stood there for a second and then closed the door. I climbed in my side, fired the engine up, and turned to look at her as she attached the seat belt. I thought she might say somethin
g, but she didn’t.

  I slipped the Bullet in gear and drove.

  The wind was picking up; it was that lifeless time of winter when the shroud of the high plains stretches the sky’s rinsed cobalt with smears of thin, vaporous clouds.

  I turned off Fetterman and took a right onto Poplar. Marie tucked the baby’s blanket and folded her hands in her lap—if the little guy was colicky, he was showing no signs of it this afternoon. I didn’t make a conscious effort to talk but found words in my mouth with nowhere else to go. “We didn’t think we were ready.”

  I watched the numbers on the houses increase—they were smallish cottages that the mines had originally constructed for their employees but that subsequent owners had added on to until it appeared that one carport joined with another deck which joined with another porch. The hues of the little houses at this end of town were defiantly vibrant; whistle-stop colors in graveyards. Cars were parked in grassless yards, and dogs were tied to leafless trees by chains that led into the black openings of insulated doghouses.

  I slowed the truck at 441 and pulled onto a cracked concrete drive with a faded tin shelter that sagged at the back. There was a Nissan Pathfinder with a bumper sticker I remembered from the first day I’d met the Basquo that read IF YOU DIE, WE SPLIT YOUR GEAR. I wondered if he had had a chance to climb any mountains since he had moved to Durant.

  I killed the motor, cracked the door, and gingerly walked around the truck. She already had her door open and had unlatched the baby, presenting him to me. I took him carefully, and she got out of the vehicle. Her purse dangled from her elbow, and the three of us eased our way up the two steps of the tiny porch where, to my surprise, she pulled a set of keys from her purse and unlocked the door.

  I wasn’t aware of anybody in our town who went so far as to lock their doors; most people didn’t even close them until really cold weather. They even left the keys in their cars with the engines running while doing errands downtown. We lobbied against such activities and went so far as to move the citizens’ cars around the block in an effort to make them aware that they could be easily stolen, but it had little effect other than smart-aleck phone calls to Ruby.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  I glanced down at her. “I’d love a cup of tea.”

  She nodded, one brief jolt of her chin.

  I followed her into the house. It was small, had probably been built in the twenties, with a set of narrow stairs that rose to my right, living room to my left, and a small dining alcove that must’ve turned the corner into the kitchen. She continued on, but I paused at a nifty little wood-burning stove nestled in a river stone fireplace. The house was spotless, and there were sweet touches everywhere; lace curtains in the windows, hardwood floors waxed within an inch of their grain, and a deep red border with a twin set of gold stripes that raced the perimeter of the room. The furniture was old but sturdy, and there were a number of framed pictures on the mantel.

  I took the two steps to the fireplace with the baby still in my arms—I think he liked the heat from the stove as much as I did—and I studied the photographs on the thick slab of dark wood. There was a wedding photo with the handsome groom and beautiful bride smiling at the camera, yet clutching each other like they knew what was ahead. There were a few shots of some older folks, about my age, actually—parents, I assumed—and one to my far right, a black and white with three individuals standing in some frozen coulee. The two flanking men were very tall, but my focus was on the center one, a young man with glacier glasses that reflected the mountain sky and adorned with the trademark Vandyke. He was smiling like a banshee, his fists planted on his hips, and a Tyrolean hat kicked to the side of his head.

  Musketeer Santiago Saizarbitoria, mountain climber.

  “He’s very proud of that one.” She’d shed her coat. The baby was making a few mewing sounds. “Can you continue to hold him while I make the tea?”

  “Sure.” I readjusted him against my chest and slowly twisted back and forth.

  She considered me for an instant and then disappeared around the corner.

  I peeled the edge of the blanket back and looked into the almost black eyes of Antonio Bjerke Saizarbitoria, aka the Critter. Even at three months, the swaddling looked like he’d been popped out of a Santiago mold. The dark eyes were wide. I extended a pinkie and watched as his little fingers wrapped around my proffered digit. “Howdy, partner.”

  I heard the ding of a microwave, and Marie appeared with two cups of tea complete with saucers.

  I gestured for her to put mine on the mantelpiece. “The other two men in this one look familiar. Are they brothers?”

  “Jim and Lou Whittaker—Jim was the first American to climb Everest, but that’s Mount Rainier in Washington. San spent a few summers guiding up there for them.”

  “They must’ve named it after the beer.” She didn’t laugh. “Is that what you call him, San?”

  She sipped her tea. “I call him lots of things, but that one’s for public consumption.”

  I gestured with the baby. “And what do you call this one?”

  “The Critter.” I turned red, she grinned, went up on tiptoes, and peered over my arm. “He’s awake.”

  I tried to get a little of the color to drain from my face. “Yep.”

  She looked at me, a little surprised. “And he’s not crying.” I reached over and took a sip of my tea, which was briny, dark, and good. Maybe that’s what I needed in the late afternoon, a little caffeine pick-me-up. “So, I’m getting the feeling that Sancho is a world-class mountain climber.”

  “He is, or he was.” It was cozy there by the fire, and she showed no interest in moving. “Nothing happened, he just stopped climbing. The whole reason we moved here was so he could be near the mountains.”

  “It’s probably hard to be a world traveler on twenty- one thousand dollars a year.”

  She glanced up at me. “Twenty thousand and sixty before taxes.”

  “Oh.” I’d said it for comic effect, but she still hadn’t laughed. “Marie, trust me, there’s no one more aware of the shortcomings of the county budget than me.” I took another sip. “So, if I give him a raise, do you think he’ll stay?”

  Her Basque eyes were metallic and shone like hematite. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “I will, if you think it’ll do any good.”

  She said nothing, and I was afraid we were going back to the silence. She set her tea on the mantel next to mine and flexed her hands as if they were lonely. “You think it’s me, right?”

  I paused. “Think it’s you what?”

  “Who’s holding him back or something—keeping him from climbing, doing his job, everything.”

  I returned my cup to its saucer. “I didn’t say that.”

  “It’s what you’re thinking though.” Her voice carried no edge. She seemed to relax, almost relieved to have the subject broached. She took a deep breath and added, “Isn’t it?”

  “It had crossed my mind.”

  We listened to the wind pushing against the pocket-sized house and beating against it like the tail ends of a rope. She looked at the fireplace, the agates resting on the river stone like deep water under a fall, and I thought about what my Indian scout had said earlier, and how once again I was venturing onto thin ice.

  “Whether he’s doing this for you and Antonio or not, he’s going to regret it, and I’ve learned from experience that it’s not the things we do in life that we regret so much as the things we didn’t do.” I smiled at her, trying not to sound like her father.

  The silence suited her just then, and I could tell she was fond of the rhythm of the little house. She looked at the baby in my arms and then at me, and it was like I was cascading into that deep water at the base of the falls. “Sheriff, promise me you won’t let him get hurt.”

  5

  “What kind of a horse’s ass promise was that to make?”

  He had a point.

  Henry was seated on the old sheriff�
��s leather sofa, was petting Dog, and smiling. I studied the marred surface of the chessboard and the open squares where I could possibly hide my king long enough to forestall the inevitable. The wind was continuing to blow outside, but it felt close and warm in room 32 of the Durant Home for Assisted Living. “Well, what was I supposed to say?”

  The old sheriff picked up the cut-glass tumbler of Pappy Van Winkle’s Family Reserve and examined the twenty-three-year-old bourbon, finally placing it on the prosthetic knee that had replaced the original since the forties.

  “I never made a horseshit promise like that to any wife of anybody that ever worked for me, I can tell you that much.” His index finger shot out from the glass, sighting on me from across the chessboard. “You go around makin’ bullshit promises like that, you’re courtin’ disaster.”

  I moved my king and glanced at Dog, asleep with his head in Henry’s lap and taking up two of the three cushions on Lucian’s sofa; it seemed that Dog and the Cheyenne Nation were the only ones who ever sat on the thing.

  “Check.”

  As I reset the board, Lucian refilled our glasses. He rattled the ice in his, the mahogany eyes scanning his room as the sound of the wind stiffened, and he looked out the sliding doors. He sat like that looking like a line drawing in a Louis L’Amour novel—page 208, Twentieth-Century Lawman, Lucian Connally. “Let’s see, we only had five altercations worthy of mention when I was sheriff and four of ’em involved you.”

  “Yep.”

  He’d always had the darkest eyes I’d ever seen, even in comparison with the Basques, or the Crow or Cheyenne, for that matter. The old sheriff dug into his vest pocket for his pipe and beaded tobacco pouch, which had been a gift from the Northern Cheyenne tribal elders. He looked at Henry for confirmation. “Still, I’d say his tenure as sheriff has been a lot harder on him than mine was.”