“The last person who poked me like that found his ankles and wrists duct-taped together,” rumbled a guy the size of Mount Everest, with a stomach to match.
It was at times like this that I became religious—right now I devoutly wished that Moses were here to help me part this sea of human flesh.
Nada. Zilch. Zippo. Not a body moved.
Since no miracle appeared to be forthcoming, I bellowed, “Dancer approaching!” at the top of my lungs.
Not only did a path clear, but I was pushed back toward the bar, where eager hands lifted me onto the counter. I performed a soft shoe around the beer bottles and shot glasses to a growing chorus of boos, working my way to the other end, where I jumped off and landed right next to Cherry and her boyfriend.
Both of them shot me a glance that left no doubt that my presence wasn’t welcome. Tough luck for them.
“Hi. My name is Rachel Porter. I wonder if I could speak to you in private for a moment?” I asked, ignoring her snarling boyfriend.
Cherry’s fingers idly wandered up to a gold chain around her neck, which bore a heart with a serrated edge. “What the hell for?”
“I just have a few questions. I’m a U.S. Fish and Wildlife agent.”
“Oh yeah? What’d I do? Shoot an endangered moose or something?” she sneered, her fingers twisting the necklace first one way and then the other. “This is as private as it gets. Anything you have to say to me can be said in front of my boyfriend.”
I took another look at the aging rock star. Tall and thin, he’d have been considered an anorexic if he were a girl.
“In that case, I’d like to know where you got the Indian headdress you were wearing tonight.”
“I gave it to her. Why? What’s the problem?” Mr. Rock Star asked, sticking out his bony chest.
“There isn’t one yet. So how about filling me in on where you got it from?”
He snorted and shook his head. “Didn’t I tell you this country is getting to be more and more like Nazi Germany? Soon the feds are gonna wanna implant microchips in our hands so they’ll know not just who we are, but also where we are at all times.”
Hoping to ease the tension, I said calmly, “I’m only asking about the headdress because I’d like to take a look at it.”
“What for?” Cherry asked once again.
I gave the same response in turn. “I already told you. Because I’m a special agent with U.S. Fish and Wildlife.”
“What are you, stupid or something, bitch?” While verbally attacking his girlfriend, Mr. Rock Star never took his eyes off me. “It’s ’cause Miss Fed here wants to check out the feathers to see if they’re from eagles. Now go get it.”
“Why should I?” Cherry sulked and straightened her bustier.
He swiveled his head to glare at her. “’Cause I said so,” he warned. Then he refocused his attention on me. “Hell, nothing tickles me more than cooperating with an agent for the federal U.S. goddamn government.”
He emitted a mirthless laugh, its sound as venomous as the pulsating rattles on a snake.
Neither of us spoke until Cherry reappeared dragging the headdress behind her, its feathers touching the ground.
He took the warbonnet from Cherry and handed it to me with a mock ceremonial bow. “Here you go. Knock yourself out.”
The piece was heavier than I’d imagined, making me wonder how she was able to dance and also maintain her balance. My finger slid down the middle of one feather, and I was caught by surprise. There was no groove, as there would have been if it were from an eagle. These plumes were smooth. I carefully examined the quills. A black pen mark had been drawn down the center of each feather, expertly replicating a furrow. The headdress was fashioned from turkey feathers.
Mr. Rock Star’s dry laughter slithered over to bite me.
“I made it. Damn good work, huh?” he boasted.
The piece was an absolutely perfect artifake. “It’s terrific. This bonnet could pass for an authentic heirloom. How did you get it to look so old?”
“That’s a trade secret. But then, I don’t suppose you’re gonna give it away.”
“I promise that I won’t.”
“What the hell you wanna go and tell her for?” Cherry complained.
Mr. Rock Star raised a threatening finger in front of her face and Cherry Jubilee immediately fell silent. “What did I warn you about interruptions?” His voice had turned as deadly as his laughter. “Huh? What did I warn you?” he demanded again, and grabbed hold of her arm.
“Not to do it,” Cherry timidly responded, keeping her eyes focused on the floor.
“That’s right. So don’t fucking interrupt me again, or you know what’ll happen!”
His fingers angrily dug into her flesh and tears sprang up in the girl’s eyes.
“Hey, that’s enough! Let her go,” I said.
He grinned and released her arm, one finger at a time. There were red marks on Cherry’s skin.
“Are you all right?” I asked her.
Cherry flashed me a dirty look that clearly meant, Drop dead! Mr. Rock Star calmly turned back to me, as if nothing at all had happened.
“What I do is stain the feathers with green tea and then rub ’em with steel wool to give them that antiqued look. As far as I know, that’s not breaking any law. ‘Let the buyer beware’ is my philosophy.”
As much as it irked me, the guy was right. “No, there’s nothing illegal about your work. In fact, I find it pretty amazing. I’d like to come by your shop sometime, if you don’t mind.” Maybe flattery would get me in the door, so that I could do some snooping around. Who knew what else I might find?
“I don’t have a shop. I work out of my home,” he replied.
“Then would it be all right if I visit you there?” I fingered the headdress, doing my best to give off the air of a prospective customer.
Mr. Rock Star licked his bottom lip, as if thinking it over. “Why? You interested in buying something?”
“It’s possible. I take it that you make other things besides headdresses?”
He hesitated for a moment before reaching into his pocket. “Sure. Why not? Here’s my business card.”
I took the proffered card from his fingers and read, Kyle Lungren. Member in Good Standing of the United Christian Patriots. It bore his address and phone number, beneath which was the insignia of a jagged heart. The emblem not only matched the trinket that hung from Cherry’s neck, but was identical to the little gold pin affixed to his shirt pocket. Kyle Lungren flashed me a cocky grin. He was clearly a member of the local militia.
I slipped the card inside my pants pocket. “I’ll give you a call and set up a time to stop by.”
Lungren’s grin took on a sinister edge as he raised a finger and pointed it at me like a pistol. “You be sure and do that. Don’t be a stranger.” His words were followed by the same nasty laugh as before.
I caught Cherry’s eyes once again. They now held a warning. Keep your hands off my man. Kyle’s mine, all mine!
I didn’t foresee any problem with that.
I pushed my way back through the bodies packed as tightly together as sides of prime beef, trying not to knock into the tables scattered about the floor. I was feeling like the proverbial pinball bouncing around inside a game machine, when someone stopped my progress by grabbing hold of my clothes.
“Hey, Red! What’s the big rush? Where’s the fire? Why doncha slow down? I bet you’re a Big Apple babe. Am I right, or what?” shot a voice with the rat-a-tat-tat delivery of a tommy gun.
I turned around, trying to pull my shirt loose from a grip as determined as the jaws of life. Seated at a table behind me was a guy who resembled a human Chihuahua. It was a toss-up as to whether to pet him, or have him hauled off to the local pound.
Everything about the guy was diminutive, from his tiny hands to his squinty eyes and sharp, narrow chin. He couldn’t have weighed more than a hundred and ten pounds. Just looking at him made me feel like a behemoth. But his clothes were the topp
er. This was obviously someone from back East, trying too hard to fit in.
His polyester shirt must have been created by a sixties flower child whose technique was to throw up in psychedelic colors all over the fabric. As for his snakeskin boots, more than a few pythons had been flayed to make them. But the real corker was on top of his head: an authentic Davy Crockett style raccoon cap complete with a fluffy tail. His movements were herky-jerky hyper as he fidgeted in his seat. Either the guy was high on speed, had to pee, or was your typical New Yorker. Oh God! I wondered if he thought the exact same thing about me?
“What makes you think I’m from New York?” I cautiously inquired.
His machine-gun laughter splattered the room, exposing exceptionally sharp miniature canines. “Whadda ya, kidding me? The way you’re pushing through this crowd, of course! You could only have learned that on a New York subway. I’ll double your weekly pay if you’ve been in this state over three lousy months.”
There was no denying the guy was good.
“Well? What are you standing there for? Sit down! Take a load off!”
I still had to drive to Sally’s, in addition to which I wondered if the guy had ever been given his rabies shots. Just watching him made me jittery.
“Come on, come on! I promise not to bite! Neither will my friend here, Rocky Raccoon.” He playfully shook his cap’s coonskin tail at me. “Let me buy you a beer, for chrissakes. I just need to talk to someone who doesn’t always say you betcha. Otherwise I’m gonna friggin’ shoot myself right here, and you wouldn’t want to live with that for the rest of your life!”
The guy was outrageous, but there was something about him that I liked. Besides, we were two New Yorkers completely out of our element, and there wasn’t any stronger bond than that. The only problem was, there were no other chairs at his table.
“Gimme a minute and I’ll solve the problem.” Leaning back, he tapped the biker sitting behind him. “Hey buddy! How’d you like to make a fast twenty?”
Five seconds later, my rear end was in the chair and the biker was standing.
“There! What did I tell you? I’m always good for my word! By the way, I’m Rory Calhoun. You know, like the actor in those old cowboy B-movies.” Rory pretended to fire an imaginary pair of six-shooters. “Except that I was born and raised in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. Now it’s your turn. What are you doing in this lousy part of the world?”
He looked as much like Rory Calhoun as I resembled an exotic dancer. Especially since Bay Ridge was as Italian as one could get. Either his mother had had a cowboy fetish, or Mr. Calhoun was lying.
“My name is Rachel Porter and I’m a special agent with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.”
“No kiddin’?” Rory held on to his cap to emphasize his surprise. “A fed, huh? Congratulations. That oughta go over about as well as a fart in a church around here.”
So much for counting on his undivided support. “What do you do for a living?”
“Hot tubs. I’m in the hot tub business.”
“You’re joking, right?” I started to laugh.
“No, I’m dead serious. I told you, I’m good for my word.”
A scantily clad waitress approached and placed two Moose Drools on the table.
Rory pulled a humongous wallet from his back pocket and slapped a twenty on her tray. “There you go, sweetheart. Keep the change.”
“Thank you, Rory,” she cooed and gave him a peck on the cheek as strains of “Hey, Big Spender” reverberated in my brain. Rory was apparently well known and liked at Big Bertha’s. But he hadn’t finished tripping through his wallet just yet.
“See for yourself if you don’t believe me. Look! Here’s my business card.” His elfin fingers shoved it in my hand.
Some Like It Hot. We provide the tub, you create the heat.
Beneath the logo was a drawing of a cowpoke and his horse relaxing together in a wooden tub. There was no stopping the smile that skidded across my face.
“What’s so funny, huh?” Rory demanded, his eyes bulging like two oversized marbles. “You tell me, who doesn’t enjoy soaking their bag of bones in a good, hot tub of swirling water? Especially these macho cowboys with asses as flat as pancakes. Whether your butt is smack in a saddle or bouncing around in one of those damn pickups, it’s still gonna feel sore by the end of the day. I bet you wouldn’t mind planting your fanny in one of my tubs, either.”
“So, you’re really able to make a living selling hot tubs in Montana?” I dubiously inquired.
Rory’s coonskin cap had begun to slide so far down on his forehead that he could have passed for the missing link.
“No, I’m really a trust fund kid and my father is friggin’ Ted Turner. Whadda ya think? Of course I make money at it. I’m rolling in dough.”
Another partially clad waitress stopped by long enough to tickle Rory’s cheek with his cap’s coonskin tail. “Isn’t he just the cutest thing you ever saw?”
Rory beamed and returned the compliment by patting her on the fanny and slipping her a couple of fives.
I tried to hand Calhoun back his business card.
“No, no! You keep it. Call me and I’ll give you a good deal. I’m sure we can work something out. Maybe you can waste the prairie dogs that are building a fucking apartment complex under my yard. In fact, why don’t you give me your card right now?”
I dug one out of my bag.
“Sorry, but I won’t help you get rid of prairie dogs. I’m one of those people who actually protects them.”
“That’s okay. I’ll think of something else,” he responded as he scrutinized my card.
“What is it? Don’t you believe I’m really a special agent?” I asked in amusement.
“Sure, I believe you. Who the hell would be crazy enough to lie about being a fed in Montana? It’s not exactly on the top ten list in these parts.”
It was time to go. Not only did spending time with Rory feel like mainlining espressos, but Meat Loaf’s “Bat Out of Hell” was rocking the walls. My head was pounding, and I had no control over the involuntary tapping of my toes. Not a good sign.
I got up from my seat. “Thanks for the beer, Rory, but I really have to leave.”
“Yeah, yeah. Me too. Hang around this place too long and you’ll wind up catching a case of John Wayne-itis.”
When he stood, he barely reached my shoulders—and that was with elevated heels on his boots. But Calhoun was able to burrow his way through the crowd like a total pro. The guy was a human Roto-Rooter. I quickly followed in his wake.
He flung open the door and we stepped outside, where I took a deep breath, stretched, and let the lingering residue from the crowd, the heat, and the stench drop away. The sky was so thickly littered with stars that it looked as though welding sparks had gone berserk and shot upward to burn holes in the night.
“For chrissakes! You know what drives me crazy? You can see forever in this damn place! What they need are a bunch of tall buildings to give it some sense of civilization. I’m talking Donald Trump, mother-sized towers, along with a shitload of street lamps.”
“If you don’t like the country, why come here in the first place? To be honest, you don’t strike me as the cowboy type.”
Calhoun’s eyes glittered beneath his coonskin cap. “You’re not exactly the cowgirl type, either. So my guess is that it’s probably for the same reason you did. I burned too many bridges and didn’t have a whole lotta choice. One good thing about Montana is that people pretty much leave you alone and don’t ask a lotta questions. You might take a lesson from that.”
He walked over to a shiny new silver Lincoln Continental and opened the door. “A word of advice: watch your back, Big Apple babe. These cowboys can be mean motherfuckers.”
Then he slid into his vehicle, turned on the engine, and peeled off.
I pulled out his card and looked at it once more. There was another interesting aspect to his business that I hadn’t noticed before. Some Like It Hot had no address.
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Six
The highways and byways in Montana look different at night. Basically, you can’t see much of anything, which tends to be a problem—especially when you’re threading your way along a perilous mountain road. A steep drop-off threatens to swallow you on one side; on the other are kamikaze logging trucks that are not only bigger and stronger, but plain don’t give a damn.
I wended my way up Mariah’s Pass and climbed toward the heavens, traveling along on a Rocky Mountain high. I held my breath and made a wish as my wheels hit the Continental Divide. My 4X4 hung suspended, balanced on the earth’s spine, before toppling over to the other side, where I found a curve unexpectedly yawning before me. I might have flown off the road but for the row of metal crosses that flashed out a warning, each representing a soul that had passed before its time.
I entered the rez at East Glacier. Relaxing, I allowed myself to go with the flow. My mind checked onto automatic pilot, entranced by the nearly full moon that danced high above the Rockies.
In no time at all I reached the turnoff for Sally’s and approached the tunnel of trees, where my adrenaline kicked in. They were no longer gaily waving to me in welcome. Their skeletal arms now clawed at the night, and their strips of cloth had turned into raggedy shrouds. The spectral figures clustered tighter and tighter around me, until I was certain I could hear the beat of their phantom hearts. Finally, I caught sight of a halo of yellow light that emanated from Sally’s house.
I tore through the final stretch of forest and breathed a sigh of relief as my Ford hit the open field, where I spotted her sculpted bears secretly frolicking in the moonlight. Streams of ghostly mist rose off their upturned metal faces as they gazed at the sky in delight. The spell was broken only when Sally opened the front door and stepped outside.
Dressed in elegant red silk pajamas, the onetime showgirl was quite a sight. Leather slippers trimmed with beaver covered her feet, while her hair hung loosely about her shoulders, gleaming luminescent as a moonbeam in the night. I’d never felt so dazzled, so intrigued, and so envious all in one heartbeat.
“I hope I’m not arriving too late,” I offered by way of greeting.
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