The Sky Fisherman

by Craig Lesley

  "Woof had to move guys up from the junior varsity," Jake said. "But I'll bet if he figured out a nutria play, we could go to state again."

  I'd heard the story of Woof's trick play from the back-room boys early that season. Designed to create an easy bucket on an inbounds play under your own basket, he'd used it to win a regional championship. With two seconds to go and trailing by a point, Gateway had the ball out under its own basket. Talented Lewisburg usually guarded Gateway tightly on the inbounds and forced a long pass and a long shot. But this time Woof played his ace. As Woof's guard prepared to inbound, the Gateway center dropped to all fours and began barking wildly like a dog, shaking his head from side to side and snapping his teeth. Distracted, the Lewisburg players turned their attention to him, and the inbounds pass went to Gateway's forward for an easy layup.

  The Lewisburg coach tried for a technical foul or unsportsmanlike conduct—anything to nullify the play—but the rulebook had no text on a barking-dog play, and Gateway advanced to state.

  But now Sniffy was right. We had been playing poorly, and it would take more than a trick play to bring us up to speed.

  Although no one could see the bullet holes from the highway, the deer was pretty shabby. The hair was worn off the left rump, perhaps from riding around in the game warden's rigs, but Jake had spray-painted a little tan marine paint on the ragged patch to make it seem more realistic. The rump appeared darker than the grayish brown color of mule deer, but at least he'd made the attempt.

  The deer wasn't all that heavy, but awkward, especially in the wind. We hoisted it with a block and tackle and tried wrestling it to a high point on the roof. Clear of snow, the roof remained icy, and we nearly let the deer slide off before we caught it. Finally we managed to wire one of the hooves to a chimney.

  Gab watched from below, keeping warm in a big parka and sipping coffee. "Hope your insurance is paid up, Jake. If that thing falls off the roof and injures a customer, you're looking at a big-time lawsuit."

  "Like the carrier says, I'm fully insured but not covered. With a little luck, it might hit you," Jake said.

  "I don't think most riders include dead deer falling off the roof and breaking people's necks. Acts of God but not acts of lunacy."

  By the time we finally got the deer secure on the rooftop it was dusk. Jake rigged two spotlights on the roof corners to illuminate the deer. Then he attached the red light near its nose, securing the extension cord with baling wire. His teeth were chattering as we scrambled down.

  "Light's too low," Gab said. "Looks like that deer is chomping a red lightbulb."

  "How about you scramble up there and fix it," Jake said. "I'll give you directions for a change."

  "Deer's gonna have a stomach full of glass. No wonder that critter's so full of holes. Next thing you'll have it swallowing a sword. I could work up a commercial spot for you. Come see Bambi the Magnificent. The Perforated Deer. I mean the performing deer."

  After Gab was gone, Jake went out and admired the deer. "Maybe that light is hanging a little low. Up on the roof, it seemed okay."

  "I'm not going back up there," I said.

  He nodded. "It's close enough for Gateway. Tomorrow we've got to put up the sleigh."

  "No way," I said and meant it. "Anyway, Mom says it's uncouth to put up Christmas decorations before Thanksgiving."

  Grady stopped by two days later. "I like seeing that deer. Reminds me of when the state wardens caught those poachers at night. A stuffed deer makes a great tool for law enforcement."

  "This one took some serious fire," Jake said.

  "Seeing it up there got me to thinking about the two dead boys they found on the reservation," Grady said. "A strange business, so I used an old technique they taught us at the academy." He seemed pleased with himself. "I wrote down all the items that should be at the scene of a crime—what you'd expect to find. Then I listed all the things that were actually there. And I compared them."

  "What crime scene?" Jake asked.

  "On the reservation. You saw the Gazette. 'Foul play not ruled out.' Editor got that quote from me. Anonymous, of course. I suggested he run it like that."

  "You're about to get everybody stirred up over nothing," Jake said. "Tempers are already tight. If you go and say the Indians killed a couple guys on the reservation, it's going to be a lot worse."

  "Didn't say the Indians did anything. I'm trying to be objective, Jake. Are you, the way you keep palling around with Indians day and night?"

  "I choose my own company," Jake said.

  "That's your business," Grady said. "Mine's the law. Anyway, I made that list and things didn't add up. I saw Billyum's report. Pretty sloppy police work." He handed Jake a sheet of paper with two columns. "Here, take a look."

  Jake read it carefully. His brow furrowed.

  "You see it, don't you?" Grady asked. "Remember why you stopped offering the Big Buck contest—quit giving away a new rifle every year for the biggest rack? Why was that?"

  "The winners always went out at night and spotlighted," Jake said. He examined the list again. "Spotlight. Hell, they had a spotlight on that pickup. Didn't you see the photos?"

  I nodded. "Sure. When Meeks was in here after slaughtering those rabbits, he bragged about freezing them with the spotlight. In fact, he hit it with a big chunk of ice. There was definitely a light."

  Grady nodded and stroked his chin. "Well, howdy-do. Maybe that explains it. Meeks was down at the garage complaining the spot didn't work. Raised such a fuss they ordered him a new one."

  "So what's the racket about a spotlight?" Jake asked.

  "The new one's still sitting there. He never picked it up."

  "Doesn't prove much," Jake said. "I get stuck with special orders all the time. Guys want something yesterday, place a special order, then buy it quicker someplace else. I'm stuck."

  "I went out to the wrecking yard and checked," Grady said. "Original light is still on the truck. So what do you make of that?"

  Jake shrugged. "I guess they used a portable light. I've got one Ray-O-Vac here that will throw a good beam over a hundred yards. You can pick up that kind of light about anywhere—Coast-to-Coast, Krazy Karl's."

  "Those fellows ever buy one from you?"

  "Not that I remember," Jake said. When he looked at me, I shook my head.

  Grady squinted at Jake. "Now correct me if I'm wrong, but if I was poaching elk on the back corner of the reservation, I'd take along a pretty good light. In fact, I'd take a couple. Wouldn't you?"

  "Yes, I would," Jake said. "But if those boys had been drinking a lot, Meeks might have forgotten his spotlight didn't work. Or they might have stopped to take a piss somewhere and dropped the portable."

  Grady tapped the side of his head. "I like how you think. If you get tired of running this store, I'll put you to work. Anything's possible. Like you say, they can buy a portable just about anyplace. Billyum and Squeaky might have overlooked it. They didn't go over everything with a fine-tooth comb. All in all, it was a piss-poor investigation. Plus the burn and now the snow.

  "Fire wipes out a lot of evidence. Hell, you couldn't tell shit after the plywood mill fire. The whole investigation was guesswork." He hitched his pants. "Anyway, the reservation's not my jurisdiction. Still, I don't want anything overlooked, so I'm sending off a letter stating my concerns to the regional office of the FBI. Let them have a crack."

  "Fuckups, bullies, and idiots," Jake said. "The tribe isn't going to think much of the FBI futzing around. A missing spotlight seems pretty slim."

  Grady smiled. "Sure it does. But I've seen cases turn on a lot less. A footprint, a button, broken shoelace. You start with a thread and see where it leads." He folded up the paper and put it in his jacket pocket. His eyes cut to the painting of Kalim. "You think those fellas knew that Kania boy?"

  Jake seemed surprised. "Why would you think that?"

  "I hear talk. Some of my boys moonlight a little at the mill. Used to moonlight, I mean. They think Meeks and Ka
nia palled around."

  "It's a small town," Jake said. "Everybody runs into everybody. What are you driving at?"

  "Coincidences always make me wonder. Most of the time, people get killed by someone they know."

  Jake laughed. "I can solve that one for you. Kalim didn't kill them, unless you believe that wandering Indian ghosts come looking for revenge."

  Grady smiled. "You're smarter than most of my men, Jake. Like I say, you'd be great on the force. But you got this one ass backwards. I was thinking that if someone blamed them for killing Kalim, they might try to get some payback."

  Jake didn't reply for a moment, and I stayed quiet, too. "Why would they kill Kalim?"

  Grady's brow furrowed. "That's a puzzle, isn't it? But I didn't say they did. You never heard that from me. I'm just trying out a couple theories—shooting in the dark, seeing if I hit anything."

  "It's your business," Jake said. "But I'd be careful and not get the town and reservation at each other's throats."

  Grady shook his head. "Farthest thing from my mind. And I appreci ate your concern." He fastened his coat. "I sure like that deer, Jake. Must be a powerful lot of work dragging it up there, using the pulley, attaching all the wires. Getting those lights on the roof."

  "I got help," Jake said. "This nephew works like a mule."

  "A good kid," Grady said, resting his hand on my shoulder. "He's not likely to wind up on the wrong side of the rule book, especially with his mother's influence. Can't say as much for the uncle."

  For once he didn't mention my stepfather, and I was glad.

  Grady shifted toward the door. "Hope nobody takes a potshot at that deer."

  "I think it's safe from the dudes," Jake said.

  "I don't worry much about dudes," Grady said. "What concerns me is the people close by." He stepped outside and looked up at the deer, then poked his head back in. "You ever think of outlining that critter in lights? They got lights on the horse down at the saddle shop. Looks sharp."

  After Grady left, I studied my uncle. He was thinking hard but didn't speak until I asked, "Why do you think Grady is going after the Indians on this deal?"

  "I'm not exactly sure," Jake said. He tapped the glass counter. "But he's not as dumb as he acts sometimes. And he's right about one thing. There should have been a spotlight."

  "Maybe they used headlights. Caught a big elk crossing the road."

  "Awful chancy," Jake said. "Most people heading toward a dark corner of the reservation would take along a damn good light."

  ***

  The deaths of Meeks and Chilcoat were having a bad effect on the school, too. Even before that mystery, tensions ran high between the children of unemployed millworkers and the Indians. On the basketball team, sons of plant workers wouldn't pass the ball to Indians and vice versa. I got caught in the middle. Needless to say, we lost. The opponents' defenses double-teamed white or Indian players, depending on who controlled the ball downcourt.

  Probably Coach Stevans hadn't helped the situation any by dedicating the football season to Meeks. The Gazette kept the pot stirred and joined Grady in calling for an FBI investigation.

  In the locker room after phys ed, clusters of Indians and white kids snapped one another with wet towels, raising angry welts. And after basketball practice no one kidded around much or played practical jokes like putting analgesic balm in jockstraps. Traveling to away games, the Indian players stuck to their side of the bus.

  Woof Stevans was watching the season slip away but seemed unable to stop the hard feelings. When I walked the hallways between classes, I paused in front of the old trophies and banners, wondering if the season couldn't go better. Sometimes I browsed through old yearbooks, fake and Billyum were in the championship team photo. Billyum posed like a downlineman, fist planted on the ground, leaning forward, his face twisted in a ferocious scowl.

  Franklin and my mom came to every game. She looked terrific, but he always seemed a little overdressed in a blazer, ascot, and matching pocket handkerchief. During warm-ups, I'd give them a quick wave, then duck my head and concentrate on layups. Jake came, too, usually by himself. Seeing my uncle at the games gave me a boost. His confidence was apparent when he came through the door. He knew almost everyone in the place and stopped to talk with half a dozen people before he sat down to watch. Not growing up with a real father, I couldn't say for sure, but I think the love I felt for Jake was pretty close to how other guys felt about their dads.

  The spectators divided into two groups. Most of the farmers, millworkers, and businesspeople sat on the bleachers behind the home team. The rally squad worked these bleachers.

  People from Mission, Ace, and the RedWings sat on the bleachers opposite, not behind the visitors' bench but close to the gym entrance and the concessions. Everyone carried in tubs of buttered popcorn, garlicky hot dogs, soft drinks, and red licorice whips sold by the Girls Athletic Association.

  The night we played Pinedale, Jake and Juniper arrived late, just as we were finishing warm-ups, so most of the crowd was already in. They hesitated in the doorway; she was leaning toward the Mission bleachers. Right then, Grady called out from the other side, "Hey, Jake. We got room here. Bring the little woman." Grady stood and pointed to a small section of bare bleacher. "Lots of room." He was grinning.

  If Jake had a moment's pause, Grady settled it for him. My uncle and Juniper sat on the Mission side.

  Pinedale was leading the league and figured we'd be a cinch. During warm-ups, I saw the moonfaced kid who had stopped and talked one night when I'd been running. He was beefier than I remembered, and I realized he'd be hard to outmuscle on the boards. "Hey," he said when he'd caught my eye. "I can't believe you pussies lost to Bridgeport. Our girls' team could beat them."

  "In Pinedale, it's hard to tell the girls from the boys," I said.

  Thatcher Toopah, our starting guard, grinned at that one.

  "What's so funny, Calijah?" the Pinedale boy asked. "You look like a girl yourself with that braid. You know what they call an Indian with two bottles of whiskey on the reservation? They call him mayor." A couple of the other Pinedale players snickered.

  I looked around to see if one of the refs heard, but they hadn't. Thatcher just kept smiling until someone tossed him the ball. Then he canned one from the top of the key.

  "He won't make that when he's double-teamed," the blond boy said.

  Before they announced the starting five, I sidled close to Thatcher. "You see any Indians on that Pinedale team?" I asked. "Come on. Let's get all five guys in the game and whip their butts."

  Thatcher tapped my shoulder with his fist. "I don't want to see you casting off from the corner."

  The first couple times Thatcher brought the ball downcourt, it looked like the same old shit. As soon as he crossed midcourt, Pinedale double-teamed both him and our forward Wilbur Tapish. First Thatcher tried forcing Wilbur a pass that got picked off and then he got called for a charging foul. Pinedale scored twice and led 4–0.

  "I thought tonight was supposed to be different," Stork Whealey complained as he lumbered back to his high post.

  "Pass the damn ball to the other guys!" Woof called from the bench.

  "Don't worry," I told Stork. "Thatcher's just setting them up." I hoped it was true.

  The next trip downcourt, Thatcher faked the drive, faked a pass to Wilbur, and slipped me a no-look pass as I cut for the basket. It was so slick, I almost dropped the ball but hung on for an uncontested layup.

  "He must've gone color blind all of a sudden," the moonfaced kid said as I hustled back on defense. But Thatcher kept them off balance all night. He passed to the open man, drove the lane, and went on a red-hot shooting streak, casting off hip shots that had no business going in.

  Pinedale was caught flat-footed, and all of us rallied behind Thatcher. Gateway fans stood and cheered, rocking both sets of bleachers. Every time Gab stood up from his broadcast mike to cheer, he dumped popcorn on the people in front, but they didn't mind. Everybod
y was too delighted watching Pinedale get drubbed.

  After the game, Gab interviewed Thatcher and Stork for his radio show, and I stopped to talk with Franklin and my mother. "Great job, Culver," he said. "You got twelve points." He thumped my back, the most emotion I had ever seen him display. He had taken off his blazer and held it folded across his arm.

  I looked around for Jake and Juniper, but they were gone.

  "That your dad?" Thatcher asked as we showered after the game. "Guy with that funny thing around his neck?"

  "No. But he goes with my mom sometimes."

  "Could have fooled me." Thatcher grinned. "You look exactly like that weenie. Spitting image."

  27

  WHEN WE PULLED INTO SHERMAN, the snow obscured most of what little there was to see. Jake stopped at a tiny café on the edge of town, and the manager poured us the dregs of the coffee. I had wanted hot chocolate but he was out. "Closing early today," the man said. "Even the truckers are stopped with this snow." He glanced out the window. "See you got four-wheel drive. Big winch. You come prepared."

  Jake nodded. "Triple A can't find this place," and the man grinned.

  Across from the café were a couple acres littered with farm equipment, used appliances, flat-tired school buses. A weather-beaten old farmhouse rose from the middle of the junk. On the roof was a kind of widow's walk, and through the falling snow I could just make out what seemed to be a bundled-up person sitting in a lawn chair.

  "That the mayor's place?" Jake asked.

  "Old man Mossby and his two sisters. He tried to be mayor. Got four votes, but it wasn't enough." He poured Jake a little more coffee, thick and black, then rinsed out the pot. "With separate domiciles they collect three times as much support from the county. That's the law, believe it or not. Fact is, he can't stand the sisters, so he sits on the roof, watches the world go by."

  "Not bad work," Jake said. "Where'd that fourth vote come from?"

  "It's a mystery." The café owner placed the pot on a shelf. "Me, I don't care who wins, but they have to be Republicans."