Shadow of the Raven

by David Sundstrand

  Eddie recounted how he got the drop on Sorensen, seeming particularly pleased about backing him off with his fast draw. His eyes gleamed with pleasure. “You should’ve seen the look on his face when I whipped out the old equalizer. Didn’t look so damn big then. And just in case the puke got up the nerve to take a shot at me, I filed the firing pin on his rifle.”

  “The rifle stashed in the mine?” Frank looked stricken.

  “Yeah. Hell, I wasn’t going to give him a way to take me out.”

  “Shit. Eddie, the firing pin matched the indentations on the spent shells.” It didn’t register. “Like fingerprints. It was evidence.” Then Frank pictured Eddie’s beat-up truck disappearing into the night, Eddie in possession of Sorensen’s money. He felt a grudging admiration. Not so dumb after all. Sorensen had been outclassed by a trailer-court Indian. Eddie’d been sorely tempted, a chance to win one for the Indians and make the big score. He wondered if Eddie would actually have shot Sorensen if he’d tried something. Frank came to the conclusion that he probably would have. There was a toughness at Eddie’s core he’d overlooked.

  “So the money you dropped at the Paiute Palace was what you got from Sorensen?”

  “Yeah.” Eddie looked suddenly woebegone. Then he brightened. “But I’ve got his check for fifteen thousand dollars.”

  Frank slowly shook his head. “Yup, you’ve got his check, but you’ll never get the cash.”

  Eddie leaned forward, his expression earnest. “He won’t stop payment, Frank. I’ve got the goods on him.”

  “Yes, he will, Eddie, ’cause he’s got the goods on you.”

  “Like hell. I’m turning myself in.”

  “Right. That’s right. And Sorensen goes down.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “So what’s going to happen to the evidence, Eddie? The check is evidence. Even if you found somewhere to cash it, which I very much doubt, any money paid to you for illegal activities will be seized by the court.”

  Frank’s words clicked into place. Eddie’s face fell, as if he’d been gripped by a wave of nausea. The dawning of an inescapable truth: He’d never see the money. He sagged back into the couch.

  “Shit—shit, shit, shit.”

  Despite the trouble this sad little man had brought down on him, Frank felt for Eddie, for his broken dream. That was the hard part, losing hope.

  Suddenly, Eddie grinned, exposing the blackened stumps where teeth should have been. “Well, they can’t get the twelve hundred back. Man, that’s gone. Wish I’d cashed in when I was six hundred to the good. For a while, I was on a roll.” He shook his head. “Hell of a game, Frank. That fat asshole with the bolo ties and Roy Rogers shirts dropped more than I did. Whatizname, Monty Sessions, thinks he’s a high roller.” Eddie blew on the end of the cigarette butt. “Guess being a high roller means you can afford to lose.”

  “Probably so.” Frank nodded in agreement. If you lived near the bottom of the heap, what was there to lose? Guys like Eddie just grew. Frank had had his mother, his reckless but loving father, and Mrs. Funmaker. He wondered for a minute how Eddie had come up, but he pretty much knew—dirt-poor and ignorant. Somehow, though, he had made his way, learned a craft, and figured out he was being screwed. He shook his head. He couldn’t think about it now.

  “Look, Eddie, I want you to go see Jack Mitchell at Fish and Game as soon as you get cleaned up.”

  “Aw shit. Man, I hate jail.”

  “It could be worse. You’re still a cooperating witness. I don’t think I’ll have to take Prowler home with me. Hey, where is Prowler?”

  “He doesn’t like the smell of puke.”

  “He’s a smart cat. Maybe you ought to take a hint before he finds a new owner.” Frank rose. It was time to get back to the caboose and talk with Linda. He’d only given her the short version. He needed to think about all this some more. The thing that sat in his stomach like a lead weight was the fact that Roy Miller could be anywhere, any damn place he chose.

  “That’s it, huh?” Linda sat next to Frank, her feet propped up on railing at the end of the caboose.

  “Hell, he didn’t know Miller was coming by. What was I supposed to do, punch him out?” He sounded irritated, a bit petulant. “Well?”

  “That doesn’t require an answer.”

  “Okay.” She was missing the point.

  “Look, intentions count for something. He was making things come out right; at least that’s what he thought. When the hell does a guy like Eddie have a chance to make real money? He doesn’t.” He turned to face Linda. “He’s never had a real job. Never had a bank account. When someone insists on writing him a check for his work, he has to take it over to the casino and get Susan to cash it, and if the casino won’t cash it, it’s just paper. The paycheck-cashing leeches in Ridgecrest don’t take personal checks.”

  “He was a guide for poachers. They killed bighorns, your bighorns. Maybe you can forgive him for that, but I can’t.”

  “So don’t.” His mouth tightened. “You know, ‘You could cut him a little slack.’ Hey, who said that? Now I remember. It was someone talking about her dad.”

  Linda sat forward, her feet hitting the metal decking. “We’ll talk later.”

  As she rose, Frank laid his hand on her arm. “That was a cheap shot.” Linda stood looking down at him, her face troubled. “I mean it. Your dad’s got nothing to do with it.”

  She looked thoughtful. “Maybe he does, in a way.” She squinted into the distance. Haze had blown up the valley from the Los Angeles basin, tingeing everything a drab beige. “If Eddie weren’t Shoshone or Paiute, if he were some creep like Donnie Miller, would you have given him a break?”

  Frank shook his head. “Nope, I’d’ve gone after him hard.” He sat with his head bent, stroking the bridge of his nose. He turned toward her, looking up into her face. “The thing is, he’s not some creep—not like one of the Millers, that’s for sure.”

  Linda raised her eyebrows.

  “Okay, so he cheats the law now and then. Lives on the fringe and looks out for number one. From his point of view, the law was written by white people, the same white people who stole the land and left his people broke. Far as he’s concerned, it’s got nothing to do with him. Just another goddamn impediment.” He looked up into her face. “Hell, you know; you’re a reporter. Unemployment’s better than forty percent in the reservation, and if it hadn’t been for the Paiute Palace providing a few jobs, it would be worse.” He held up his hand. “Eddie lives in two worlds, neither of his making. It’s not a good place to be.”

  Linda brushed his cheek with the back of her hand. “I guess you know about that.”

  “Yeah.” He nodded. “But I’ve come to terms with it. Eddie called me an apple because he sees me as a Paiute, but I’m no more Paiute than I’m Irish or Mexican.” He frowned. “But he was right about one thing: It ain’t easy not knowing the rules.” He grinned. “The difference is, I had too many; he didn’t have any at all. Like finding your way in the dark.”

  She ruffled his hair. “Yeah, we’ve had it sort of easy.” She frowned. “But I wish to God he’d get his teeth fixed.” They both laughed.

  “He says that’s the first thing he’s going to do—after he fixes the truck.” Frank frowned. “Goddamn it, I think he held back some cash.”

  “Hey, he’s your Indian.”

  “Native American. We’re Native Americans.” He laughed. “Too bad we learned so late. If we’d had a few more like Eddie, maybe the westward movement would’ve stopped at Plymouth Rock.”

  “Like in your lecture.”

  “Yeah, like in my lecture.”

  31

  “Nice shot.” Bill Jerome’s face revealed no joy.

  Shaw nodded in acknowledgment and walked around to the far side of the table, where the six ball rested against the side rail, not quite halfway between the end and side pockets. He gestured to the side pocket with the tip of his cue. “Three cushions.” The room stilled as the geezers
in the high-backed observer chairs leaned forward to watch. A young couple chatting away at the end of the bar let their conversation trail off into the silence. Ben Shaw shook his graying head in wonderment at the lack of common pool room etiquette.

  “Put on a good show, don’t they?” Jack Collins said sotto voce. Frank nodded ever so slightly.

  Shaw leaned his cue against the wall, lifted himself into an observer’s chair, and began packing his pipe.

  Bill Jerome’s voice cut through the quiet. “You givin’ up, Ben?”

  Shaw shook his head. “Nope, just waiting till the Blarney Stone over there finishes up.” He looked up from his pipe packing. “I mean, we wouldn’t want to interrupt a meaningful exchange of ideas for something so trivial as a life-and-death snooker match.” He glared over at Collins, who peeled back a toothy grin.

  “Well, go ahead now, Ben. All eyes are on you.”

  Shaw lit the pipe with a wooden match and puffed billowing clouds of smoke into the still air, then tamped down the ash. “Good, glad you’re paying attention. Your game needs a bit of work.” He retrieved his cue and chalked the tip, holding the blue chalk in his left hand and rolling the base of the cue against his foot with the other. He tapped off the excess against the edge of the leather pocket and bent low over the cue, his beard tickling the shaft as he slid it back and forth, smoothing the stroke. He struck the cue ball medium hard. The six came away from the side rail into the end rail at a shallow angle and then into the far side rail at a forty-degree angle and away, rolled across the felt, and dropped neatly into the side pocket.

  Shaw resumed his seat, trying to look matter-of-fact as he puffed on his pipe, his eyes fairly beaming with pleasure. “Heh, heh, heh.” He grinned and lifted his empty glass toward Bill Jerome. “Heh, heh, heh.”

  Jerome shambled over to the bar. “Two Pacificos.”

  “Were you guys just playing for beers?” The young man’s voice was incredulous.

  Jerome paused to look at the couple, his dark eyes and thin mouth unsmiling. “That’s right. We’re too good to play for money.” The geezers wheezed and guffawed. Then Jerome broke into a small smile. “Might as well bring a couple beers for these two, as well. But you guys”—he gestured to the wall of geezers—“can just forget it.”

  “Yeah, they do put on quite a show.” Watching the game at the Joshua Tree Athletic Club had become one of Frank’s favorite pastimes. These old reprobates managed to squeeze a lot of pleasure out of not very much. It was a gift, the way they amused one another. He hoped Collins could keep them out of mischief for a while, although he wondered about Collins. He glanced around the room. The place was full of local folks, if eight or nine people besides the Grumpy Wrench Gang constituted “full.” It was pretty good for a Wednesday afternoon in Red Mountain. The boys had their audience, and he was among ’em. Good beer, good company. He glanced above the bar and failed to make eye contact with the jackalope. Maybe Collins had taken it down as a matter of caution.

  “Say, Jack, where’s the horned beast?” Frank pointed above the bar, where the jackalope had surveyed the goings-on.

  “Oh, that. Well, Frank, m’lad, I sold him, but not to worry, there’s another on its way.”

  “Is that right? Who’d you sell him to, Jack?”

  “Just a fellow who thought the jackalope was something rare.” Collins busied himself wiping down the bar.

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Oh, it’s a long story.”

  “I’ll make time for it, Jack. Sounds terribly interesting, even enlightening.” Frank leaned forward, placing both elbows on the bar and resting his chin on his hands.

  “Well, since the paper in Victorville picked up Linda’s story about the jackalope preserve and whatnot, there’ve been people in here asking about ’em, interested, so to speak. That’s all. She’s quite a writer, my daughter is.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Are you sure you want to know about all this?” Collins raised his eyebrows, a pained expression on his face.

  Frank nodded, his solemn face sharing Collins’s concern. “Go on, Jack, difficult as it might be.”

  Collins heaved a sigh. “Now here we are in the Mojave Desert, in the only drinking establishment in Red Mountain, and one of the beasties is hanging above the bar, so folks naturally assumed we were informed, sort of experts, you might say.”

  “Yeah, I’d say you were the jackalope experts.”

  “There you are.” Collins shrugged. “This fellow wanted to know all about jackalopes, how they came about, breeding habits, that sort of thing. So naturally, Ben and Bill there”—he waved his thick arm in their general direction—“and myself, we filled him and the missus in.”

  “I’ll bet you did.”

  “There’s a lot of doubters, Frank. People lack the power to believe. We don’t even talk to those folks, just pass the whole thing off as a joke. But every so often, a man of faith comes to pass, and it’s a bond, a brotherhood.” Collins’s voice dropped a register on the brotherhood part.

  “So when one of the brothers wants to have the last jackalope buck taken in Jawbone Canyon by the last of the Paiute, I’d be a cruel man to deny him his heart’s desire.”

  “How much?”

  “A hundred and fifty, and a bargain at the price, if such a thing can be measured by the filth of lucre.” Collins sniffed.

  “Where’d you get it?”

  “From a catalog. There’s another half dozen on the way.” Collins spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “It’s more interesting than a piece of the true cross or a bit of the robe. Think of it like this: If and when they discover it might not be the last of the breed, they have a wonderful conversation piece, a good story, and even a chance to make a bit of profit. So where’s the harm?”

  “Guess it’s not such a harebrained scheme.” Frank grinned.

  “Oh there you go, having a bit of fun with me.”

  “And I appreciate it, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Having the fun.” He looked down at the back of his hands in thought.

  “You don’t look all that happy about it, Frank.” Collins waited. “You caught the poacher, with some unlooked-for help”—he nodded his head in the direction of Shaw and Jerome—“but you were the man of the hour.”

  “Sorensen almost died.” Frank raised his hand. “I know. No great loss, but I don’t think you’d want it on your conscience.”

  Collins’s expression hardened.

  “It could have been the old couple I’d rescued from the camper who found him stuck out there.”

  “Yeah.” Collins’s large face went bland. “You know that’s not going to happen again, at least not from us.” He waved his hand around the bar. “Hurtin’ people wouldn’t have been good.” He brightened. “But the part about Sorensen being attacked by an Indian was too good to be true. All the boys here been talking about it, the Paiute’s last stand. Now half of ’em claim to have had a run-in with a half-clothed renegade.”

  “Eddie’s a Shoshone.” Frank decided not to mention Eddie’s attire at their last meeting.

  “And a damn fine one. Like to meet him sometime.”

  “Couldn’t afford it, Jack. Eddie likes beer. Having a tavern owner for a friend would be a lifelong commitment.” Frank thought about Eddie added to the mix of the Grumpy Wrench Gang and shuddered inwardly.

  “Well, your poacher’s through.”

  “For now, Jack. A fine and community service doesn’t stop assholes like Sorensen. Besides that, he left a man in the desert to die, only I can’t prove it, and nobody wants to hear about it anymore.” He shook his head. “There’ve been too many deaths.” Frank studied the surface of the bar.

  Collins rested a stubby hand on Frank’s arm. “It’s been almost five months. I think we’re through with Miller.”

  Frank caught Collins’s eyes and held them. “Don’t say it for me, Jack. You think about it, too.”

  “It’ll
come right, Frank. It won’t be easy for a man who looks like he does to hide forever.”

  “He’s a smart son of a bitch, Jack. And evil. He rode around with the bodies of the people he murdered in their motor home for two days.” Frank looked away. “He needs to be dead.” The words came out softly. “Then it’d be over.”

  They sat in the silence of darkened thoughts.

  Collins emptied his glass and sighed. “It’s the way he wins, you know.”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “He gets you to be like him, to think murder. It won’t do. If he comes, then it’s another matter. Don’t let him get inside you, Frank. Once upon a time, Ben almost lost himself. It’s in all of us, Adam’s bite of the apple.

  “By and large, it’s a good world, and there’s still all this.” He waved his arm at his domain. “And there’s Linda, sweet lass that she is.” The last was said in a broad brogue. He frowned, glancing from side to side and mugging a ludicrously furtive expression, then leaned forward. “Oh, and you don’t have to mention the jackalope business to Linda. She’s a softhearted one, you know.”

  “You mean she wouldn’t approve of petty larceny.”

  “Unkind, Frank, very unkind.” He looked over Frank’s shoulder. “And here she is, just in time to give her old da a chance to take the shine off Ben’s easy opinion of himself.”

  “Dad. Frank.” Linda was unsmiling, her face drawn.

  “Would you watch the bar for me for a bit, darlin’, while I give Ben a lesson in humility?”

  “Sure, Dad.” She laid a copy of the Los Angeles Times on the bar and exchanged places with Collins. “Take a look at page three.” Linda gestured at the paper. Frank opened it and scanned the headlines. About halfway down the second column, the headline read TWO DEAD IN BIZARRE MURDER. “Dr. Michael Sorensen, leading infertility specialist, and his brother-in-law, Dennis Winthrop, were found dead in their Linda Vista home Tuesday morning by Maria Gutierrez, the Sorensens’ maid. Ms. Gutierrez let herself into the Linda Vista home about ten o’clock and discovered the decapitated bodies in the game room, where the noted hunter had trophies from around world. Neighbors heard her screaming and called the Pasadena police. The investigating officer, Lt. Warren Isham, refused to speculate on a motive for the killings. The victim’s wife, Denise Sorensen, said that her husband had received several threats from animal rights people since his conviction for poaching Desert bighorn sheep last November. Both Winthrop and Sorensen were prominent in trophy-hunting circles.”