Cold Dish

by Craig Johnson

  He shook his head in mock earnest. “Oh, no. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable response to someone parking in your spot.” He wandered over to the doorway of the cell. “How about we have breakfast?” He glanced down at Bryan. “How about you?” To my relief, Bryan declined, and we slipped out the back way. “Interesting office management skills, kind of a ‘violence is not the answer so I’m going to beat the shit out of you’ philosophy.”

  I was looking at the sky; still nothing, but I could feel the coming storm. My eyes continued up the South Pass to the snow above the tree line; I was looking for George Esper.

  “Kind of like Indian foreplay.”

  He had to be up there, somewhere.

  “What do ten Indian women with black eyes have in common?”

  The fishing flies were the key and, if Ferg could connect the very specific lures to very specific areas, we might have a chance.

  “They just won’t listen.”

  If George knew about the weather, would he come down? Would he go looking for his brother?

  “How was your date last night?”

  The more time went by without finding him, the more likely it was that he was dead. I would have to deputize one of Ferg’s buddies and send him out to sit at the Esper place to see if anybody was going to show up.

  “You did not let her touch the wine, did you?”

  And what the hell was going on in Longmont? I could have driven down there and looked for them myself by now. At least Bryan was safe, but I needed to talk with his father. There was something there, maybe.

  “By the way, I got word on Artie Small Song.”

  I stopped. “What?”

  “I thought that might get your attention.” He was smiling and shaking his head. “I got a call from his mother, and she thought that we might want to know that Artie has been in Yellowstone County Jail, up in Billings, since Saturday.”

  That narrowed the field. “Charge?”

  “Carrying an unregistered concealed weapon without a permit.”

  I nodded to Dorothy when we threaded our way through the three or four locals sitting at the counter, and we took seats on the end stools toward the back. They had looked up, and I didn’t smile. “So, what’re you doing following me around?”

  “I thought you would be interested in Artie, and I have information about the feather.” He propped his elbows on the counter and leaned in. “Something has happened?”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “Your manner is curt and slightly agitated.”

  “Jacob Esper is dead.” I watched him very carefully, but there was no visible response.

  “That answers some of your questions.”

  “You don’t seem very upset.”

  “I am not. Should I be?”

  I looked at him for a moment. “No, I suppose not.” Dorothy brought over some coffee and a couple of menus.

  She was looking at my winter gear, and she smiled. “The game’s afoot?”

  I tossed the menu back to her. “The usual.” She raised an eyebrow and looked at Henry.

  “I will have what he is having.”

  The other eyebrow rose. “He doesn’t know what he’s having.”

  “I will have it anyway.”

  She looked at the both of us, shrugged, and headed back to the grill.

  “Tell me about the feather.”

  He sat back up straight, took a sip of his coffee, and made me wait, finally turning back and looking me in the eye. “Wanda Real Wolf. She used to head up the Cheyenne Artist’s Co-Op.”

  “The one that went out of business?”

  “Yes. It is much easier to get Indians to work together than artists.”

  “They’re her feathers?”

  “Feathers, plural?” I set my jaw and nodded, and he looked at me for a while. “Interesting. You have it with you?” I took the feather from my jacket and handed it to him. He turned the plastic bag over in the light from the windows and studied the contents. “It too could be Wanda’s.”

  “I don’t suppose Wanda keeps detailed records of her feather sales?”

  He sat it down between us and took another sip of his coffee. “Worse than that, she does not sell them separately, only on objects she and her immediate family make.”

  “Like?”

  “Dream catchers, flutes, pipes, dance headdresses, items like that.”

  “I don’t suppose she has a limited clientele?”

  “High-end tourist shops, all over the country.”

  “Great. So these things could be pulled off anything?”

  “Yes. I asked her if there was any way of finding the location or age of the pieces, but she said no.”

  I started to take another sip of my coffee, but the smell informed me that I had had enough. “Any way to tell what pieces the feathers could have come off of ?”

  “She said that small pinholes at the base of the quill probably meant that they came off dream catchers or pipes, nontraditional usage.” He caught me looking at the feather between us. “Both have such holes. I am afraid that does not narrow the field much.”

  “No.” I took the feather and stuffed it back in my jacket.

  He waited quietly. “There is more?”

  I weighed my options and decided to clear the air. “How come you were late going running yesterday?”

  He sat his coffee cup down, and a mischievous glint shaded his eyes. “I was out shooting white boys.”

  “I’m serious.”

  He turned and looked at me, square. “I know, and it is starting to piss me off.”

  Moment of truth. “Where were you?”

  He turned on his stool, straightening his body and trailing a hand down to rest lightly on his leg. The smile was gone, and his eyes had flattened. “Are you going to hit me?”

  My voice sounded mechanical. “I’m through hitting people today. Where were you?” It was a long pause.

  “Sleeping with Dena Many Camps.”

  Two steaming plates of Canadian bacon and eggs, sunny side up, with grits, were slid under our noses. I glanced over and then looked again. “That’s the usual?”

  She looked at Henry. “Told you.” With this, she freshened our coffee and moved down the counter to take care of the other customers. You had to hand it to her, she could tell when her clients wanted peace, if not quiet.

  I started to work on my usual, but he was still watching me, and I was starting to feel ashamed of myself. “She’s half your age.”

  He laughed. “Are you going to jail me for that now?” He turned and began eating.

  “You should be ashamed of yourself.”

  “It is only premarital sex if you are planning on getting married.”

  I spoke out of the corner of my full mouth. “You should be even more ashamed.”

  He kept eating, finally replying between bites, “You are such a prude.”

  “Pervert.”

  “Jealous.”

  I told him about Al’s description of the shooter, and we were through it, but he remained quiet for a while. I continued with the story of the two fishing vests, the flies, and Al Monroe. He agreed with the theory that George was probably up there somewhere. He asked if I’d checked the Forest Service sign-in sheets. I told him we had. He was thinking, “Largish with long maybe dark hair?”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Interesting.” He ate some more of his breakfast. “Were they hand-tied or store bought?”

  “What?”

  “The flies. If they were new and store bought, then maybe they mentioned to someone where they were going?”

  “I’ll radio up and ask Ferg.”

  We finished breakfast, and I asked Dorothy to fix up a usual for an occupant. She put it in one of the Styrofoam containers and handed it to me with a worn smile but with no questions. I tried to mend some fences. “I’ll probably be back for dinner.”

  “I’ll set the name cards.”

  We climbed the stairs behind the court
house; the weather hadn’t changed, and I was beginning to think we’d gotten a reprieve. When we got back to the office, Lucian was gone, but Ruby was waiting for me. I handed her Bryan’s breakfast.

  “His nose is shattered.”

  “I’m feeling bad enough, you don’t have to add to it.”

  “You’re not feeling anywhere near as bad as he is. They patched him up, but they say he’s going to have to go up to Billings to get it properly set.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I waited for more, but there wasn’t any. “Could you see if you can raise Ferg on the radio?”

  She flipped the toggle switches on the console and reached for her headphones, holding one side up to her ear. “Why, you want to beat on him, too?”

  I continued into my office with Henry close behind. He occupied the seat in front of my desk and was smiling. I sat in my chair. “So, you wanna be a deputy?”

  He looked at the accumulated clutter on my desk and the general disorder of the place. I had to admit, it didn’t look all that inviting. “I think I might work better outside the framework.”

  “Well, we do have a moral turpitude clause.”

  The little red light on my phone began blinking, and I was starting to get an idea of how angry Ruby was with me; she never used the intercom, she always came to the door. I picked up the receiver and spoke cautiously, “Yep?”

  “Ferg, line one.” And she was gone.

  I hit it. “Ferg?” The connection wasn’t great, but I could hear him. “Where have you covered?”

  Static for a while. “I started with Crazy Woman, middle fork of Clear Creek, and I’m headed up to Seven Brothers.”

  “I’ve got a question for you. Were those flies hand-tied or store bought?”

  “Store bought, definitely.” He paused. “I think they’re from the Sportshop.”

  “That is good news. Thanks.” I hung up the phone and looked at Henry.

  “Do you want me to go out to the Espers and see who shows?”

  “They also serve who stand and wait.”

  “Yes, but the pay is shit.” He looked around the office. “Have you got any books around here?”

  “I think I’ve got a paperback copy of Crime and Punishment”—I scouted out the bookshelves—“and I’ve got Lolita around here somewhere.”

  “I will pick something up.”

  As he left, Ruby appeared at the door, and I noticed he gave her a wide berth. “I need to talk to you.”

  I did my best to look repentant, but I had the feeling contrition wasn’t suiting me. “Yes?”

  “You need to talk to Bryan. I don’t think he fully understands why it is he’s here.”

  I thought of all the things I had to do. “Okay.” She stayed there, leaning against the doorway and looking at me. “What?”

  “You’re a sheriff. You’re supposed to stand against such things, not for them.” I made the mistake of smiling. “It’s not funny.” She was really angry now, the blue in her eyes was neon. “You could have called him in and talked to him, you could have fired him . . . There’s no end to the options that were open to you, but no, you waited, you planned, and you executed. Your actions were deliberate and with forethought.”

  I waited, then sighed, and continued on toward my doom. “Are you through?”

  “No, I’m not.” She was off the doorway in an instant and stood directly in front of my desk. She looked like she was about ten feet tall. “I’m thinking I should hand in my resignation.”

  “Ruby, I’m sorry.” She glared at me, still not giving an inch. “I was sorry when I did it.” I leaned back in my chair, just trying to get a little distance between us. “I’m mortified. It makes me sick.” I sighed again, looking out my window to avoid those eyes. “How is he?”

  “He looks horrible, both his eyes are black and his nose is . . . He has tubes in his nose.”

  “Ruby, please . . .” I got up and went around the desk, but she backed away, and the response was ferocious.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  I went ahead and stepped forward, opening my arms and pulling her in. She didn’t struggle, and I wrapped her up. “I’m sorry. I really am sorry.” I could feel how thin and fragile she was; her shoulder blades stuck out like sparrow wings.

  “I am so ashamed of you.”

  “I know, I know.” I held her there for a while, just listening to her breathe.

  “You know this could be misconstrued as sexual harassment?”

  “I hope so . . . How’s Lucian doing?”

  I felt her stiffen a little. “Don’t make your problems worse by asking.”

  I let her go and held her out to look at her. “Yes, ma’am.” The bell on the front door sounded as somebody pushed it open; we both looked toward the doorway. “You see to that, I’ll go talk to Bryan.” I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead and headed for the holding cells. When I got there, he was lying on his bunk, the remains of breakfast sat on the floor beside him, and the door still hung open. I went in and sat on the opposite bunk again. “Didn’t like your breakfast?”

  His arms were folded behind his head, but his face turned to me as I propped my Sorels up on the edge of his bed. “I’m just not hungry.”

  “I’d take advantage of the good stuff, we switch over to potpies on the weekend.”

  His attention returned to the ceiling. “I’m still going to be here over the weekend?”

  “Unless I can find who’s killing your friends.” I waited for a moment, watching him. “Jacob Esper’s dead.” He didn’t move at first, but then his arms came up and covered his face. I officially took him off the list. “I guess Mr. Ferguson didn’t tell you.” I looked at him. “You and George ever go fishing?”

  He thought. “Yeah, I mean we have.”

  “Where?” He was aware of how important the answer might be, so he removed his arm and looked at me. “Anyplace special? A lake on the mountain he likes best?”

  His eyes escaped mine and went to the floor. “Lost Twin, that’s his favorite.”

  I was up and out of the cell before I remembered. “Bryan?”

  He was already sitting up and looking at me. “Yes, sir?”

  “You’re not in here because you did something wrong, you’re here because somebody is out there trying to do something to you, and I’m not going to let that happen.”

  I blew through the cell door and rushed down the hall but pulled up short when I got to the front. He did look like hell, with the rolled-up cotton and tubes sticking out of his nostrils and the gauze bandage plastered across the bridge of his nose and his cheekbones underneath both black eyes. He was sitting on the edge of Ruby’s desk when I came in, and he started to get up, but I stopped him. “What’re you doing here?”

  “I’m here to work, unless you fired me.”

  His voice was thick and nasal; you could tell he was having trouble breathing. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital or on your way to Billings?”

  He stood, even though I put out a hand to stop him. “I’m here to work.”

  “You think you can?”

  He tried to stand up straighter. “I ain’t hurt that bad.”

  I kept trying to see Lucian in him, that little glimmer of the old goat that would make him salvageable. Maybe he was what Lucian would have turned out to be if the old sheriff hadn’t lived in such interesting times. A couple of years in a Japanese prison camp might be just what Turk needed, but I didn’t have a bridge over the river Kwai for him to build, so we had to settle for Powder Junction. “Go out to the Esper place and relieve Henry Standing Bear. Tell him to come back to the office.” He didn’t say anything, just gingerly made his way out the door.

  When I turned around, Ruby had her arms folded. “I suppose that’s as close as we’re going to get to an apology?”

  “I didn’t fire him.” She rolled her eyes. “Can you get me the Ferg, please?” I gave her a dirty look of my own. “Then if you would be so kind as to try and get Jim Keller on the phone?” This
got another questioning look. “Oh, and could you call the Yellowstone County Jail and see if they have frequent lodger Artie Small Song?”

  While she attempted to raise Unit Three, I walked over to the window and looked back up the valley. The clouds were just beginning to creep over the lower peaks, and it didn’t look good. We had an opening in the weather but, by my calculations, it was only good for about the next five hours. I needed help—as near as I could figure, about seven million dollars’ worth.

  “I’ve got him.”

  I turned back and took the mic. “Ferg, where are you?”

  Static. “Up from the Hunter Corrals.”

  “Turn around.”

  There was a long pause. “What?”

  “I think he’s at Lost Twin.” I shrugged for my own amusement and Ruby’s. “Appropriately enough.”

  A much longer pause. “We’ll never make it in there before dark, and with this weather coming in . . .”

  I keyed the mic and held it. “Yep, I know.” I looked over at Ruby. “I’m gonna get us some help. I’ll call you back. All I need you to do is get to the parking lot at West Tensleep.”

  Static. “Just the parking lot?”

  Static again. “Hey, Ferg?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Anybody who’s there . . . hold ’em.” I handed the mic back to Ruby, loving it when she didn’t know what I was up to. “Would you add Omar to the phone list?”

  “What in heaven’s name for?”

  I waited a moment, then batted my eyelashes and stated the obvious, “I need to talk to him.” I crossed the room and took out my keys and hung them on the rack, just in case anybody needed to move the truck. She shook her head and dialed as I made my way back to my office. I sat at my desk and made mental preparations for the coming conversations and for the plan that was just starting to fully develop in my mind. I glanced over at the doorway and around the corner to the safe where we kept the guns. I knew what was in there and made a few calculations on what we would need—all long-range weapons. There were a couple of battered old Remington 700s and a Winchester Model 70 and, as near as I could remember, the Remingtons were .30- 06s and the Winchester was a .270. All good rifles, but I was thinking of the Weatherby Mark V .308 that was lurking in the back. Omar donated it to the library raffle about five years ago, and I had embarrassingly won it, and it had rested in the back of the safe ever since. I wasn’t even sure if I had ammunition for the thing. I remembered the sign at the Marine Corps Scout Sniper School at Quantico that read THE AVERAGE ROUNDS EXPENDED PER KILL WITH THE M16 IS FIFTY THOUSAND. THE MARINE SNIPER AVERAGES 1.3 ROUNDS PER KILL. THE COST DIFFERENCE IS $2,300 VS. 27 CENTS. Shave and a haircut, two bits.