The man instinctively smiled back at the beautiful woman, “I’ll need your license, a credit card and proof of insurance.”
Lindsay handed him the information. The balding man, Alex, according to his name badge, inspected her ID. A frown formed on his face.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said. “We do not rent cars to persons under twenty-one years of age.”
“But I am twenty-one,” Lindsay insisted, bending over the counter, pretending to look at the computer screen, allowing Alex to see a little of her cleavage.
Alex took in a breath and held it as he took a peek at Lindsay’s cleavage and caught a whiff of her perfume.
“I’m sorry,” he said, trying to recover. “According to the birthdate on your license, you’re only eighteen.”
He slid the license back to her. She placed her palm over the license and slid it back toward Alex. She smiled warmly, “I’m sure your mistaken,” she said. “Could you check the ID again?”
She took her hand off the ID. On top of the license were several one-hundred dollar-bills folded together. Alex’s eyes widened. There had to be at least three hundred dollars there, he thought. He mentally added how much he would make for the day at eleven-dollars and ninety cents per hour and looked at the bills again. He exhaled, not knowing what to do.
“Are you going to check my ID again . . . Alex?” Lindsay asked. Alex appeared to be hypnotized momentarily.
Lindsay snapped her fingers.
“Uh . . . oh . . .” he said, picking up the license and the money. He chuckled nervously, “Ah, yes, of course, my mistake. I misread the date of birth. We have a silver Nissan Altima available. Would that do?”
She smiled again, “Perfect. I’ll need the navigation upgrade, please.”
Lindsay drove through flat farm country to reach the town of Plentywood. She had no idea what to expect. From a certain standpoint it reminded her of the towns near her mother’s ranch, but there were sections that looked like postcards of the old west. She saw a red barn that had been erected near the Chamber of Commerce. She passed the Sheridan County Museum, a flat yellow building, identified by only a small, faded white sign.
The Orpheum Theater looked old and run down, with what was undoubtedly a marquee erected in the 1950s. The downtown area appeared to be one long main street, primarily populated with local businesses, with the occasional Dairy Queen and McDonalds thrown in for good measure. To Lindsay, the town didn’t seem depressed, but certainly not inviting.
The prospect of finding Rainhorse after two years excited her beyond measure, but still, she was concerned. She could well imagine why he hadn’t sought her out. He knew the FBI would be watching, and they had. But would he be happy to see her?
Her destination was ten minutes outside of town. Lindsay Vanderbilt parked her rental car in front of the Blue Buffalo Tavern, in Plentywood. According to Kincaid, the Blue Buffalo was where the man who was attacked reported that the incident occurred. If it was indeed Rainhorse, he would have been at this very spot.
She took in a deep breath. She had used fake ID to bar hop with her friends in the past, but those were popular dance bars, not roadside taverns—and certainly she’d never tried going into one by herself. The outside of the bar looked like a dive. She could only imagine the people who patronized it.
She swallowed hard as she thought about the potential consequences of going into a roadside bar alone, in a town she didn’t know.
She buttoned her blouse all the way to the top and slipped on a lightweight jacket that was long enough to cover her tight jeans below her behind. For this particular visit, she wanted to look as un-sexy as possible. She zipped the jacket all the way up to the collar and used a rubber band to tie her hair into a pony tail.
She was relieved to see there were only two patrons in the bar, along with the bartender, who had taken notice of her immediately. She did her best to offer a relaxed smile as she approached the bar. The smile did nothing to soften the concerned look on the bartender’s face.
“Before you take another step, miss, can I see your ID?” he said.
“I’m not here to drink,” she replied. “I’m looking for someone who was here, yesterday.”
“This is not an information booth,” the man argued. “Now get on out of here before you get us both in trouble.”
Lindsay paused, trying to think of something to delay her retreat, “Ok, I’ll go, but can I get a cheeseburger and soda to go?”
“We don’t serve food here, Miss,” he told her.
“I see chips on the rack behind you,” she noted. She slapped a one-hundred-dollar bill on the counter for him to see. “I’ll take one bag of chips.”
He looked at the bill on the bar and glanced at the two men sitting at the other end of the bar. They were engrossed in conversation with their backs to him and had obviously not seen the young lady yet. He leaned over and whispered to her.
“I don’t have change for that,” he said, “and if I could offer you a little advice, someone who is as young as you and who looks like you, shouldn’t be in places like this . . . and especially shouldn’t be flashing money around.”
“My chips, please,” Lindsay asked, finding a little courage to ignore his comment.
“I told you, I don’t have change,” he replied.
“Give me two minutes of your time, and you don’t need to give me change,” she said.
“Get lost, little missy,” he said.
She lowered her voice and leaned over the counter and whispered, “Listen, Mister, I know I’m not supposed to be here. Believe me, I would not be if I had other options. I really need help. The sooner you talk to me, the sooner I am out of your hair.”
The bar tender stood upright and looked the young girl in the eye. He took the money and put it in his pocket, “All right then—two minutes. My name is Vernon Gill. I own this bar. What do you want to talk about?”
“Two days ago, there was a man in here, a big Cheyenne Indian. Got into a fight,” she stated.
“It wasn’t much of a fight,” Gill responded. The big Indian threw one punch—dropped the guy like a sack of flour. Fight over. I think the guy he hit is still in the hospital.”
“I’m looking for him,” Lindsay affirmed.
“I don’t know where he is,” Gill responded.
“Did you talk to him?” she asked.
“Some.”
“What did he say?”
“We talked about the weather,” Gill lied. “Why do you want to find him?”
“He’s my . . . uncle,” Lindsay replied, also a lie.
Gill chuckled, “You’re about as much Cheyenne as I am.”
“My mother was Norwegian,” she lied again. “My father was half-Cheyenne. He really is my uncle.”
“You’re full of shit,” he rebuked. “Do you see those two shit kickers at the end of the bar?”
She looked, “Yes.”
“Those are the two buddies of the asshole who your . . . uncle . . . sent to the hospital,” Gill said. “The reason he knocked the guy out is because the three of them were harassing a woman—a woman who was not nearly as young and certainly nowhere near as pretty as you. Now those boys haven’t seen you yet, but they will, and when they do, there’s gonna be trouble for sure. You don’t want any part of that, missy.”
“Please, Mister,” Lindsay pleaded. “I need to find him.”
She spread four more one-hundred-dollar bills across the bar. Gill looked at the bills and grimaced. He wanted to do the right thing, and the right thing was to protect this youngster from herself. He needed the money, though, and began to rationalize that if he turned her away, she’d just find someone else to help her, and she might run into the wrong sort of help. He stared at the money again and sighed.
“If it really is your uncle, you probably know what he calls himself,” Gill said. “What is it?”
Lindsay thought for a second. She knew that Rainhorse would never offer up his real name, so she took a
chance.
“Jackson,” she said. “His name is Jackson.”
"I'm still not convinced," Gill said. "Tell me something else about him."
"Lindsay thought for a moment, "He never gets too excited, doesn’t really show emotion. He has a deep, sexy voice and doesn't use contractions very often."
"Con-what?"
"Contractions. He says 'does not' rather than 'doesn't,' and 'will not,' rather than 'won't’—that kind of thing."
"Yep, that's him," he admitted. “Like Data on Star Trek.”
“Who?”
“Nevermind.”
Gill sighed and paused, thinking things through one last time. He’d never forgive himself if he got this girl killed. He looked at his watch, and then back at the girl. There was only one thing he thought of to do.
“Ok, the hell with it,” he said, swooping up the money. “I don’t know where he’s at, but I know where he’s gonna be about ninety minutes from now.”
“Where?” she asked.
“Someplace dangerous,” he said. "I’ll take you to him.”
Her eyes widened in trepidation, “That won’t be necessary. Just tell me where he is going to be.”
He leaned over the counter and whispered, “Look, this guy, Jackson . . . your uncle, or whoever the hell he really is to you, is going to get involved in some serious business with two very bad men. I know where and when, but I am not about to send some sugar britches into the lion’s den by herself. If you want to know where he is, I’m taking you there, myself. Take it or leave it.”
“I’m not comfortable with that,” she said.
Gill leaned forward, “Miss, have you ever heard of the Brotherhood Protectors, by chance?”
“Yes, my step-father is one,” she said.
Gill raised his eyebrows, “What’s his name?”
“That’s none of your business,” she said, pausing. “He . . . he doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Ok, fair enough,” Gill replied. “Still, if you know who they are then you know we are here to help people who can’t help themselves.”
Lindsay looked confused, “So, you’re one of the Brotherhood Protectors?”
“Retired, but yes. I know the man who organizes things. I can introduce your uncle to him. There is no active presence from the Brotherhood in our area. The Brotherhood could sure use him.”
“I’ll let him know when I see him,” Lindsay said. “I feel bad about pulling you away, really.”
“I can’t let you go to the diner alone. You really don’t understand what you might be facing, miss. It wouldn’t be right.”
“What about your bar?” she asked.
“It’s a Thursday, my worst day of the week,” he said. “It’s been so slow, no one will notice it’s closed. Hell, the money you just gave me is more than I’d make the rest of the night, anyway.”
“Hey Vern!” he heard a male voice call out. “Who’s your hot friend?”
“It’s my niece,” Gill fired back. “She’s visiting from Billings.”
The two men walked over to where Lindsay was standing. Each man looked her up and down. Lindsay fought the urge to recoil in revulsion as the oily haired leered at her lustfully. Both men wore mischievous smiles on their faces.
“I’ve known you for years,” black hat guy said. “I ain’t never heard you talk about having a niece.”
“And why would I tell you about my family?” Gill spouted back. “Just finish your drink and go. I’m closing shop—gonna take my niece to dinner.”
Oily hair guy smiled at Lindsay, revealing a set of crooked yellowed teeth, “Is that right, cute thing? Is your . . . uncle . . . going to take you to dinner?”
“That’s right,” Lindsay replied. “C’mon Uncle Vernon, or we’ll be late. Our reservations are in thirty minutes.”
“He doesn’t go by Vernon,” black hat guy said. “Everyone calls him Vern.”
“Not his nieces and nephews,” Lindsay replied.
“Where’s your reservations at?” black hat guy asked.
“They’re at . . .” Gill began.
“Shut up, Vern,” he barked. “I’m asking the young lady where they are at.”
Lindsay looked at him, “The reservations are at Cousin’s Family Restaurant, on Main.”
The smile disappeared from black hat guy’s face. He looked at oily hair guy and then back at Lindsay.
“They have good meat loaf. Well then,” he said. “We won’t keep you.”
He downed the rest of his beer and sat the glass on the bar, “You two have a nice evenin,’ hear?”
The two men left. Gill locked the door and flipped off the “Open” sign, “Quick thinking. How did you know about Cousin’s?” he asked.
“There was a brochure on the plane I flew in on,” she replied.
Gill nodded, “Whatever. Let’s go. I have a feeling your presence might change things. If he doesn’t know you’re in town, he might change his mind about whatever he plans to do if he knows you’re here. I want him to get a chance to see you before whatever is supposed to happen . . . happens.”
“My car is parked out front,” she said.
“Forget it,” Gill replied. “Everyone on the res who sees that car will instantly know it’s a rental. It would get stolen before we made it out of the diner. We’ll take my Jeep—it’s less conspicuous. It’s the green Wrangler out front. I’m going to lock up.”
Gill locked the doors to the bar and climbed inside the Jeep. He started the engine and turned on the heater. Lindsay was inside waiting.
“What the hell were you thinking, coming into a bar like this?” Gill asked.
“It’s the only lead I had,” she said. “I have to find Jackson.”
“Well, I certainly can’t take you into the Roadside Diner looking like that. The first thing we have to do is ugly you up a little bit,” Gill said.
“Ugly me up?”
“Yep. It’s a truck stop diner. Almost everyone there will be Sioux and Lakota men—lonely truckers and men who have nowhere else to go,” Gill replied. “I seriously doubt any of them boys have met many white teenaged girls before, much less one who looks like she just stepped off the red rug.”
“You mean red carpet?” she asked.
“Yeah, whatever,” he replied, dismissively. “In the back of my Jeep, my wife has a Montana State Bobcats baseball cap and the sweatshirt she uses to paint in. Put your hair under the ball cap and slip on the sweatshirt.”
Lindsay pulled the sweatshirt from the back seat and slipped it on over her top, “This thing is at least two sizes too big, and it smells like paint.”
“Good,” he said. “Reach into the glove box, too. I think she has some sunglasses in there. There’s also some wet wipes. Take one and wipe the makeup off your face.”
When she was done, she twisted the rearview mirror to look at herself, “I look like a bag lady.”
Gill gave her a glance and shook his head, “Probably not ugly enough, though. It’ll have to do.”
“What?” she called out, incredulously.
“No offense,” he said. “I was hoping for real ugly. What you have done is make yourself . . . not as beautiful as you were. Jesus, this will never work.”
“Don’t back out on me now,” she said.
“Ok. We have to go.”
Gill slipped on a sweatshirt with a hoodie, then pulled sunglasses from a console.
“Why are you disguising yourself?” Lindsay asked.
“Because ‘your uncle’ saw me and will remember me,” Gill responded. “If he sees me there without an explanation, he’s liable to think I ratted him out, and that would not bode well for me.”
“Look. Maybe I should just go alone. I don’t want to get you hurt.”
“Go alone? Not a chance,” Gill said. “First off, if you went in there alone, the boys would be on you like bees to honey. That’s bad for you. If you got hurt there and Jackson found out I told you where he was, he would cut off my . . . let’s
just say it would not go well.”
Lindsay sighed, “Why is this place you’re taking me to so dangerous?”
“Look,” Gill said. “I’ll tell you what I think this Jackson guy is up to, but you need to tell me who he is and why you’re looking for him. It’s about a sixty-minute drive, so start talking.”
“You go first,” she said.
CHAPTER SIX
______________________
Rainhorse parked across the street from the diner and sat patiently, waiting for Tony Apollo and Hank Rattling Thunder to arrive. The number of patrons coming and going disturbed him a little. The diner may have been run down and the menu may have been atrocious but the food was cheap, and business seemed good.
Tony Apollo arrived first. He recognized him from a picture Neha Littlebird had sent him. Rainhorse also noticed his first big problem—Apollo brought bodyguards, two of them.
Apollo was taller than Rainhorse imagined he’d be from the picture he’d seen. He was just over six-feet tall, with a medium frame except for the paunch around the middle. He wore white pants with a white blazer that appeared to have not seen a dry cleaner since Obama was in office. His black shirt was unbuttoned to the center of his chest, highlighting a gold medallion hanging from his neck. The medallion was framed by a mat of thick brown chest hair. His beard and hair were bushy and unkempt.
Rainhorse watched closely as Apollo looked around, then began speaking to his bodyguards, undoubtedly offering instructions. He went inside, leaving his men standing by the door.
Five minutes later Hank Rattling Thunder arrived with two bodyguards of his own in tow. With him was a young Sioux woman, perhaps thirty or so. She was of a medium build and pleasant looking enough. She wore jeans and a cowboy hat and walked with a confident stride. Her overall body language did not suggest a manner of deference to HRT. She seemed too young to be his wife. A business associate, perhaps? Daughter? HRT’s two body guards exchanged fist-bumps to each of Apollo’s bodyguards—they were obviously familiar with each other.
More problems, Rainhorse thought. He hadn't counted on the bodyguards and he didn't anticipate a woman coming along. It could mean more collateral damage he was not anticipating.
Brotherhood Protectors: RAINHORSE (Kindle Worlds) Page 4