As he scribbled on the pad, Dukey muttered: “Java—unleaded.” He scowled at the hesitant customer. “What d’you want to eat?”
“Nothing.”
“What—you on a diet or somethin’?”
“Look, the only reason I’m willing to risk drinking your coffee is that it’s been boiled enough to kill off all the—”
“My friend is not feeling up to any spicy food, Dukey.” Moon smiled at the homely face. “Just bring him the coffee.”
After a brief eye-to-eye standoff with the beefy cop, the owner of the third-rate eatery stomped away toward a smoky kitchen, where he did the cooking and rinsed soiled dishes in filthy water.
Attempting to dislodge a dried-up smudge of barbecue sauce, Parris scratched his thumbnail on the table. “Charlie, if you drove for ninety-nine miles in any direction, I doubt you’d find a worse hole-in-the-wall than this.”
The Ute flashed a childlike smile that would have disarmed a more reasonable man. “You’ve never tried Dukey’s brisket.”
Parris rolled his eyes. “I have also never drank plumber’s lye—or tasted a fresh cow pie. And just look at this place.” To demonstrate the ocular procedure, he turned his head this way and that, gazed into the shadows. “I bet there’s no customers here but us. Except for out-of-towners who come in on the bus, nobody would have little enough sense to eat in this—”
“Which is why the service is so prompt.” Moon heard the squeaky door open, the coupled bell clang the arrival of a probable diner. It was the largish man Parris had bumped into on the street. Mr. Raincoat. “See,” the Ute said, “there’s another hungry gourmet who, after inspecting several local eateries, has wisely chosen Dukey’s A-1 Texas Barbecue.”
“Please, let’s not say any more about Dukey’s slop—let’s talk about something less depressing.” He gave his friend a knowing half-grin. “Like why you wanted to see me today. As if I didn’t already know.”
There was a pause in the conversation as Dukey arrived with coffee and a tall glass of Pepsi-Cola with a single ice cube floating thereupon.
When the proprietor was out of earshot, Moon took a sip of the fizzy beverage. “Okay. So why do I want to see you?”
“It’ll have something to do with that killing in Tonapah Flats, and that Indian girl who’s disappeared. Remember how we worked that case years ago, when her mother was murdered?” Parris made a painful grimace. “Dang, what’s the kid’s name?” He blushed and sighed at the same time. “Just yesterday, I saw it in an FBI report, but my brain is turning to cheese, Charlie. I mean, one minute I’ve got some information between my ears and then it just slips away—” He stopped dead still. “Wait a minute. Sarah. Sarah Frank—that’s it.”
“Did you read the FBI report?”
“I kinda scanned it. I was expecting you’d bring me up to date on the details—”
Dukey abruptly showed up with Charlie Moon’s brisket sandwich plate, plopped it down with a bang, gave the other, reluctant diner a poisonous look, seemed not to notice when an inch-long length of ash fell from his cigarette into Parris’s coffee.
As the owner of the establishment hurried away to offer service to the huge man who had recently arrived, Moon reached across the table to restrain his friend from getting up. “He didn’t mean to do that.”
Noting that Moon made the statement with little conviction, Parris replied through clenched teeth. “Yes, he did. And I ought to go break his head—”
“But you won’t.”
“I won’t?”
“No.”
“You sure about that?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“Tell me why, Charlie.”
“Because you’re a seasoned pro and a heavyweight to boot. Dukey’s a dime-a-dozen back-alley brawler who’d tip the scales at maybe a hundred and sixty in his birthday suit.” Moon put on a reproachful look. “It wouldn’t be a fair match.”
“Fair don’t come into it. That lowlife hash slinger deliberately dropped cigarette ash into my coffee.”
“Let me take care of it.”
“What’ll you do?”
“For starters, I’ll get you a brand-new cup of coffee.”
“I don’t want any of Pukey-Dukey’s stinkin’ coffee, Charlie. I want to kick his butt right up between his shoulder blades.”
“Okay. Whatever pleases you. But before you displace his pelvis, can we talk shop?”
Parris cooled a couple of degrees. “About that bad business in Utah?”
“Uh-huh.” Moon took a bite of the sizable sandwich.
“Okay. Give me the executive summary.”
The chopped brisket was delicious, but he dared not mention this to his still-overheated friend. “Tonapah Flats, Utah. Old man by the name of Ben Silver was supposed to be at a local clinic, seeing his doctor. The appointment gets canceled when Doc is called away to deal with a big pileup out on the interstate. Silver’s taxi driver—who just happens to be Sarah Frank’s Papago cousin—hauls Mr. Silver back home. When Silver shows up early, he figures out someone’s been burgling his house, calls 911, gets the sheriff on the line. Before he can say anything useful, somebody yanks the phone cord out of the wall, bangs him on the head.”
“Somebody who—Sarah Frank?” Parris watched Moon nod. “What’s the evidence?”
The Ute managed to talk and eat at the same time. “A couple of minutes after the 911 call is interrupted, Sheriff Ned Popper shows up, discovers Sarah standing over the body—holding a baseball bat. She flings the Louisville Slugger at the sheriff, makes a run for it. Sheriff ducks but not fast enough. This Utah lawman ends up with a big lump on his noggin; Popper’s lucky he’s not dead. Soon as he gets to his feet, he goes inside and finds Mr. Silver on the floor, barely alive, bleeding from his head. Sheriff asks the victim what happened. With his dying breath, Silver implicates Sarah.” At this point, Moon had a hard time swallowing. “And the blood on the bat was Silver’s.”
“Well, that’s about as conclusive as it gets.” Scott Parris had a mental picture of the tiny little girl who had lost both her parents. “How old is she now?”
“Fourteen.”
The chief of police stared at the ashes dissolving in his coffee. Shook his head at the horror of it all. “Just fourteen. And she’s already killed a man.”
Having lost his appetite, Moon set the mouth-watering sandwich aside. “But we don’t know for sure why she killed him. Might be self-defense.”
“Yeah.” Parris nodded hopefully. “Maybe when the old man saw her rummaging through his personal belongings, he got angry. Tried to grab her. And she fought back.” He looked up. “She’s just a dumb kid. Might get off with a couple of years in a juvenile facility.”
“If she goes to trial.”
“You don’t think she’ll be picked up?”
“I don’t know what to think. One of the Utah sheriff’s deputies—a nice young fellow by the name of Tate Packard—showed up on the east end of the reservation last week.”
Parris remembered those days when a younger Sarah had spent months with Daisy Perika. “Near your aunt’s place?”
“Near enough. During a big thunderstorm, Packard drove his car off the road and into the Piedra.”
“I read a bulletin on that. Didn’t connect it with the killing in Utah.” He scratched again at the scab of dried barbecue sauce. “Was the deputy’s body recovered?”
“Not the last I heard.” Moon eyed the half-eaten sandwich. “Piedra’s running fast and muddy this spring. Packard’s remains may eventually float to the top of Navajo Lake. Or maybe not. Some of ’em, we never find.” He tapped a plastic fork on the plastic plate. “BIA police have looked long and hard for Sarah on the Papago reservation, which is a fair-sized chunk of southern Arizona. They don’t think she’s there, and I’m not inclined to disagree with them.” He looked up at his friend. “But for some reason I don’t know—it’s pretty clear that Deputy Packard believed she was on the Southern Ute reservation.”
“What about ol’ Ned Popper?”
The Ute didn’t hide his surprise. “You know him?”
“Yeah,” Parris said. “We used to hunt antelope, down by Raton.”
“Popper claims he don’t have any notion why his deputy was in Colorado, much less on the res.” Moon pitched the plastic fork aside, locked eyes with his best friend. “This Popper—you trust him?”
“I don’t know him all that well.” Parris shrugged. “From what I hear, he’s a sure-enough tough customer. There was some talk that he was mixed up a bit in local politics.”
Moon frowned. “What does that mean?”
Another shrug. “Oh, I don’t know for sure.” Parris blushed. “He probably did a few favors for some influential folks. And they did some for him.” The former Chicago cop spread his hands. “Sometimes, that’s the only way to get things done.”
The tribal investigator decided to let that pass.
The Granite Creek chief of police changed the subject: “This action is a long way from my jurisdiction, Charlie. What can I do to help?”
“Probably not much. I’m going to be doing some snooping around on the reservation. Ask some people some questions.” Especially my aunt Daisy. “But just on the off chance that Sarah shows up here—”
“You figure she might make her way to Granite Creek, ask for directions to the Columbine?”
“It’s a long shot. But if I don’t pick up something on the res, it may be the only shot I’ve got.”
“I’ll circulate the FBI photos to all of my officers, put the word out to the bus station.” Parris smiled at his friend. “If Miss Frank shows up in my town, I’ll have her in custody before you can count to one.”
“Thanks, pard.”
“Let’s get out of this dump.”
“Okay.” Charlie Moon watched a uniformed driver approach a Greyhound. “Soon as I take care of some business.”
“Forget it, Charlie—you don’t need to bother with Dukey on my account.”
“I’ll be back in a minute.” Moon passed by Mr. Raincoat, found his way to a shadowy corner booth by the ladies’ room. He tipped his black Stetson at the pretty lady.
She smiled at the long, lean cowboy. “What’s up, Tex?”
“Could I sit down for just a minute?”
The redhead looked at her watch. “Sixty, fifty-nine, fifty-eight…”
Moon straddled a chair. “You’re a very attractive woman.”
“Thank you. Is that why you followed me into this fine restaurant?”
“Partly.”
She pursed her pretty lips. “Only partly?”
He nodded. “I got a proposition for you.”
“You certainly don’t waste any time.”
“Time is a highly valuable commodity.”
“Your place or mine?”
“Ma’am, I don’t believe you have a place in Granite Creek.”
“What are you, big boy—some kind of clairvoyant?”
“Nope.” Charlie Moon produced the gold shield from his shirt pocket, presented it. “I’m some kind of cop.”
The brittle smile froze on her face, instantly aging it by a decade. “How very nice for you.”
“But not for you.”
She glanced over his shoulder.
“That big fella you’re looking at—you just give him a signal to come over here and rescue you?”
“What if I did?”
“It’s fine with me. Fact is, it’s exactly what I was hoping you’d do.”
Raincoat loomed near.
“That’s close enough,” Moon said.
The big man stopped. “Little lady, this fella botherin’ you?”
“Yes, I am.” The Ute got to his feet. “Now you sit down where I was at.”
Raincoat’s hands made ham-sized fists. “Why would I want to do that?”
Moon’s eyes narrowed. “Because I told you to.”
“That’s pretty big talk for a—”
“He’s a cop, Mick.”
Raincoat, AKA Tricky Mick, blinked at the redhead. “What?”
“Last chance,” Moon said. “Sit down.”
Mick sat.
The tribal investigator placed both palms on the filthy table, leaned close enough to smell the man’s sour breath. “I saw you work your dodge on my friend.” He nodded to indicate Scott Parris, who had not gone unnoticed by the pair. “Good-looking lady gives him the big eye, which gets him all flustered. Gorilla-Mick bumps into him, picks his pocket.”
The pair of grifters presented stony faces.
“It was a nice, clean job.” Moon addressed the plug-ugly half of the team. “But you picked the wrong guy’s pocket.”
Redhead was beginning to get the drift of things. “He another cop?”
“Better than that.” Moon grinned. “He’s chief of police.”
Mick groaned.
“You got two choices,” the Ute said. “Number one, you go straight to jail.” He watched their faces blanch. “Then there’s number two. Mick peels off his raincoat, real slow and easy—and hands it over to me. I remove my friend’s wallet from one of those oversized pockets, check to make sure his greenbacks and plastic are still inside. Then you two get up, take a stroll out to the bus and get on board.”
Redhead and Mick exchanged looks.
“The coach that’s warming up leaves for Colorado Springs in about two minutes. Maybe a tad less. You’re not on it, I’ll introduce you to the chief of police.”
Redhead nodded at her partner. Mick shed the raincoat.
Moon went through the pockets, removed four wallets, an antique pocket watch, a brand-new Case pocket knife.
“The folding knife’s mine,” Mick grumbled.
The Ute pitched it on the table.
The bus driver tooted his horn.
Moon watched the pair hurry away to their appointed carrier.
Parris watched his friend approach. “What was that all about?”
“If I tell you, you got to swear you won’t interfere.”
“I’m not mad enough to swear, but okay.”
Moon watched the Greyhound pull away. When it was out of sight, he passed the raincoat to his best friend.
“The sun’s shining to beat the band—I don’t need this.”
“Neither did the other guy. Which was something an experienced copper should have noticed when Mick and Redhead staged that encounter with him on Copper Street.”
Parris stared at the bulky raincoat. Reached for his hip pocket. “Oh no—don’t tell me.”
“Your wallet’s in the inside coat pocket. Along with some other stuff you can return to several local citizens, who will be extremely grateful to their keen-eyed chief of police.”
Parris examined his wallet, found everything in its proper place. “Charlie, we can’t just let those two yahoos ride out of Granite Creek. Next town they hit, they’ll be up to their usual tricks.”
“Then put in a call to your cop friends in Colorado Springs. But you can’t stop the bus.”
“Why?”
“Because I gave both of ’em my word.”
“Well, that throws a whole new light on the situation. A man’s word is…his bond and all that whatnot.” A hesitation. “But would you mind if I made an incisive observation?”
“Not at all.”
“Now I don’t want you to take this the wrong way, Charlie—but you seem to be awfully pleased with yourself.”
“Pleased?”
The chief of police nodded. “Even if I said puffed-up, it would not be going too far.”
“Well, maybe I got a reason to be pleased. Even puffed-up.” Moon reminded him: “It was you that got stung. And me that noticed what those two was up to.”
“I can’t argue with that, Charlie. You were on the ball all right. But still—a little humility wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Yes, it would. Tell you what—I’ll be humble tomorrow. Or maybe the day after that.”
Parris gave his Indian fr
iend an enigmatic look. “Well, we’re done here so I guess we might as well be oozin’ on down the street. I got a one-thirty meeting with the mayor and she hates it when I’m late.” He cleared his throat. “You got the correct time?”
“Sure do.” Moon looked at his wristwatch. It took the Ute a couple of disbelieving blinks to realize that his wrist was buck-naked. Mouth open, he looked in the direction the Greyhound had gone. “That sneaky redheaded woman—she must’ve slipped it off while I was—”
Scott Parris’s huge laugh exploded, boomed across the room, shook the cobwebs on the rafters, rattled the dirty windowpanes.
Startled by this unexpected hilarity, Dukey dropped a gallon pot of pinto beans.
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Traveler Returns
It was a few minutes before midnight when Father Raes Delfino turned off the paved highway, unlocked the Columbine gate, drove slowly along the hard-packed dirt-and-gravel road that would eventually bring him to the ranch headquarters where, he presumed, Charlie Moon would be sleeping on the second floor. The original moon—resembling the convexity of a silver spoon—was almost full, almost overhead. He glanced at the mildly tarnished satellite, mused that it could use some polishing, Well, that was a silly thought. I’ve been up too long. In an attempt to dislodge the encroaching spirit of slumber, the Jesuit shook his head. I must stay wide awake until I’m home. Home. The powerful word called up fond images of the log cabin Charlie Moon—a most generous soul—had made available to him upon his retirement from St. Ignatius and the active priesthood. The remote cabin was the perfect physical refuge from the tumult and troubles of this world; a place where he could withdraw without the least worry of being disturbed. Well, almost. From time to time, some cowhand would “drop by,” always “just to see if you needed somethin’.” A few of these men were practicing Christians, quite a few more were hardened sinners, but whether they were aware of it or not—all were souls whose ultimate desire and eternal purpose was union with God. This being so, Fr. Raes always had time for these visitors. And he loved them every one. My obligation to feed the Lord’s sheep will not end until I take my last breath. If then… He watched an incandescent meteorite streak across the midnight velvet, expire in silence.
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