Cold Dish wl-1

by Craig Johnson

  “Did you get off the main road at any point?”

  “Um, three times. Once to watch some antelope just at the top of the hill after that little town at the main road?”

  “Arvada.”

  “Once where there was an old bridge headed south.”

  Maybe something. “An old kings-bridge structure?” His face was blank. “A trestle system of steel girders that goes over the road with an old car stuffed into the bank on the far side?”

  “Yes, sir. Now that you mention it.”

  “Did you see anyone, or anything else, out there?” He paused to think. I was going to have to talk to all of them. Was I ever going to get to sleep?

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Did anybody see you?”

  “No. I mean there were some cars and trucks that went by…” He was thinking hard but wasn’t coming up with anything.

  “But you didn’t speak to anyone?”

  “No.”

  “What about the third stop?” His face brightened. I guess he figured the governor had called with the reprieve.

  “We had lunch at a little place about twenty miles out.”

  “The Red Pony?”

  He pointed a finger at me, and I started figuring that Anderson sold something for a living. “That was it.”

  I asked him what they had, and he said cheeseburgers. I asked how they were, and he said they were okay.

  “Just okay?”

  “Yes, sir. Why? Is that important?”

  A gust of wind fluttered the map. “No, I just want to give the chief-cook-and-bottle-washer some flak. You ate at this place on the way back to town? About what time was that?

  “Right after noon, maybe one.” I took out my pen and made some notes on the map. “Your picture is on the wall. Out there at the bar with all the medals, maps, and stuff, isn’t it?” I continued to scribble away. “You two were in the war together? You and the Indian guy?”

  “Yep, the war to start all wars.” I don’t think he got it.

  “I mean the food wasn’t that bad…” He started sounding apologetic. I couldn’t wait to give Henry an earful. “It took him a little while to get it out to us, but I think he had just opened. You sure get your money’s worth. He cut the fries out of potatoes right there on the bar, and I got this cheeseburger that had about a half pound of jalapenos on it.”

  I stopped scribbling.

  3

  There was a clattering as someone tried to pull what sounded like pots and pans from one of the many boxes that lined the kitchen wall. My head slumped against my pillow; almost fourteen hours of sleep and I still felt like shit. It looked like a nice day though. From my perspective near the floor, I had a clear view of brilliant blue skies without a cloud in sight. There was more noise from the kitchen, and whistling. Unless I missed my guess, it was Prokofiev’s Symphony Number One, sometimes in D, and it was being butchered. I dragged myself to a sloped sitting position and stretched my back, allowing the little muscle just left of my spine and halfway down to decide how it was going to let me live today. The prognosis was fair.

  I looked through the opaque plastic coating that still clung to the glass door between the bedroom and kitchen, pushed to my feet, and stumbled. I turned the glass knob, stolen almost a decade ago from our rented house in town, and confronted the Cheyenne Nation who was resplendent in his old Kansas City Chiefs jersey, complete with YOUR NAME printed on the back. “Hey, people are trying to sleep in here.”

  “After fourteen hours you have constituted clinical death.” He was popping open a can of biscuits on the particle board edge of the counter and lining an old pie pan with them.

  “Did you wash that?”

  He paused. “Should I have?”

  “Well, there’s mouse shit on most of that stuff.”

  His shoulders sagged as he pulled the biscuits out of the pan and inspected the underside of each one. “How do you live like this?” He turned to look at me. “Will you please go put some clothes on?” I retreated into the bedroom, retrieved my bathrobe from the nail in the stud wall, and ambled back to the kitchen.

  I took a seat on the stool by the counter and poured a cup of coffee into a Denver Broncos mug. I figured it was my job to do everything possible to irritate him this afternoon. I was feeling better. “What’s for brunch?”

  “You mean besides mouse shit?” He had dropped about two pounds of pork sausage into a frying pan that I couldn’t recall ever having seen before. I took a sip of the French roast; it seemed like all I did was drink the stuff. Cady sent me fancy, whole-bean coffee from Philadelphia in trendy little resealable bags, but I hadn’t gotten around to getting a grinder.

  “Game Day.” It was a tradition. Twice a year we found ourselves locked in the death struggle of the AFC Western Division: Broncos vs. Chiefs. Pancake Day and Game Day on the same weekend.

  “Yes, I know. You are going to get your ass kicked today.”

  “Oh, please…” I tried the coffee again; it wasn’t so bad. “Where did you find a grinder?” He ignored me and continued to look through the Folgers can that held my meager selection of utensils, so I asked, “Spatula?”

  “Yes.”

  I looked at the scattered containers resting haphazardly against the wall, at the strata of Rainier beer crates that were stacked in every available space. It was daunting, but he had found a frying pan. “Box.”

  “Jesus.” The pork sausage began to sizzle. He approached the boxes and began going through them in a methodical fashion, top row first, left to right. “Walt, we need to go over a few things.” This had an ominous tone to it. “There was a time when this particular lifestyle had its place, the grieving widower valiantly sallying forth through a sea of depression and cardboard. This gave way to the eccentric lawman era, but now, Walt my friend, you are just a slob.”

  I hugged my coffee cup a little closer and straightened my robe. “I’m a lovable slob.”

  He had made it through the top row and was now working the collapsed fringe toward the backdoor. “At the risk of sending you into a tailspin, Martha has been dead for four years.”

  “Three.” He stopped and leaned against the door facing, the other hand at his side.

  The sausage popped, sending a small splatter to the plywood floor. I looked at the splatter mark; it was relatively contained, with a few scalloped edges due to the height of trajectory, ray-emitting tendrils reaching for the center of the room. If the object emitting the splatter is in motion, the drops will be oval and have little tails, which will project in the horizontal direction that the drop was moving. As the top of the teardrop lands last, splatters on a wall can tell you if the assailant is left- or right-handed. I knew a lot about splatters. I wondered how Vic was doing. I looked at the unopened manila envelope sitting in my chair, a priority set of pictures illustrating the next-to-final resting place of Cody Pritchard. I had been so tired by the time I had gotten home that I had thrown them on the recliner, too exhausted to concentrate. Ruby’s handwriting looked personal and out of place: Scene Investigation Photographs, 9/29/2:07 A.M.

  “Four.” His eyes were level, and his voice carried a tired resignation to the battle joined. “Walt, it is time to get on with your life… I mean college kids live better than this.” I didn’t know what to say; I had had a kid in college and then in law school, and she had lived better than this. “But I have a four-fold plan for your redemption.”

  I sipped some more coffee and stared at the floor. “Does this involve getting me a woman?” He pulled the spatula out of the nearest box. I advised him to wash it, which he did after making a face, then set about breaking up the brick of meat in the pan.

  “Getting you a woman is the third part.”

  “I like this plan, but I think we should move the third part up.”

  “We have to get you to the point where you are worthy of a woman.”

  “Why do I get the feeling that I’m no
t going to like the other parts of this plan?”

  “Walt, your life is a mess, your house is a mess, and you are a mess. It is about time we did some cleaning up.” He looked around the cabin, I’m sure for dramatic effect. “Let us start with the easy stuff. This was a nice little house when you first got started, but that was five years ago.” I thought it was four. “You have got to get some gutters so the run-off stops cutting a moat around the house. You are going to have to use a bleach solution to cut the gray off the things and then put some UV protection on them. You need a porch, and a deck out back would not be such a horrible thing…”

  My head hurt. “I don’t have the time for all that, let alone the energy.”

  He found the opener on the counter and began opening a number of small cans. “We are not talking time, energy, or money, which will be your next argument. We are talking inclination. Now, I know these two young men…”

  “Oh, no. I’m not going to have a bunch of thieving redskins roaming around my place while I’m not here.”

  He choked laughing, his arms spread wide to encompass the entirety of the room. “What would they steal?” He had a point. “These boys just started up their own contracting firm; they are hungry, cheap, and they are good. I can have them over here tomorrow morning at eight.” I looked around the room at the stud walls, exposed wiring, and dirt-encrusted plywood floors.

  I sighed. “Okay, what’s part two?”

  “We get you in shape.”

  I took another sip of coffee; it was getting cold. “Oh, I’m past that shit.”

  “I want you to think about part three.” He smiled. “I want you to think about part three while we’re going through parts one and two.” He bumped me in the shoulder, and I spilled a little coffee. More splatters. He turned and dumped a small can of green chilies into the pan.

  “I don’t suppose any of this might stem from conversations you may or may not have had with Cady, Ruby, or Vic.”

  He was working the meat around, and the smell of the green peppers was intoxicating. “I talk with a lot of people about a lot of things.”

  “How come you didn’t talk to me about Cody Pritchard eating his last meal at the Pony?”

  He placed the metal stem of the spatula on the edge of the frying pan so that the plastic handle wouldn’t melt and leaned against the counter. I listened to him breathe and realized how much he had aged in the last twenty years, or the last two seconds. After a moment he reached across the counter with a steady hand and poured me another cup. “I did not think it was that important. You ran out of the place Friday night and did not say a word to anybody, and I knew I was going to see you this morning. I guess I thought I had more important things to talk to you about.” He poured himself a cup and placed the pot back on the burner. He looked me in the eye just to clear the air. “Well, officer… It was the night of November second at approximately 6:02 P.M. that the aforementioned, one Pritchard, Cody, entered the establishment known as the Red Pony. Witnesses to this fact are Mssrs. Charlie Small Horse, Clel Phillips, and the attesting Henry Standing Bear. The condition of Mr. Pritchard at that time was one of profound intoxication, whereupon he was refused alcoholic beverage and served one Mexican cheeseburger deluxe, including fries and a Coke. Twenty-five minutes later there was a verbal altercation between Mr. Pritchard and Mr. Small Horse, which resulted in Mr. Pritchard being escorted to the door of the establishment and asked to leave. The last I saw of Cody, he wheeled that piece of shit palomino-primer truck of his around in my parking lot, sprayed gravel, and headed east to a far better place than he had ever been before. So, do you want to book me, or you want to go take a shower?” He sipped his coffee.

  “You seem a little defensive.”

  “No shit? I just want to keep my proficiency and conduct reports up to snuff.” He smiled a tight little smile. “Anything else?”

  “No, you pretty well covered it. I think I’ll go take a shower.” I stood up and walked past him toward the bathroom. I picked up the coffee since it was growing on me. I was hoping he’d say something, anything that would give me the excuse to turn around.

  “Do not get me wrong, Walt, I did not like the kid, but then I do not know anybody who did. If you are looking for a suspect, just open the phone book.” He was watching the sausage as it burbled. “Are there any leads?”

  I sighed and leaned against the refrigerator. “Toxicology at DCI said a high content of brewed barley malt, cereal grains, hops, and yeast…”

  “Known in the trade as Busch Lite.”

  “Ground beef, jalapenos, and American cheese.”

  “Mexican cheeseburger. Anything else?”

  “Nothing from toxicology. Ballistics says no lands or grooves, and the deformity of impact with the sternum makes identification that much more difficult.”

  His curiosity sharpened. “Smoothbore?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows, but if it is, it narrows the search to ten yards or less.”

  “Which means it was somebody the little shit knew.” He smiled the tight smile again. “At least well enough to let them get close with a shotgun.” He pushed down on the frying pan handle, allowing the grease to puddle at the end of the skillet closest to him. “That is pretty close.”

  “Yep.”

  “No companions, no tracks?”

  “Nope.”

  “Any cover?”

  My turn to smile. “That Powder River country, there’s a goodlookin’ woman behind every tree…” He joined me for the rest. “There just ain’t any trees.”

  “Back to square one. Wadding or contact dispersal?”

  “Nope. No powder tattooing, either.”

  “Any hope of brass?”

  “Ferg and that bunch didn’t come up with anything.”

  “Hmmm…” He grunted. “I will withhold comment on whether Ferg and his bunch could slap their ass with both hands.” He frowned at the frying pan, spooned the pooled grease into a measuring cup that he must have used to apportion tomato paste, and flipped the majority of the contents. “Meteorite?”

  I had to smile. “The more people I talk to, the more I am convinced that this may have been an act of God.”

  “Hate to see the Supreme Being take the fall for this one.”

  “He sees even the smallest sparrow fall.”

  “That would pretty much describe the decedent, but would this not be stretching the jurisdiction thing?”

  “Maybe.” The mood had lightened, and it was an opportunity that I couldn’t pass up. “Hey?”

  “Hmm?” He looked at me, and the expression his face carried was one of open concern for a friend who had all but accused him of impeding a murder investigation. My heart wasn’t in the question, but I had to ask. “You know the scuttlebutt on the Rez?”

  “What, you worried about the Indian vote?” He smiled to let me in on the joke, but it still hurt. “What?”

  “The Little Bird rape case…”

  “Melissa.”

  “Melissa.” I was feeling lower and lower. “What’s the general feeling on the Rez about the job I did?” There was a brief look of irritation as he flipped his hair back and trapped what would have been a fine tail on a good cutting horse in a leather strip he had pulled from the back pocket of his jeans.

  “General feeling”-he pointed up the phrase as silly white-man talk-“is that you could have done better.”

  “And what is the basis of my failure?”

  He turned his head and looked into the distance at the log wall only two feet away. “Two years suspended sentence, two years parole.”

  “People don’t think Vern Selby and a jury had something to do with that?”

  “These people do not have any bond with that judge or jury, none of whom were… Indian, and they do with you.” He paused. “You should take that as a grave compliment.” He opened a ziplocked bag of preshredded cheese and offered me some. I took a pinch and stuffed it in my mouth. Pepper jack. “Anyway, the goodwill of these people is not
going to have much effect on your condition. There is only one person who can offer you absolution in this case, and he is a difficult individual with whom to deal… he forgives everyone but himself, and he never forgets.” We stood looking at each other, chewing. “You should go take a shower. Part three said she would be here for kickoff at two.” He pulled open the door of the oven and checked on his biscuits. The smell was marvelous.

  “Part three?”

  “Vonnie Hayes expressed a desire to participate in the bonding ritual this afternoon. I thought it might lead to a more desirable ritual between the two of you later this evening.”

  I took a moment to reply. “I just saw her yesterday morning. She didn’t say anything.”

  “Women seem to enjoy surprising you, perhaps because it is so easy.”

  I looked around the house at the piles of books and accumulated dirt on the floors, the walls, and the ceiling. “Oh, shit…”

  He followed my eyes and shook his head. “Yes, it is very bad, but we will tell her you are under construction. Red Road Contracting, the young men I told you about, will be here tomorrow morning.” He pulled the biscuits from the oven and placed them on one of the front burners. “Go take a shower.”

  I started, but turned. “What’s part four?”

  “Spirituality, but that may have to come from somebody else.”

  I turned the water on in the shower and spent the time waiting for it to heat up by inspecting my bullet holes. I had four: one in the left arm, one in the right leg, and two in the chest. I looked at the one in my left arm since it was the closest. It was 357/100ths of an inch with two clean, marbled white dots on either side. The one on the inside had well-defined edges and was about the size of a dime. On the other side it was blurred, had a tail like a tadpole that had drifted back to my elbow, and was about the size of a silver dollar. The water temperature was acceptable, so I stepped in and grabbed a bar of oatmeal soap that Cady had sent me. I liked it because it didn’t smell. I kicked at the slow contraction of the vinyl curtains.