by Thomas King
“Mr. DreadfulWater.” Boomper reached out from the crowd and dragged Thumps in. “What are you drinking, son?”
The curtains on the side of the room facing the front entrance had been drawn so you couldn’t see the protesters, but you could still hear the drum above the crackle of conversation.
“Just water for me.”
“Water,” said Boomper, cocking his head in the direction of the singers. “That does appear to be the topic of conversation.”
Parrish held out a hand. “Tell us,” he said, “is that a war dance?”
“Round Dance,” said Thumps. “It’s a social song.”
Parrish nodded. “But not tonight.”
“I think they just want to make sure that you know there’s an objection to the privatization of water.”
“Duly noted,” said Boomper. “Course there’s always a small minority that objects to everything. That’s why the majority rules.”
Thumps looked around the room. “So money has nothing to do with it?”
Boomper’s smile looked like the sun coming up. “Hell, son, money has everything to do with it. After all, we live in a democracy. And in a democracy, it doesn’t matter how much money and power the other guy has. In a democracy, what matters is how much money and power you have.”
Thumps wasn’t sure if Boomper was joking. “And here I thought that democracy was about equality and the pursuit of happiness.”
“Yeah,” said Boomper, “a lot of people think that.”
Thumps scanned the room. “Mr. Cruz not here?”
“Oh, he’s around,” said Boomper. “Here and there. But I’m going to have to ring the bell on this round, seeing as our guest of honour has arrived.”
Claire Merchant was standing in the archway. Normally her wardrobe consisted of shirts and jeans with a cotton print dress thrown in, along with a black business suit for when the government came calling. But here she was in a deep-blue evening dress that shimmered even when she was standing still. Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she was wearing dangling earrings. Thumps didn’t know she even owned earrings.
“And that’s her legal beagle,” said Boomper.
Next to Claire was a tall, dark man whose most arresting attribute, besides a muscular body and a handsome face, was a mouthful of perfectly white teeth. So this was the new boyfriend. The lawyer from Missoula. Thumps tried to remember if the beagle had a name.
“That the new boyfriend?” Beth Mooney appeared at his elbow.
“I suppose.”
“We need to talk.”
“About the boyfriend?”
“No,” said Beth, “we need to talk about you.”
Thumps glanced at the long table of food and realized that he was hungry. “You want a piece of pie?”
“I don’t,” said Beth, “and neither do you.”
Actually Thumps did want a piece of pie. Perhaps two.
“Here it is,” said Beth. “Straight up. You’re diabetic.”
Thumps thought Beth had said he was diabetic, but he had been trying to decide if he wanted the cherry and the apple or the cherry and the chocolate cream. But only if the cream was real whipped cream and not one of those plastic substitutes.
“What?”
“I have to wait for the blood test to come back to confirm it, but the urine test was good enough for me. You’re diabetic.”
Thumps had no reason to think that Beth was joking, but he checked her face anyway.
“I’m not joking.”
“So, how long do I have?”
Beth put a hand gently on his chest. “At your current blood-sugar levels,” she said softly, “you’ll be dead in a week. Two tops.”
THE LAST THING Thumps remembered was watching the room tilt and wondering why. And then he was lying on the floor. Beth and Claire were both kneeling next to him. This was nice.
“Jesus,” said Beth, “you don’t do so well with medical humour, do you?”
“Diabetes is funny?”
“I meant the two weeks.”
Claire looked even better up close than she had from a distance.
“Thumps has diabetes?”
And she smelled good. In fact, she smelled a little like pie.
“You’ll have to ask him,” said Beth.
“You’re diabetic?”
For some reason, the back of his head hurt. Thumps tried to sit up, but as soon as he lifted his head off the floor, the room began moving again.
“Thumps?” There was concern in Claire’s voice. He hoped that Muscles from Missoula could hear it.
“So it would appear.” Thumps tried sitting up again. This time the room stayed put.
“Easy,” said Beth. “You hit your head when you passed out.”
“You didn’t catch me?”
“Oh,” said Beth, “now you want to joke.”
Boomper was waiting for him when he got to his feet. “Damn, son,” he said, “you sure know how to spark a party.”
“Sorry about that.”
“Hell, diabetes is nothing to be sorry about. My uncle was diabetic. Damn fool wouldn’t listen to his doctor.”
“He died?”
“In a manner of speaking.” Boomper took a bite of the slice of banana cream pie he was holding. “They took him apart in pieces. First it was toes. Then a foot. Not long after that, he lost a leg. After he lost the second leg, he dragged himself out to the barn and put a bullet in his head.”
The room rolled a little to the right. Thumps leaned against Claire. “Is that real cream?”
“Okay,” said Beth, “when was the last time you ate?”
Thumps had to think about that for a moment. “Breakfast.”
“Great.”
Before Thumps knew it, he was sitting in a chair and Beth was handing him a plate and a fork.
“Pie?”
“Two bites,” said Beth. “Just to get the blood sugars up.”
“Could I have the cherry instead?”
TWO BITES SEEMED a particularly cruel way to get introduced to a disease. He wasn’t that fond of blueberry, and the two mouthfuls only reminded him of how hungry he was. He was set to take a third bite with the claim that he had lost count when Beth took the pie away and came back to the table with a plate of cold vegetables and a small piece of ham.
“You’re kidding.”
“Get used to it.”
The party had re-formed itself. Boomper was talking to Claire, who seemed to have forgotten that Thumps was dying. Mr. Perfect Teeth was standing next to her, his groin hovering dangerously close to Claire’s thigh. Parrish was caught in a knot of Chinook’s finest, trying to look interested as the mayor talked about her plan for a convention centre.
Beth cut the ham into pieces and handed Thumps the fork. “You drive up here?”
“I’m feeling better now.”
“You’re not driving home.”
“Sure I am.”
“You even open the door to your car without my okay and I’ll have Motor Vehicles revoke your driver’s licence.”
Thumps didn’t have to look to see if Beth was joking. He could hear the truth in her voice.
“Look, I drove up with Roger Conklin,” said Beth. “I’ll drive you home.”
“Roger Conklin? The city accountant? Mr. Straight Arrow?”
“He’s a friend,” said Beth. “It may come as a surprise, but lesbians have straight friends.”
“I’m your friend.”
“Lordy,” said Beth, pointing to a piece of carrot on the plate. “It must be an epidemic.”
“I have to go to the bathroom.”
“Sudden urge to pee?”
“Are doctors allowed to ask questions like that?”
“Only the good ones,” said Beth.
THUMPS HAD TO give the bathroom at Shadow Ranch full marks. The urinals were sparkling white and looked more like little easy chairs, the floor and walls were covered with travertine tiles, and there were newspaper articles in fr
ames above each latrine so you could read while you took care of the business at hand.
Sports, sports, and more sports.
Thumps wondered if the women’s bathroom had newspaper articles on the walls of the stalls. He’d have to ask Beth about that, ask her what women like to read. He was reasonably sure that they wouldn’t be all that keen on following box scores or batting averages.
When he came out of the bathroom, he made a detour to reception. The woman behind the desk was tall and dark. Hispanic or Native. He didn’t think she was from the reserve, but there was something about her that scratched at the back of his mind.
“Hi,” he said. “Could you tell me who would take care of reservations for the restaurant?”
“I can do that,” said the woman. “When would you like the reservation?”
There it was again. The voice. He knew that voice, and it sent an unexpected jolt of fear through his body.
“Actually, I don’t want to make a reservation. I think I made one for the wrong day.” Thumps tried to look as foolish and embarrassed as he could. “It was supposed to be for later this week, but I think I made it for two nights ago.”
“Was it in your name, Mr. DreadfulWater?”
So they did know each other. Thumps tried his best to place her face.
“Deanna Heavy Runner,” said the woman, reading his mind. “Roxanne is my sister.”
“Sure,” said Thumps, trying to keep the panic out of his voice.
“I know,” said Deanna. “Roxanne can be a little intense.”
Intense was certainly one way to describe Roxanne Heavy Runner. Terrifying was another. Dangerous. Fearsome. Formidable.
“Best secretary the tribe’s ever had.”
“That’s sweet,” said Deanna. “I’ll tell her you said that.”
There was a story that floated around the reservation about a bear who wandered into the tribal offices without an appointment and wound up as a rug on the floor in front of Roxanne’s desk. It was a joke, of course, but every time he heard it, he found himself feeling sorry for the bear.
Deanna smiled and turned to her computer. “So . . . two nights ago?”
“Yes,” said Thumps. “It would have been in the name of Austin.”
Deanna looked up from the monitor. “You made a reservation for Boomper Austin?”
“Not exactly.”
“Are you asking as acting sheriff?”
Thumps looked around quickly. The lobby of the hotel was empty. Everyone was in at the party.
“Roxanne told me that you’re going to be the sheriff while Duke is in Costa Rica.”
“We’re talking about it,” said Thumps.
“Is this about those two dead people?”
So much for stealth and cunning. Something like this was easier to do in a large city, where no one knew you and no one cared.
“I’m studying criminology at the college, so if you need any help, let me know.” Deanna hit several keys. “Here it is. Reservation for three.”
“That’s the one.”
Deanna lowered her voice. “Is this a clue?”
Behind him, the party seemed to have found new energy. Thumps could hear Boomper’s voice rumbling about in the room like a spring storm, and he wondered if the lawyer from Missoula was still perched on Claire’s hip or whether she had made a clear space for herself and was waiting for him to return.
“One other thing,” said Thumps. “Was the reservation ever cancelled?”
“I remember now.” Deanna looked up from the screen. “I was on the desk. Mr. Austin came in and sat at the table by himself for a while and then he left.”
“So, the other two didn’t show up?”
“Part of the course I’m taking has a practicum requirement.” Deanna wrote a number on the back of a business card. “I need to put in twenty hours. Really appreciate it if you could keep me in mind when you’re acting sheriff.”
THUMPS HAD BEEN wrong about the party finding new energy. It was winding down. Most of the people had already left.
“Took you long enough.” Beth had her hands on her hips. “You get lost?”
Claire and her blue dress were nowhere to be seen. Neither was the lawyer.
“Claire leave?”
“How are you feeling?”
“Great.”
Thumps followed Beth through the lobby. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was still feeling woozy. Maybe it was a good idea that she was driving him home. The diabetes diagnosis hadn’t settled in yet. The reality of the disease would come later.
Deanna Heavy Runner was still at the reception desk. Now that he knew she was Roxanne’s sister, he could see the resemblance, albeit a younger, friendlier, and less rigid version of the original. As Beth opened the door for him, he glanced back. Deanna came to mock attention and gave him a snappy salute.
He’d have to remember to mention her practicum to the sheriff.
Twenty-One
The night was black and solid. If there had been any part of a moon in the sky, it was long gone. Thumps was halfway to the car when he realized that the protesters had disappeared.
“Archie and the gang go home?”
“Vernon had security help them off the property.” Beth slid the seat belt across his chest. “Said the drum was disturbing the guests.”
“Before or after the television crew left?”
“After.”
THUMPS DIDN’T REMEMBER going to sleep, but when Beth shook him awake, they were on the outskirts of Chinook.
“Wake up. You’re not supposed to go to sleep.”
“You have to stay awake if you’re diabetic?”
“No,” said Beth. “But I’m concerned you may have a concussion.”
Thumps felt the back of his head. There was a large lump. “You just missed my street.”
“I’m not taking you home.” Beth put in the clutch and tried to coax the Volvo into third gear. “You know, this car isn’t in much better shape than you.”
“It’s just temperamental.”
“You can buy a new car, but you can’t buy a new body.”
Thumps had not seen the old Land Titles building at night. It had always looked slightly ominous during the day. Night didn’t improve that impression one little bit.
“Where we going?”
“First floor.”
“You talk to Ora Mae yet?”
Beth scowled. “You’re not well enough to ask that question.”
“I’m here if you want to talk.”
“You’re here because you’re sick.”
The basement was just as dark and creepy as Thumps remembered. Deep shadows. Nasty smells. Dead bodies trapped in metal lockers.
“I thought you said we were going to the main floor.”
“Sit down.” Beth went to the white metal cabinet and unlocked it.
On the main floor, there were cushy chairs. Here in the basement, there was nothing but the steel stools and the metal table where Beth did her work. Thumps picked the stool that looked to be the warmer of the two.
“This is a blood testing kit.” The thing in Beth’s hand looked like a black cloth wallet with a zipper. Inside was a meter of some sort, a longish plastic tube, and a small canister. None of it looked particularly dangerous.
“Did you know that they have newspaper articles in frames over the urinals in the men’s room at Shadow Ranch?”
Beth opened the canister. “These are the test strips.”
“Mostly sports,” said Thumps. “You can read them while you pee.”
“You put them in the meter like this.”
“What do they have in the women’s washrooms?”
“Toilet paper,” said Beth. “Then you load the plunger like this.”
“Is this going to hurt?”
“Then you put the plunger against a finger like this . . .”
Thumps tried to ease his finger out of Beth’s grip. “Because if it’s going to hurt, you should tell me . . .”
The pain was instant and dramatic.
“Oh, don’t be a baby.” Beth squeezed his finger so that a blood drop formed on the skin.
“That hurt!”
“Then you gently push the tip of the test strip into the blood drop.”
“I’m bleeding.”
“125. That’s pretty good.”
“Are you angry with me?”
“I want you to do this before each meal,” said Beth. “And keep track of the results.”
“You’re kidding.” The tip of his finger was still stinging. “I don’t have that many fingers.”
“Tell that to a kid with Type 1 diabetes.”
“Do I have to . . .”
“Inject yourself with insulin?” said Beth. “No. Not if you’re good. You might be able to control it with diet and medication.”
“Medication.” Thumps sucked on his finger. The bleeding had stopped. “Like in pills?”
“And you need to lose ten pounds. Fifteen would be better.”
“Okay,” said Thumps, holding up his hands. “I won’t mention Ora Mae again.”
“Don’t be an ass.” Beth went to her desk and took out a pad. “This is a referral to the diabetes clinic at the hospital and a prescription for the testing kit and the medications you’ll need. You have any health coverage?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Now if you were Canadian, the diabetes kit and the drugs would be covered.”
“I’m not Canadian.”
“So, you’re going to have to buy a kit.” Beth handed him several slips. “Chinook Pharmacy. First thing tomorrow.”
“And all this stuff is going to cure me?”
“No cure for diabetes,” said Beth. “Only good news is we can control it.”
Thumps’s stomach began to rumble and he felt light-headed. Maybe 125, whatever it meant, was too low. Maybe he was going to have to eat something.
“I want you to fast for the rest of the night,” said Beth.
“What if I get hungry?”
“And I want you here first thing in the morning for a blood test. Before you eat anything. That’s important. Nothing to eat before you see me.”