I wasn’t about to tell him, if he hadn’t already heard all the stories. I responded with a shrug.
“Well, you sure must have pissed somebody off,” he commented. “Shipping you out here is damn near the equivalent of painting a target on your back. The best advice I can give is to keep your head down, your mouth shut, and make as little trouble as possible.”
That confirmed it. Turner hadn’t heard much about me.
“By the way, I brought you a little housewarming gift.”
Turner put a plaque on my desk: THIS JOB IS 99% BORE-DOM AND 1% WHITE-HOT FEAR.
“What say you try living by that ninety-nine percent, and the two of us should get along just fine.”
“Where’s the adventure in that?” I quipped.
Turner responded with a derisive snort. “Let me put it to you another way: I’ve got enough stress in my life. Don’t go giving me any more agita. I strongly suggest you do something constructive with your time, like wading through Carolton’s paperwork. I’m sure he’s got a slew of cases that need to be closed.”
On that note, Turner hauled himself from the chair and took his leave. No sooner had he walked out the door than I flipped the plaque facedown. While I might be temporarily forced to do paperwork, I wasn’t about to put up my feet, lace my hands behind my head, and moan and groan about what couldn’t be done. In fact, I was more determined than ever to leap tall buildings in a single bound.
My Superwoman persona was put on hold as I dragged out Carolton’s files and began to slog through his open cases. There were the usual Indian wannabes who’d been caught with feathers stuck in their hat-brims. Yet another involved a fool who’d bred a pack of hybrid wolves, only to tire of feeding them. His solution was to turn the critters loose on the town.
One file was completely empty—Grizzly Deaths on the Blackfeet Reservation. Carolton must have had his rendezvous with fate before he’d been able to open an investigation. Either that or the case had been squelched. But it was a definite clue that he’d known something was going on. I was wondering just what that something might be when the phone rang.
“Rachel?” The voice sang out loud and clear over the wire. “This is Sally Crossbow. Remember me?”
“I certainly do.” The Madonna of her day had made a lasting impression.
“I’ve been thinking. It seems awfully silly for you to go to a motel if you’re coming back up to the rez. Why don’t you just stay with me? I’ve got plenty of room and, Lord knows, I could use the practice brushing up on my people skills.”
The thought of rooming with the sharp-tongued Sally was about as tempting as walking barefoot across broken glass. Sally quickly picked up on my hesitation.
“I’m afraid I was a bit short with you yesterday, and I’d like to make up for it. I believe I can be of some help. I’ll be happy to give you what insight I have into the Blackfeet people and their culture. You’ll need to know the proper etiquette if you plan to spend any time snooping around on the rez.”
I had the distinct feeling that Sally wanted to keep an eye on me. As far as she knew, the fate of her grizzly cubs was still at stake. Even so, the situation could prove to be equally beneficial for both of us. Having Sally as an ally wasn’t all that bad an idea.
“Thanks, Sally. It’s very kind of you. That would be great.”
Besides, I secretly admired the woman. Not only did she have the gumption to live her life as she chose, but Sally wasn’t afraid to kick ass in order to get things done. She clearly put herself on the line when it came to protecting and saving wildlife.
“I’ll come by tonight, but it might be a bit late. I have to stop off at a bar on the way. Some place called Big Bertha’s Wildlife Sanctuary.”
“Oh dear Lord. Not that hellhole!”
“You know it?”
“Who doesn’t? It’s not the sort of place that I would patronize, I can tell you that much.”
I figured if Sally disapproved, it must be quite the dive.
“Don’t worry about what time you arrive; I stay up late myself. Just head on over when you’re through—and be careful!”
Normally I’d have bristled at those last words, but I found her concern oddly touching.
I put Carolton’s files away; there was no sense in pretending to examine them any further. My pulse rate had picked up, a sure sign that I was on to something. Grizzlies were being killed and I intended to get to the bottom of it, no matter what Turner said. Misdemeanor be damned! Somebody’s life was about to be made miserable.
I headed back home to pack a few essentials. Hal was finally up and out of the house. I was glad he wasn’t around; I didn’t need him begging to come along.
I was ready to leave when Casanova appeared and once again deftly blocked my exit. His pushed-in Persian mug touted a well-practiced pout. I was convinced the feline was a reincarnated cross between James Cagney and some surly Parisian model.
Meow!
It was perfectly clear that I wasn’t about to go anywhere until I’d given him what he wanted. I glanced at his bowl and saw that all the Tender Vittles were gone.
“All right. One more pack, but that’s it.”
The little fur ball supervised closely, making sure every last morsel had tumbled out of the package. Then he began to chow down, having gotten his way.
Temptation is a funny thing, and comes in all shapes and sizes. Casanova’s long, silky coat seduced me now, and I reached down to run my hand along his glistening fur.
The cat promptly scratched me.
Ouch! You’d think I’d have learned by now not to be enticed by beauty. There was no question the cat had more than a touch of Sally Starlight in him.
I left a short note for Hal and hurried out the door.
Five
I drove past where the university football team, the Montana Grizzlies, was practicing in Grizzly Stadium. The grizzly is considered the state animal, with nearly every motel, gift shop, and restaurant in Montana named after it. People are so enamored of bears that they’ve created lovable characters like Winnie-the-Pooh, Paddington, and Smokey in their image. Even President Teddy Roosevelt had refused to shoot a bruin that some friends thoughtfully tied to a tree for him—thereby spawning the teddy bear craze. Yet when one of these critters was illegally killed, nobody had enough backbone to convict the guilty party. Talk about your sense of irony.
I took the two-lane scenic route to Big Bertha’s, not wanting to arrive too early. The Mission Mountains soon appeared, rising majestically out of a thick bank of clouds like my very own Brigadoon. All was fine until I got stuck behind a chip truck chugging along at twenty-five miles an hour. Call me crazy, but to my mind that’s cause for justifiable homicide.
The last truck I’d forcibly followed had kicked up a storm of gravel, cracking my windshield so that it resembled a spider’s web. This monstrous vehicle was more benign: it simply splattered my pickup with mud. I flipped on the wipers and presto! A work of modern art was instantly born. I cursed the rig, attempting to see the road through my down-home Jackson Pollock.
I finally gave up and pulled into Oly’s gas station, where I washed my windshield and picked up dinner—three hot dogs for a dollar. Forgoing the ketchup and mustard—I prefer to eat my food rather than wear it while careening down the road—I munched on a dog and placed the other two on the dashboard, then turned on the defroster to keep them warm. Yet another trick I’d learned from Charlie Hickok—the art of how to keep a meal from coagulating while on the run.
I’d planned my trip just right, finishing the last bite as I reached Big Bertha’s. The parking lot was filled with Harleys and unwashed pickups. The billboard displayed an overweight woman in a partial state of undress. She was artfully covered by a swaggering peacock that stood with its tail feathers unfolded, while a python slithered across her breasts.
I parked and headed for the entrance, where a sign over the door sternly warned NO ASSHOLES. Then I walked inside to view a display of humanity i
n all its inebriated glory. Evidently plenty of leeway was allowed when it came to interpreting Big Bertha’s warning.
Speakers blared a raucous tribute to the Allman Brothers, followed by a rousing medley of Lynyrd Skynyrd tunes, though it was difficult to hear the booming music above the catcalls and lecherous roars of the crowd.
The center of attention was a girl dressed up to look like Dale Evans—only this was the porno version. The fringe on her micro-mini skirt swung seductively against her G-string, its slender triangular material decorated with amorous bulls. Tiny cowboy hats rounded out her costume, creatively covering the tips of her breasts. It was enough to make Trigger blush.
A large chalkboard on the wall detailed the upcoming schedule for Cabin Fever Days. Among the planned events were a Coors Can Snowball Toss, Nude Sumo Wrestling, Dead Chicken Bingo, and Bar Stool Racing. Ooh yeah! I’d be sure to mark those dates down on my calendar.
The temperature in the room felt more like spring break in Miami than November in Montana; it had to be a good eighty degrees. The air was laden with a scent that could best be described as pungent, laced with a dose of musk. It was a mixture of beer, body odor, booze, and I didn’t want to guess what else.
Sexy Dale finished her act and the crowd dispersed to the pool tables and keno machines, allowing me enough room to sit at the end of the bar. I patiently waited for over two minutes, all the while trying to lasso the bartender’s attention. I finally resorted to a more tried-and-true method.
“Yo! How about a Moose Drool over here!”
That seemed to do the trick. One instantly appeared. There were no bowls of peanuts and pretzels as munchies; the finger food consisted of beef jerky and turkey gizzards floating in two large jars. A pair of coconut shells, carved into caricatured Indian faces sucking on cheap cigars, were strung above the bar. Even the restrooms had their own unique touch. The sign over the men’s room read GUNS, while the ladies’ room was designated HOLSTERS.
During the lull in the entertainment, the biker on the next bar stool finally noticed I was there. Lucky me. The sum total of Biker Bob’s charm was encapsulated in the phrase written across the back of his tee-shirt.
If You Can Read This, the Bitch Fell Off!
She must have gotten in one last good lick before she left, because Biker Bob sported a black eye. He finished his drink and slammed the glass down on the bar.
“Hey, Bert! Bring two more of these. One for me and one for my gal pal here,” he growled, motioning toward me with his thumb.
Bert hopped to it as if we were the only ones there.
“Thanks, but I’ve already got a drink,” I said, by way of polite refusal.
“No, what you’ve got is a Moose Drool. This is a drink,” my new friend insisted. “You ever have a Montana Ditch?” He pushed one in front of me.
I resignedly shook my head.
“Yukon Jack whisky and water. If you were from around these parts, you’d know that. Hell, you haven’t experienced Montana till you’ve had a Ditch!”
Maybe that’s why I was craving a piña colada right now.
“Besides, darlin’, this calls for a toast. I think I knew you in a past life.” Biker Bob picked up my glass and held it to my lips.
“I guess that’s why they call it a past life,” I firmly replied and pushed it away.
Biker Bob guffawed and threw me a wink. Then he plucked a deep-fried nugget from off a plate and slathered it in sauce. The liquid dripped down his fingers as he popped the morsel into his mouth.
“So, sweetheart, if you don’t wanna try a Ditch, how about giving one of our local delicacies a whirl?”
The thick, gooey sauce oozed down his hand. Maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the heat, but the mixed odor of oil and sweet sauce made me feel queasy.
My past-life Lothario pushed the plate closer. “Go ahead. Take a taste. It won’t kill ya. That’s what we call cowboy caviar.”
“Cowboy caviar?” The greasy nuggets looked more like breaded golf balls.
Biker Bob flashed a grin that revealed he was missing more than a few teeth. “You know. Rocky Mountain oysters. Try ’em; they’ll help loosen you up. It’s our homegrown version of Viagra. But don’t you worry none, sugar.”
His stale breath licked at my ear.
“They only make me frisky on days that end in ‘y.’ Gotta stay firm for the ladies, you know.”
That did it. I wasn’t about to start gnawing on breaded and fried bull testicles. “Thanks, but the last thing I need is more bull in a man.”
Suddenly the music kicked in and all-out pandemonium broke loose. My biker honey began thumping on the bar with his fists, as chimplike hoots flew from his mouth. He wasn’t alone in his enthusiasm. It was as if a brushfire had been lit under every man in the room. They started clapping in unison to that all-time classic Cher song, “Half Breed” as the focus of their unabashed fervor was hoisted onto the bar.
A girl dressed in a deerskin top and minuscule loincloth pranced about, patting a hand against her mouth while pretending to give an Indian war cry. She would have resembled every other bump-and-grind dancer but for the enormous war bonnet perched on her head. The Indian headdress transformed her into a low-rent Ziegfeld showgirl. Its long train flowed down her bare back and over her butt, in perverse imitation of a wedding veil.
The frenzy continued to build as the girl whipped off her top to reveal breasts covered only by tiny tomahawk pasties. She spun around while tearing off her loincloth, and I was certain the roof would cave in from the crowd’s noise. Her G-string consisted of nothing more than a few well-placed, colorful feathers. The grand finale came as she displayed two bull’s-eyes painted on her rear-end, then proceeded to slap them as though they were tom-toms.
If nothing else, Big Bertha’s should have been closed down for its monumental display of bad taste—though I seemed to be the only one who thought so. In sync to the music, the air throbbed with an overload of testosterone-laden lust. Some smart businessman could have cornered the market in Rocky Mountain oysters by filming this place as a testimonial to their potency.
The performance ended as she pulled the tomahawk pasties from her breasts and threw them into the frenzied audience. The men in the crowd behaved like the perfect gentlemen they were, pummeling one another into the ground in a desperate effort to obtain them. No wonder her act had made such an impression on Jonesy. When I looked back, the girl was gone.
I quickly nabbed Bert the bartender before the crowd descended to drown their lust in booze.
“The dancer. What’s her name?”
Bert flashed a smarmy smile. “Sorry, sweetheart. I hate to break it to you, but you’re not her type.”
Oy veh. I’d just about had it with this place. I grabbed his arm and flashed my badge in his face. “No problem. However, you might end up as the target of my next investigation if I don’t get the information I want. Now just give me her name, bozo.”
“Cherry Jubilee.”
It made as much sense as anything else. “See, wasn’t that easy? Now how about telling me where I can find her, while you get me another Moose Drool.”
“Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on. Here’s your beer. Cherry will be out in a minute. It’s nearly time for her waitressing shift.”
Not only did I keep my shirt on, I also held on to my seat as the crowd converged six-deep around the bar. Orders flew for Coors, Mud Slides, and Hot Sex shooters as Biker Bob looked down at his empty plate and then back up at me in surprise.
“Why, sweetheart, you sure as hell must be feeling pretty loosey goosey right about now. You went and ate up all my gonads!”
Maybe it was time to move on, after all. Just then Cherry Jubilee reappeared, dressed in a low-cut black leather bustier and matching hip-hugger pants decorated with fringe running down the sides of both legs. She looked like Erin Brockovich Does Montana. Eyes rimmed with heavy black liner gave her the appearance of a raccoon who’d hadn’t slept for days. They competed for attention wit
h a pair of bee-stung, ruby-red lips and a Rocky Mountain pile of teased hair.
“Hey, Bertie! Gimme two tequila shooters pronto! I only have a ten-minute break before I gotta get to work!” she barked.
He produced the drinks on the double, not bothering to steer her my way.
Cherry picked up one of the glasses and, drawing her shoulders forward, tucked it firmly between her breasts while slipping a slice of lime in her lips.
The guy standing next to her looked like a broken-down, gonzo rock-’n’-roller, complete with a long, greasy ponytail. He bent over, licked Cherry’s neck, sprinkled the area with salt, and grazed her skin again with his tongue. Then he grabbed the glass from between her breasts with his teeth, threw back his head, and downed the tequila. Finally, Mr. Rock Star removed the slice of lime from her lips with his own to a hearty round of applause.
But the show wasn’t over yet. A chorus of lusty cheers broke out as Cherry dropped to her knees. Mr. Over-the-Hill Rock Star smiled benevolently at the crowd as he lifted his shirt and lodged the second shot of tequila between his stomach and jeans. Cherry’s tongue flicked snakelike across his pale abs. After salting his flesh, she licked the area again slowly.
Cherry looked up at her honey and grinned. He placed a hand on her head and guided her back to his pants, where her teeth latched on to the rim of the glass, but the drink refused to budge.
“Pull harder!” the crowd roared.
Cherry gave another tug, and this time proved victorious.
“How about you and me try some of that action?” Biker Bob suggested.
“I’m saving it for my next life,” I quipped, and headed over to the girl who’d aptly named herself after a dessert.
I was instantly swallowed up in a crowd that consisted of way too much denim and leather. A few deft jabs helped me along the way—until my elbow came in contact with the wrong customer.
A Killing Season Page 5