by John Hansen
I could see why Alia would want to come to my quaint and homey store at Two Med, it was like being on a different planet than Browning – a planet just 15 miles away. Bars and “cigarette outlets” were plentiful in Browning because the tribe had tax-free situations that brought a lot of profit through those avenues. This was before casinos became legal, however.
Greg and I parked in front of the address I had found online where the council met once a week, but as we got out of the car I thought we had gotten the wrong address because the building’s sign read “VFW – Veterans of Foreign Wars – Post 364” and there was nothing about the Blackfoot tribe listed anywhere on the front of the building.
I looked at the hand-scrawled address on my notepad that also had the address for where the last two sets of foster parents may be living now, and this was it for the council. I looked at Greg and he just shrugged. The building looked more like an old bar than anything else, with tinted windows and, strangely, a couple of neon signs with beer company logos. Greg looked like he was regretting his choice to come along as he surveyed the bar.
As we walked up to the front of the building, I noticed a guy sitting in the doorway, and he somehow looked familiar. Upon getting closer, I realized with a shock that it was Jake, the brother of Clayton, who I had met briefly at the lodge bonfire. He still had on the same mirror finish aviators and was sitting motionless, leaning with his back against the door. His long hair was brushed straight back, and was moving a little in the breeze. He had on an old sleeveless t-shirt, and faded jeans. It was actually an iconic image – this Native American against a dilapidated backdrop, in mirror finish glasses, proudly and sternly staring out into the distance, obstinate, an exile, with nothing to do but stare and wait – but for what? I figured it was just as possible that he was drunk, sitting in front of bar at noon because he had nowhere else to go.
He didn’t turn his head or even move a muscle as we walked past him and into the door of the meeting place/bar. Maybe he was passed out cold.
Greg and I went in and our eyes had to adjust for a second to the dim light inside. The VFW, at least this part, was just a bar, and there were a few old guys, a younger guy, and a fat older woman sitting at the bar – even at this hour. I thought of Scotty then, and his theories of day drinking. He’d be right at home here. A skinny, older lady with huge, saggy boobs, and with bright yellow dyed hair with dark roots showing was bartending. There were two old TVs mounted above the bar, the screens facing down towards the bar at an angle, and some video poker machines were set along a far wall.
One old man was sitting in a slouch in front of one of them, playing each of the machines in turn from his one chair, leaning back lazily to reach across to all three panels, just punching button after button, watching the screens. Mounted and framed pictures of old veterans in their uniforms – the black-and-white photos faded in the light, ringed the room from wall to wall, as did flags and medals of past military valor hung here and there.
Greg had worn his ranger uniform, since he was just on a break, and we had everyone staring at us as we walked up to the bar. I nodded at the bartender.
“Hi, we’re here to find out about talking to the council…” I was trying to sound casual as if it was a totally normal for a stranger and a park ranger to walk into a bar at noon on a weekday and ask to speak to the chief of the Blackfoot tribe. “I found an address for them – here,” I said, trying to show her the notebook page, “but I have no phone number or anything.”
“The council meets here, right?” Greg butted in.
The bartender just stared at Greg and me for second, and then jerked her head over to a door that was on the other side of the bar, which led to the rest of the building.
“They have their meetins’ in there every week,” she said. “Next one’s next Wednesday night I believe, but they don’t let strangers attend...” She looked over at one of the older guys at the bar. “Bill? You know how these guys can get a holda’ Norm and the rest of them?”
The guy named Bill was eating peanuts out of a bowl, and looked up at us and just shook his head.
The bartender turned back to us and shrugged. “Bill’s Blackfoot Nation,” was all she said, as if to explain his behavior. I looked over at “Bill” and he didn’t look Native American at all – more like an out of work truck driver and white as me.
I looked back to the bartender. “Is Thunderbird here?” I asked doubtfully.
She snorted, and looked over at the others in the bar. “Thunderbird? Har har har…” She laughed harshly and then wiped her nose with her wrist. “No he hasn’t been around here for a while.”
“But he’s on the council?” I asked, but then Greg stepped in.
“Do you know how we can contact Norm?” he said. “It’s on Park business and he can probably help us.”
The bartender regarded Greg dubiously, and then said, “He’s in the white pages.” She walked over to one of the customers at the far end of the bar, and pulled out a beer for him from the freezer below the bar, prying off the top with a bottle opener what was attached to the counter.
I looked to Greg and he just motioned for me to follow him out. “Look Will,” he said as we walked towards the car, “tribe business is private here.”
“I think I got that impression,” I said. I looked over and saw that Jake was gone from his doorstep perch.
“In fact,” Greg continued, “everything to do with the tribe is private here. They hate outsiders mixing in their business.”
“So how do we talk to them?” I asked.
“Through your buddy, I think,” he smiled at me, and I guessed his meaning.
“Thunderbird, right?”
“Think of him as the ambassador of the council, a kind of Henry Kissinger or Hillary Clinton,” Greg said teasingly.
“Fine, I’ll talk to him – whatever…”
“We gotta find him first,” Greg said, surveying the town around us as if he’d spot Thunderbird meandering down the street.
“Well it’s a weekday… Does he have a job somewhere?”
“I think he’s on social security disability,” Greg said. “Or it could be veteran’s benefits, I suppose.”
“Super...” I groaned. “He could be anywhere.”
“No,” Greg said, with a crafty smile, as a new thought dawned on him. “I think I know where we can find him.”
We drove over a few miles to the other side of town. On the way, Greg tried to explain more about the makeup of the Blackfoot Nation.
“You go to a tribe gathering, one of their celebrations – a ‘powwow,’” Greg explained, “and you see all kinds of people: those that “look” Native American in a stereotypical sense – the skin tone, the Asian features, the hair, the stature, the Browning accents… but others that don’t have any of those traits will always be hanging around too – white guys that dress “Indian” and try to believe they are, try to mix into the tribe.
“Even though the Blackfoot roll their eyes and resent them trying to latch onto their history and culture, they are always around. But also, you’ll get true, provable members of the Nation whose lines are so mixed with whites that nobody could ever find out what percentage native they actually are.
“Mix in with that all the rest: the New Agers, hippies, psychics, holistic healers, artists, junkies, musicians, political groups, radicals, and every kind of fringe scene that attend those gatherings, and you have quite a crowd. We’ve had trouble with the powwows in the past – when they’ve been in park territory – they can get pretty wild. These days Native American powwows look more like Woodstock than anything it used to.
“But there’s two sorts of powwows, really,” he said. “There’s the ones that are held for just the tribe and members of the Blackfoot nation, and then those that are open for tourists – or “Woodstock,” more a theme park than anything else.”
“Which one is coming up?” I asked.
“The private one.”
Greg shoo
k his head and stared out the side passenger window at the passing buildings and vacant lots. “Back in the old days at the private tribe powwows – the real ones – the tribes would have traditional, ancient games, planned dances and sweat lodges, religious teachings, historical teachings, crafts for the kids, language workshops, all great stuff – true heritage stuff. Now it’s so different.”
Alia tried to tell me about it once,” I said. “It sounds like a crazy scene.”
Greg nodded “Another reason why they don’t like outsiders.”
Almost out of town but still on the main road, but quite a distance from anything else, we drove up to a large parking lot. Greg directed me to a building in the distance that was next to a large billboard. The billboard read: “The Candi Store” and below it: “Gentlemen’s Club.”
I looked at Greg in the passenger seat of the junker when I read that, “You can’t be serious.”
Greg smiled and nodded, “Thunder hangs out here all the time, so I’ve heard. Anyway that looks like his bike, so we’re good.”
Greg pointed out one of the only vehicles at the place – it was Thunderbird’s beat-up Harley, for sure.
My spirits feel at the depressing sight. “What a dump. First a run-down bar, then a strip club… this investigation is off to an encouraging start.”
“That reminds me,” Greg said, looking at his watch. “I got to go back to work. I’ll drive Ronnie’s car back and you can call me when you need a ride, later.”
“You’re leaving now?” I asked, looking over at the blacked-out windows of the club. “Will it even do any good talking to him in there?”
Greg undid his seatbelt, and looked at me. “Will, you wanted to investigate. Well, here you are…” He gestured over at the strip club. “Investigations often lead you to places you normally wouldn’t go –that’s how it was for my father. And things get messy. Think of it as a cop would – just a place to get some info… and a lap dance.”
He chuckled as he opened the car door and got out. He seemed not only a little amused as my predicament, but also a little relieved to be getting out of there. How would it look for a Glacier Park Ranger to be hanging out at a gentleman’s club on duty?
I stepped out. A black “POW” flag hung lazily on a pole next to the club; it swayed to and fro in the breeze, the summits of mountains stood behind it far in the distance, catching the last orange-and-red rays of a setting sun. Somewhere in those mountains was Two Medicine store and my home.
“Just a place to get some info...” I muttered as I reluctantly got out.
I wasn’t against going to strip clubs from time to time in the past to be honest, in fact I had been to some in Atlanta that were pretty damn wild, and had had a quite a few rousing times with Scott or some old friends out on a bender – but that was my old life. Not here, not in Montana, not at the “Candi Store”… not during the day. And being in Browning I couldn’t imagine what kind of strippers I’d see inside this place...
As I meandered across the hot gravel parking lot towards the door, I pictured Sky Lake, the flowing meadows baking in the sun, waves of movement as wind brushed over them. And here I was, walking across a dirty parking lot towards a titty bar in the middle of the day. My spirit reached the bottom and I felt my investigatory enthusiasm leaking away as I made my way towards my destination.
As I approached the mournful building, I saw that the door was actually two, large, leather-covered doors painted a bright red, under a little awning. There were only a few cars around the place besides Thunderbird’s bike, and were probably just the employees’ I presumed. I swung open the door and walked inside.
Inside the doorway to the Candi Store there was a hallway that turned to the right and opened up to a bar area. It was very dark inside – darker than the VFW bar even. I walked into the bar room, which was one square room with a bar on my left side against the wall, and a pool table and juke box on the other side. The usual bar décor was there: neon signs, Budweiser mirror, and the lights were dimmed down low. At the far end of the room, the wall opened up and a larger room lay beyond with a stage that ran out into the middle of the room, like a model’s runway, and some tables and chairs scattered around. Music was blaring from the speakers in that dance area. I saw another bar on the far wall in that room too, and since nobody was at the bar where I was at, I walked through to the back, looking out of the corner of my eyes for any strippers on the stage.
The stage was empty but I could see some near-nude girls hanging at the bar, with a couple of patrons. One guy had long hair and was pretty chunky and had to be Thunderbird – the very man himself.
The two stripper girls noticed me first and looked me up and down as I walked over. Some young guy was bartending, wearing a black “Candi Store” logo t-shirt with a big lollipop image above the name. The girls both had on lingerie panties, and one had a lacy bra on, the other was topless and had medium sized boobs that sagged a little, but otherwise weren’t all that bad... These were the “day shifters,” I reflected, so these schmucks at the bar should be happy with what they got.
I sat down next to the long haired guy and it was indeed Thunderbird; he was busy scratching off some silver ovals on a lottery ticket “scratcher” game with a quarter, and had a big pint of beer in front of him.
“Hey Thunderbird,” I said, trying to sound causal – no big deal, just dropping in to the Candi Store for a little R&R…
He looked up at me with a friendly smile, but seemed to not recognize me.
“It’s Will? From the Two Med store?” I said.
His face lit up. “Ooooo yeah!” he said. “Big Will!” He shook my head heartily and beamed at me, slapping me on the back heavily. “You come here too?”
I glanced around the bar for a second. “Uh, no… first time. I actually came to talk to you.”
“What about?” he asked.
“Well it’s kind of private, can we talk somewhere?” I looked around the bar again. The two strippers had gone back to talking to the bartender, but the topless one was eyeing me and was probably wondering if we wanted some company.
“Sure!” Thunderbird said, and grabbed his beer and lottery scratcher and slid off the stool.
“Tammy! We’ll be over there,” he said to one of the strippers, the one with the bra, sloshing his beer a bit as he indicated a table in the middle of the room. Tammy just nodded and went back to her conversation with one of the other guys at the bar.
We sat down and he asked me if I wanted a beer.
“No, I’m good,” I said.
“Well what can I do for you Will?” he asked, setting his elbows down on the table.
“It’s about Alia, her murder,” I said.
His eyebrows rose. “Really!” he said in a whisper, “what about it?”
He acted almost childlike, with his strange enthusiasm with seeing me, with his dramatic whispering, but I wondered if he was playing some kind of game with me, if he was actually sharper than this and just faking this innocent act for some purpose I couldn’t see.
I didn’t recall a whole lot about our first meeting at the Two Med store, only that he left me with the impression that he was a little crazy, but not any crazier than a half-dozen other eccentric visitors to the campground I’d already met that summer.
“Well,” I started in reluctantly, “I don’t think much is happening to investigate her murder. I worried nobody’s gonna find out who killed her, But Thunder. She was found horribly beaten and battered to death, alone, and nothing seems to have come of the BIA’s supposed investigation or the tribe’s – if there was any investigation.”
He just looked at me blankly, so I continued. “That means nobody’s gonna pay for what they did to her. And, Thunderbird, it means there’s still a murderer out there, and this could happen again to some other poor girl.” I paused for a moment, not sure what to say next.
“And… she deserves more, you know? I mean you knew her – don’t you agree? She was a great person who was
savagely murdered, and…” I faltered.
Thunderbird nodded with a concerned look on his face, but didn’t say anything in return. His eyes looked like they were tearing up, but it was hard to tell in the dim light. As the music continued to blare from the speakers, I continued. “Everyone around here seems to either not give a shit or not want to ignore it – shove it under a rug – which makes me wonder even more who did it. I couldn’t even find out where her funeral was, or who even found her body.”
“Sky found her,” Thunderbird said.
I was lost for a second, not sure if “Sky” was a person or what it meant…
“What?”
“Sky came across her early in the morning. Sky told the rangers first thing.”
“Who’s Sky?” I asked.
“A local girl – a friend of mine,” he answered. “She lives in Browning; she’s Blackfoot.”
“She found Alia in the woods?” I asked, wanting him to be perfectly clear.
He nodded, “Uh huh.” I waited for him to say more, but he didn’t, just kept nodding.
“What was she doing out there in the middle of the night?” I asked.
“Sky?” he shrugged, “I don’t know.” He looked as if the question had never occurred to him. “You should ask her,” he said.
“Where does she live?”
“She lives with a boy named Clayton,” he said.
My face fell, and I felt a shock at the same time. “Clayton Red Claw?” I asked, frowning back at him.
Thunderbird’s face grew concerned, mirroring mine almost. “That’s her necklace, isn’t it? Alia’s?” he asked. He was staring at my neck and it made me uncomfortable.
I had never taken the necklace off since I had first put it on the morning after my night with Alia, so I rarely noticed it anymore. His question surprised me and I reached up and felt the metal arrowhead.