Clea's Moon

by Edward Wright

  He regarded her curiously.

  “I mean look at you. You used to have a good life, people looked up to you—”

  “Kids looked up to me.”

  “That’s right, they did. You meant something to them. Now you go around looking like an out-of-work cowhand. You need a shave most of the time, and those shoes haven’t been shined in. . . . You know, it’s one thing not to have a lot of money; we’ve all been in that fix one time or another. But John Ray, you act like a man who’s got no pride in himself.”

  He sat with his feet up on the table, head down, cradling his cup in both hands.

  “Listen to me, preaching to you,” she said. “Forget it. I’ve got no right. It’s just that I used to like you a lot, and I don’t like seeing you act like this.”

  When he looked up at her, it was with an easy grin. “Good breakfast,” he said. “That’s the first time you ever cooked for me, you know that?”

  She didn’t return the smile. “That’s because you didn’t wait around,” she said. “You missed out on a lot of things, John Ray. You were in too much of a hurry.”

  He nodded. “I guess if Iris hadn’t come along. . . .”

  “But she did, didn’t she? And you had your heart set on somebody who wore skirts instead of pants and who knew about things like makeup and dancing instead of horses and stables. So don’t give me might-have-been, that’s just bullshit. We’re talking about the way things are. We both moved on, and now I’m married to a good man.” She got up and began clearing the table. “I don’t blame you. Iris was quite a gal. Still is, I guess. I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you.”

  He couldn’t think of anything to say to that, so he went back to the bedroom. Clea had turned in her sleep and was facing him, her mouth slightly open. He sat on the bed and put a hand lightly on her shoulder. Her pajamas, the same ones she was wearing when he found her, had a pattern of little lambs jumping over a fence, something a girl would wear. Her hair was matted, and the room retained the sour smell of last night’s anxiety.

  She stirred, and her eyes opened suddenly. When they focused on him, her shoulder tightened as if a spring had suddenly coiled within it. Her breath came in and out quickly, and he heard the beginning of a whimper in her throat.

  “It’s all right,” he whispered urgently. “It’s me, Clea. Do you remember? I brought you here last night. Everything’s all right.”

  The tension slowly left her shoulder. Her mouth was slack, and she brought a small fist up to her mouth, as if she wished to hide behind it.

  “Do you remember?”

  She nodded.

  “We’re here at Maggie’s, and she’s going to let you stay here as long as you want. She has horses. You’ll like it here. Can I get you anything? Are you hungry?”

  “Drink of water,” she mumbled.

  He went to the kitchen and fetched a glass of water, which he put beside the bed. “Anything else?”

  “I want to go back to sleep.”

  “All right.” He patted her shoulder and left. Up front, Maggie was doing the dishes. He finished dressing and sat by the window, looking out at the dirt road and the fenced-in pasture lying beyond, under the warm sun. Some of the horses had been turned out and were grazing. One of Maggie’s workers was exercising two of them, riding a dark chestnut mare and leading a gray gelding by the reins. Through the open window he heard the man make a far-off clicking sound, encouraging the horses as he upped their gait to a trot.

  “I like this place,” he said, as much to himself as to Maggie. “It’s peaceful.”

  He reached in his shirt pocket and pulled out the photo he’d taken from Del Vitti’s wallet. It had caught Horn’s interest because it showed Del Vitti with Clea. Now he studied it. They were at some kind of nightclub, sitting at a table with drinks in front of them. Del Vitti smiled expansively for the camera, while Clea, wearing a grown-up party dress and holding a cigarette, looked subdued, almost grave. The photo was on heavy paper and apparently had been trimmed down from a larger size in order to fit in a wallet.

  Because of the trim, he saw little detail that might tell him where the picture was taken. Besides the table at which they sat, all he could see was a glimpse of a waitress behind them carrying a tray. She wore a fringed skirt. He looked more closely. There was something familiar about the skirt.

  “This is one of Davey’s,” Maggie said, laying a shirt on the varnished pine table next to him. “Might be a little short in the sleeve, but should fit you otherwise, and it’s in a whole lot better shape than that one you’ve got on. And here’s his razor, just in case you—”

  He stood up slowly, not hearing her, still staring at the photo. “I’m going to be gone for a while,” he said.

  * * *

  When he came through the front door of the casino, the place was not yet open for business. He spotted Mad Crow across the room, talking to someone by the bar. He crossed the room quickly, weaving his way through the poker tables. Mad Crow saw him when he was about ten feet away. The Indian’s eyebrows went up, and he started to speak. But Horn was on him in a few more long strides, his fist cocked, and he unleashed a right from the shoulder with all his weight behind it. Mad Crow tried to throw himself to the side, but the right caught him flush on the right cheekbone. His head snapped back and he fell against the bar.

  Horn set himself for another punch, this one a left, but he heard cries behind him, and in a second, two of Mad Crow’s boys had grabbed him by the arms. They dragged him away from the bar.

  “Jesus H. Fucking. . . .” Mad Crow crouched over, eyes bulging, holding his face, staring at Horn. “You crazy? What the hell you trying to do? You a crazy man?”

  Horn strained against his captors, but the two were strong. “Easy, John Ray,” he heard a quiet voice say. He glanced to his left and recognized one of Mad Crow’s nephews, Billy Looks Ahead, a young man with a face like a hatchet blade who, Horn vaguely remembered, had been with the Marines during the war.

  “What was that for?” Mad Crow went on. “You want to explain that?”

  “Sure, I’ll explain it,” Horn said, feeling suddenly out of breath. “Something in my pocket I’ll show you, if these guys’ll turn me loose.”

  “You going to swing at me again?”

  Horn exhaled loudly. “Not right now.”

  “I’ll be ready for you next time, boy, promise you that.” He gestured to the others. “Let him go.”

  Horn pulled out the cut-down picture and tossed it on the bar. Without picking it up, Mad Crow gave it a look. When he raised his eyes, Horn saw recognition in them.

  “You know who that is.”

  Mad Crow nodded.

  “And where it was taken.”

  The Indian sighed. “Why don’t you guys find something to do?” he said to Looks Ahead and the other man. Then, to Horn: “You mind if I put some ice on this?”

  “You go right ahead, as long as you talk to me.”

  Mad Crow went around the bar, wrapped some ice in a towel, and applied it to his cheek. “You want a drink?”

  “It’s early.”

  “So what? It’s my bar.” He opened a Blue Ribbon and indicated one of the round tables. They sat.

  “Before you say anything,” the Indian began.

  “No, me first,” Horn said. “This guy in the picture is dead.”

  “What?”

  “That’s right. Somebody shot him through the left eye. Very neat. Professional, almost. And Clea was there, in his house. He managed to hide her before the guy with the gun got inside, and that’s why—”

  “Is she all right?”

  Horn nodded. He briefly recounted the events of the night before. “But you don’t get any more answers until I get mine. First, how many times did he bring her here?”

  “Once.”
He saw Horn’s look. “Once, John Ray. That time the picture was taken. That’s all.”

  “When?”

  “About a month ago. I’m not sure.”

  “You knew I was looking for her. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Mad Crow lowered the towel-wrapped ice long enough to take a long pull on the bottle. “Okay, here it is,” he said, not looking at Horn. “You remember how the Mick wanted to buy in with me, and I told you I was taking a partner, somebody from Reno, to keep him off my neck? Well, that was about half true. He’s not from Reno, he’s more local. His name’s Vincent Bonsigniore.”

  “All right, I know who he is,” Horn said. “Why didn’t you want me to know?”

  “Because by then I knew you were looking for Clea, and I knew she was with this guy Del Vitti.”

  “So what?”

  “Well, Del Vitti worked for Vinnie.”

  Horn nodded slowly as he rubbed his eyes. Finally, a connection was made, one he had only suspected until now. Clea’s disappearance and Scotty’s death were not separate and distinct. They were linked by the menacing figure of Vincent Bonsigniore. But how? Clea could tell him, if only she would.

  “What did he do for him?”

  “I don’t know, odd jobs, everything. He came around with Vinnie when we talked about his terms for buying in. Young guy on his way up, you know the type.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” Horn asked again.

  “Look, it’s complicated. I didn’t want to tattle on one of Vinnie’s guys, get on the wrong side of my new partner. And I swear to God, I thought it was harmless. She showed up with him one evening. She saw me, ran over and gave me a big hug. I hadn’t seen her in years, and I was amazed at how grown-up she looked. I didn’t like Del Vitti, but I kept an eye on him while they were here, and I saw he was treating her with respect, almost like she was some kind of precious thing he didn’t want to see get broken.

  “When you said she’d run away from home, I thought she would just spend some time with this character and then go back to her folks, no trouble. I honestly didn’t see how there could be any connection with Scotty—looks like I was wrong, and I blame myself for that. But basically, I thought if I kept quiet, it would all sort itself out, you know? I didn’t know she’d be in any danger, John Ray, I really didn’t.”

  “She could have been killed. Damn it, Indian. You should have said something.”

  “Maybe.” Mad Crow put the towel on the table and looked at Horn under lowered brows. “But try seeing it my way for just a minute. She’s got a mother and a father to look after her. You’re not her dad any more, her mother doesn’t want you mixed up in this, but you go charging ahead anyway. You spend half your time acting like the world has crapped on you and the rest of your time poking your nose in where it isn’t wanted—”

  “You going to tell me I need my shoes shined? I just heard that from somebody.”

  “Well, yeah. You could use a haircut too. Look, I’m glad you were there last night, and I’m glad she’s safe now. But my crystal ball’s broke, and I didn’t know how this was going to turn out. I handled it the best way I knew how.”

  “You handled it wrong,” Horn muttered. He was about to go on, but he glanced at the other man and saw pain on his face, an expression Horn read as guilt and remorse. Mad Crow had always doted on Clea, and he would be slow to forgive himself for this.

  Horn decided to let it go. “Did you know Del Vitti called himself Tommy Dell?”

  Mad Crow shook his head. “But it doesn’t surprise me. Lots of guys like him pick up other names and use ‘em for a while. First time I heard the name Dell was when you told me about him over at the South Seas. I had to think about it a while before I figured it was the same character.”

  “You know any reason anybody would want to kill him?”

  Mad Crow shrugged. “He was a gangster. Good riddance. I’m just sorry I have to do business with ‘em every now and then.”

  “Why do you have to?”

  The Indian gave him a pitying look. “Boy, for a hardened ex-con you sure are innocent, aren’t you? Maybe you just don’t want to know anything. When you get out and I offer you some work, you don’t ask about any of the details, you just say, ‘How much does it pay?’”

  He waggled his empty bottle in the air, and a moment later one of his workers brought him a fresh one. Elsewhere around the big room, others were sweeping between the tables and cleaning up for the late-afternoon opening.

  “Look around you, boy,” Mad Crow said. “How much of this you think is legal?”

  Horn shrugged. “I don’t know. All of it, I thought.”

  “Well, you’re wrong. The poker games are fine. But the blackjack table’s unkosher, and so’s that wheel I had put in last month.”

  “So?”

  “So this: The poker doesn’t bring in enough, so I got to expand. I can’t do that without the help of the local policia out here in the sticks. That worked for a while, but they started squeezing me, and they know they can get away with it because I’m on my own. I let Vinnie in because he’s good at handling that side of things, they won’t mess with him, and he leaves me free to just run the place.”

  “For how much?”

  “Fifteen percent of my monthly gross.”

  “That sounds like a lot.”

  “Well, he brought in some capital. And anyway, that fifteen percent is worth it in peace of mind.”

  “Good for you. So how does it feel to be in bed with a piece of garbage?”

  “Still mad at me, aren’t you?”

  “There’s some things I could tell you about your friend Vinnie.”

  “I’m not in bed, I’m in business. And I notice you’re not too particular about where your next payday comes from, my rootin’, tootin’ friend. Look, maybe you don’t care whether you wind up sleeping on satin sheets or out at that shack you call an address. But I care where I wind up. I put in a lot of years playing the silent Indian while you went buggy-riding with the local schoolmarm, all that stuff. I knew there was only so far I could go in that business. And you know something? I didn’t resent you being the movie star, because I knew those were the cards I got dealt. And I knew you were a good guy who didn’t let that kind of thing go to his head.

  “But I didn’t plan to wind up sitting on the sidewalk outside the Brown Derby, wrapped in my colorful Indian blanket, telling everybody about the time I was in the movies. I took my money and I invested it, and I built this place. And now a lot of relatives are eating better because of me. I’m proud of myself. You want to turn up your nose at the kind of business I’m in, take a good look in your mirror the next time you’re ready for your weekly shave. Okay, cowboy?”

  They regarded each other evenly. Horn slowly pushed an ashtray back and forth between his cupped hands. Finally he said, “Okay, Indian.”

  Mad Crow exhaled loudly. “That’s fine.”

  “How’s your face?”

  “Pretty seriously wounded, I think.”

  Horn tilted his head slightly, studying him. “I’d call it an improvement.”

  “My great-grandfathers would call that counting coup. They thought it was the bravest thing they could do—riding up to a strong enemy and striking him with their coup stick.” He shook his head. “Fighting was just a game to them. If one side thinks war is playing games, and the other side takes it dead serious, who do you think is going to win?”

  “I know.”

  “That boy who grabbed ahold of you—Billy. You know he was in the war?”

  “I’ve seen that thing on his shirt. Like the one you wear.”

  “The Ruptured Duck?” Mad Crow glanced down at the gold-colored insignia on his lapel showing an eagle within a ring, its wings spread. “Yeah, most people have gotten out of the habit nowadays; the war’s
something they just want to forget. But I think it’s good for business, so I tell my bartenders and the other boys to keep wearing it. Hell, even I wear the damn thing, and I spent most of my hitch in Special Services, rubbing elbows with the likes of Bob Hope and Dorothy Lamour.” His eyes fixed on Horn. “You never wore the duck, even when you first got back. How come?”

  “I never needed any piece of metal to remind me where I’d been,” Horn said. He didn’t like where this was going. Just like Scotty, the Indian had sometimes alluded to Horn’s Purple Heart and tried to pump him for war stories. Horn once tried to joke his way out, saying that a Purple Heart meant only a wound, and the medal didn’t specify whether you got wounded while facing the enemy or trying to run from him.

  “You were going to tell me about Billy,” Horn prompted him.

  “Yeah,” Mad Crow said, clearly unsatisfied with Horn’s answer. “Billy, he’d never be satisfied with tapping somebody on the shoulder with a coup stick; he plays for keeps. Brought back a Bronze Star from Iwo Jima. Doesn’t talk about what he did, but I met a guy from his unit not long ago. He told me they were pinned down for hours by a handful of Japs in a bunker up on some ridge. Billy volunteered to go up there after dark. They heard shooting and yelling, and the next morning found Billy sitting there with a bunch of dead Japs. Some shot, some knifed. You want to hear the strange part?”

  “Okay.”

  “Once, over a couple of beers, Billy told me he misses it. Says the war brought out something he didn’t even know was there. I worry about him. He’s one of those guys they turned loose against the Japs and the Germans, and now, in our quiet little postwar world, these guys are going to be a problem.”

  “Maybe so,” Horn said. “But I’m not going to be a problem. I like things quiet.”

  “For an hombre who likes quiet, you sure make a racket every now and then. So how’s Clea doing?”

  “Not good. She saw her boyfriend dead on the floor before I could get her out of the house. And now she acts like she’s afraid to go home. Maggie’s helping me look after her until she’s ready to leave. I don’t want anybody to know where she is, all right?”