Coyote Ugly

by Pati Nagle

  His smile was the painted-on kind you see on politicians and other salesmen. He said names around the circle—they turned out to be the Rainbow Man’s Board of Directors, every last one of them white—and offered to buy us a drink. We sat in padded leather chairs and I sipped at a beer while Chase settled into a glass of Irish whiskey.

  “Terrible about Malone,” said Kyler. “We were just discussing it. Terrible. He was a great draw.”

  “Maybe the new guy won’t cost so much,” said a silver-haired dude with a Texas twang. “You always used to gripe about how expensive this kid was.”

  “Yeah, but he was good,” said Kyler. “Pulled in the crowds. Gotta keep those patrons coming in. You’ll wind this thing up nice and quiet, won’t you, Chase?”

  Chase shrugged and sipped his liquor. “Do what I can. Murder is never tidy, though.”

  The talk turned to the casino and a new hotel Mr. Kyler was planning further up the Strip. Most of it was about negotiations to lease the land from the pueblo. Boring stuff.

  After a few minutes I excused myself, promising to meet Chase at the theater at quarter to seven. I went past the elevators and up the discreet escalator to businessland. There was something I wanted to check without Chase around.

  I pushed against the heavy double doors, half expecting them to be locked, but they weren’t. They creaked a little as I poked my head in. Sally the Receptionist looked up from her desk.

  “Oh, hello,” she said. “Did you need something?”

  I came in, letting the doors fall shut behind me. “I just have a couple of questions, if you don’t mind. Were you leaving?”

  “In a few minutes. Have a seat.”

  I watched her tidy up some papers on her desk. She had a round face and short, curly black hair. Smiled easily. A mama type.

  “You’re working late,” I said.

  “Because of the board meeting,” said Sally. “I had to get tomorrow’s agenda straightened out. Things got off schedule today.”

  “What time did Mr. Kyler get here this morning?” I asked.

  “Around eight, I think,” said Sally.

  “Did you see him come in?”

  “Yes. He and Mr. Parker came in together. They went out again, but I’m not sure when.”

  Parker was one of the guys I’d met in the lounge. I made a note.

  “What time did you get here?”

  “Mm—ten to eight, I guess.”

  “Was anyone else here who might have seen them?”

  “Emily was in her office. She spent the whole morning on the phone.”

  “Ms. Trujillo? Is her office near his?”

  “Yes—let me show you.”

  She got up and led me down a wide hallway. The plush carpet deadened our footsteps. Sally waved a hand toward an open doorway.

  “That’s Emily’s office, and this is Mr. Kyler’s.”

  I didn’t get to Kyler’s. Behind the desk in the corner of Ms. Trujillo’s office stood a kachina hologram. It was a woman, with a white mask and towering stair-step headdress—decked in feathers and carved wooden flowers—a red shawl, and a white skirt. I stared at her.

  “That’s the Butterfly Maiden,” said Sally. “They did a pretty good job on that one. At least I think so. She’s Hopi, so I’m not sure.”

  “What’s she doing in Ms. Trujillo’s office?”

  “Mr. Kyler gave her to Emily. He pretty much gives her what she wants.”

  “She wanted this?”

  Sally nodded. “She asked for it Monday. I’m not sure why—she doesn’t really like them. Mr. Kyler wanted them because there was some unhappiness when this hotel was built. It’s the only hotel in the Arroyo that’s not Indian-owned.”

  “So he decided to add some Ind—some Native American culture.”

  Sally nodded. “Emily tried to talk him out of it, but he went ahead with it. The holograms were created by Dan Stauffer and his staff, using local actors. Some people got very angry.”

  “Does it make you angry?”

  She hesitated. “They’re not really kachinas,” she said slowly. “They’re more like the dolls—something you could use to teach about the kachinas—only these aren’t very accurate. I guess I would like it better if they weren’t here, but I want to keep my job, so I don’t say anything.”

  How many others feel that way, I wondered? I reached through the image, skin tingling, and found the projector on the wall behind. As my hands blocked the light the image vanished, and I glanced at the floor. Nothing there.

  “Are you and Ms. Trujillo from the same, uh—"

  “Pueblo?” said Sally. (I’d been about to say “tribe.”) “Yes, we’re both from Sandia.”

  I looked through the doorway at Kyler’s office across the hall, then back at the hologram. Butterfly Maiden bothered me.

  “Tell me about Sandia,” I said.

  “We’re one of the smallest pueblos. Less than five hundred. A big family, really.”

  “I heard something about a dance—"

  “Oh, the Corn Dance. Yes, it was just a couple of days ago.”

  Corn Dance. Corn Maiden. A connection?

  “Was Alan Malone there?” I asked, remembering something Ms. Trujillo had said.

  “Oh, yes. He’s been coming to all the dances this year. He likes to pick up the feel of them, for the new show.”

  “Did he have any enemies in Sandia?”

  Sally’s eyes widened a little. “No—everyone liked him. Even the elders. He’s—he was—always very polite.”

  I stared at Sally’s flat face, feeling like I was forgetting to ask some basic question. Something like, “Did you kill the guy?”

  I didn’t think Sally was the murderer, though. Besides the fact that she and Ms. Trujillo had both been upstairs all morning, she was just too nice. She let me stand there a full minute before she started to fidget.

  “This is Mr. Kyler’s office,” she said, stepping across the hall.

  I peered into a huge room with big picture windows. The late sun was slanting through orange anvil clouds outside, and the Arroyo was really beginning to sparkle. I could see a corner of the Cibola Hotel across the street, all gold-glitter glitz.

  Kyler had a hologram too—the Rainbow Man, of course—along with other bits of expensive art and a desk made out of some huge gnarled tree trunk. On it sat a Rainbow Man kachina doll: foot-high, carved wood, like the ones I’d seen at the airport.

  “Is there anything else you wanted to see?” Sally asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, giving up. “A photo of Alan Malone.”

  I followed her back to the foyer, and she dug up an eight-by-ten glossy and two show flyers, one for “The Wild West” and one for “Pageant of Creation.”

  “We’ll have to re-do that one, I guess,” she said, handing them over.

  “Thanks, Sally,” I said. “You’ve been a big help.”

  I went down to the theater, which I found by a somewhat roundabout but effective route of buffalo-guy to neon eagle to red snout to black-with-rabbit-ears to antlers. The casino looked exactly as it had at midday—bright lights, lots of color, lots of noise—and I realized there were no windows and no clocks anywhere.

  Made sense, I guess. If you’re a casino owner you don’t want your customers thinking about how late it is.

  The theater was open and I was promptly seated in a booth, one of the best seats in the house, for the simple reason that it faced the stage. The tiers above and below the booths were jammed with narrow tables perpendicular to the stage; people sitting there would have to turn their heads to see the show. Cram in the customers, make big bucks.

  The stage was hidden behind a glittery blue curtain. In front of it a giant hologram hung in midair: the Rainbow Man’s mask, with black rectangle eyes.

  I took out Alan Malone’s black and white glossy, held it in both hands and stared at it long and hard. His eyes—which I had only seen closed—had been blue or gray or some other light color; they almost looked clear
in the photo. His smile was intensely charming.

  Gorgeous boy, everyone’s darling. Why did you die? And who closed your eyes against the night?

  I looked at the “Wild West” flyer, dismissed it, and picked up the one for “Pageant of Creation.” The eagle kachina we’d seen earlier was on the front page, along with a full-length photo of Alan Malone all in white.

  I opened the flyer, activating a snap-holo, the gimmicky kind you find in greeting cards. The eagle again, soaring across the page before winking out.

  Not a cheap flyer. Too bad they’d have to redo it. Alan Malone had clearly been the star attraction; his face and name were all over the brochure, along with slogans like “Discover Sandia’s Ancient Mysteries” and “Journey through the Indian Myth of Creation.”

  I wondered why Malone—obviously talented but undeniably white—was the star of a show about Native American mythology. Circumstance, maybe. Malone probably had a contract with the hotel, and the show had been designed to attract tourists. Plug star into show and you have an instant hit, right?

  “Looking forward to the show?”

  I looked up at Chase. He sat down across from me and leaned across the table. “What do you have?” he said.

  I told him the results of my interviews. He nodded and said I’d done well, which was nice of him.

  “No one has a clear motive,” I said. “Did the weapon ever turn up?”

  Chase shook his head. “Mondo’s boys spent the day going through every trash can and dumpster on the premises,” he said. “They’re starting on the neighboring hotels.”

  I sighed. “No weapon, no motive, no suspect. So far we don’t have much of a case.”

  “It’s early yet,” said Chase. “And we have a potential suspect. You said Stauffer had motive.”

  “Yeah, and when I pointed it out he agreed, and then denied killing Malone. He’s got three alibis for this morning, unless we can break them.”

  Chase took a thoughtful sip of his drink.

  “There’s another potential suspect,” I said. “Mr. Kyler.”

  “Hm. I don’t think Kyler would.”

  “Remember his partner saying he complained about how much he had to pay Malone?”

  “Yes.” Chase swirled the ice in the bottom of his glass, peering into it as if he saw something mystic in there. “It doesn’t seem a strong enough motive.”

  “How about this? He gives his assistant expensive art for her office, but she was close to Malone.”

  Chase raised an eyebrow. “Love triangle? I don’t think so. He’s devoted to Marie. Mrs. Kyler. Besides, he has an alibi.”

  “We haven’t established that yet—"

  “Don’t have to. It’s me.” He looked up at me. “I was here at eight-thirty. Kyler asked me to breakfast.”

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  He sighed. “I should have. I’m sorry.”

  I watched him frown into his glass, and wondered how close a friend Kyler was. Our dinners arrived, and I remembered something I’d wanted to ask about. It was kind of an embarrassing question, but I figured what the hell.

  “Chase—you know the lounge we had a drink in? Near the stripy guy?”

  “Yeah?”

  “It, ah—wasn’t there earlier. This morning. I think.”

  Give him credit, he didn’t laugh. He just cocked his head and gave me that intent, puzzled look.

  “Wasn’t there?”

  “There was a blank wall there—"

  “Oh ... that’s a security feature,” said Chase.

  “Security?”

  “It’s a hologram. The hotel uses them to discourage people from entering areas that are closed—"

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” boomed a voice from the house speakers, “the Kachina theater is proud to present Pageant of Creation, starring Benjamin Hanes!”

  The lights went out. The kachina mask glowed for a second, then faded and the place went pitch dark. Then I heard a “whoosh” that made my scalp tingle even though it was familiar.

  The pale speck of the eagle dancer began to grow in the black well of the stage. The audience gasped as it flew overhead.

  The stage lit up with flying holograms of kachinas—I counted a dozen before I lost track—along with live performers dancing to the rhythm of a row of drummers in colorful garb. The music and the images increased in speed and intensity until they became a maelstrom of sound and color. Then the place went dark again, and another pale spot began to glow in the depths of the stage while the drums rumbled low and a voice began chanting.

  The image took form; a man, all in white, arms outstretched. It grew larger than life, and brighter, reaching out over the audience, and I gasped as I realized it was Alan Malone’s ghost in the second before it vanished.

  Chase must have heard me, because he laid a hand on my arm. The stage lights came up on the singer—all in white, raising arms draped in a cape of white feathers—Benjamin Hanes.

  “They didn’t have time to re-record the hologram,” Chase said in my ear. I nodded, still feeling a weird shiver.

  There were more holograms of Malone—he was inextricably part of the show, and I felt grimly privileged to watch his final performance. In one number Hanes sang a duet with Malone’s hologram—something about twin brothers journeying to the sun—truly spooky.

  Hanes was good, but he didn’t have Malone’s charisma. This was only a ghost of the show it would have been.

  Even so, I enjoyed the hell out of it. Lots of color, beautiful use of holography and sensory effects. When the lights came up for intermission I clapped ‘til my hands ached.

  Chase’s applause was more reserved, so much so that I asked if he disliked the show. He frowned, and said “The performance is fine. I’m just not sure about the content.”

  “What about it?” I asked.

  “Well, it’s a mish-mosh, and some of those Indian chants—"

  “You mean Native American.”

  “I mean Indian. They call themselves Indians, so I do too.”

  I felt myself blushing. “I’d been given to understand ‘Native American’ was the accepted term.”

  “Maybe the eastern tribes prefer it. My friends would laugh if I called them Native Americans.”

  Our waiter brought us dessert, which was a scoop of something white (not ice cream) in a puddle of something brown (not chocolate). I took a bite, and pushed the rest away. It was like everything else in this place—a sham—not what it looked like.

  “Not going to eat that?” said Chase. He had already inhaled his. He gestured toward my plate with his spoon, and I handed it over.

  “Oh, hey,” I said, watching him dig in. “There’s something else we should check. May not mean anything, but Stauffer said somebody stole one of the props.”

  “A knife?” said Chase, eyes sharp.

  “Nope. A rattle.”

  “Rattle? What kind?”

  “I don’t know.” We’d seen dozens of rattles in the show.

  Chase dropped his spoon on the empty plate and stood up. “Let’s go ask.”

  “Ah—in the middle of the performance?”

  “Why not?”

  One thing about Chase, he didn’t waste time. We went down the aisle and climbed a half-dozen steps at the side of the stage. Backstage was crammed with towering racks of lights and projectors.

  Chase found the props girl—a sharp-faced Hispanic I’d interviewed that afternoon—arranging things on a long table. He flashed his badge.

  “Could you tell us about the missing rattle?” he said.

  “How about after the show?” she said. “I’m kind of busy.”

  “Was it the same as these?” said Chase, picking up a rattle from the table.

  “Hey! Put that down!”

  Chase did. “Was the rattle that was stolen like this?”

  “Yes, it was, only it wasn’t stolen, it was broken.”

  “Broken?”

  “Somebody rummaged through the props last
night, and they broke one. So if you don’t mind—"

  “What’s that one?” I said, pointing to a smaller rattle that we hadn’t seen onstage. Unlike the others, it wasn’t painted. A single white feather was tied to it with a leather thong.

  “That’s Alan’s. I mean Ben’s. Don’t touch it, please,” she said as Chase reached for it. “It’s fragile.”

  “Lucky it wasn’t broken, too,” said Chase.

  “It wasn’t here. Alan asked me to keep it locked up.”

  Chase and I looked at each other. “Why?” I asked.

  “He said it was special—Uncle Joe Vigil gave it to him.”

  “Who’s—"

  “Five minutes,” said a guy in black, brushing past us.

  The props girl gave me a pleading look. “I really can’t talk now—"

  “We’ll come back after the performance,” I said. “Please don’t leave.”

  “Can’t. There’s another show at ten.”

  I pulled out my notebook and tried to scribble in the half-dark while I followed Chase. “What name did she say? Vee-heel?”

  “Joe Vigil,” said Chase. “He’s about the oldest guy at Sandia Pueblo.”

  He stopped. Dancers were pouring out of a bright doorway in a stream of colored feathers, heading for the stage to start the second act. When they’d cleared out Chase went on, but I stayed.

  Down the hall, in an open doorway, Emily Trujillo was arguing with Benjamin Hanes. I got as close as I could without entering the hall, and heard Hanes say “—didn’t give it to me.”

  Then he started toward me and I ducked back, and nearly tripped over one of the racks of lights. Hanes came out and went onstage. I waited for Trujillo, but she didn’t appear, and I glanced back down the hall just in time to see her go into Hanes’ dressing room.

  “Chase!” I hissed.

  I couldn’t see very far; figured he’d gone back to our table. The show was about to start again. The rational thing to do would be to go back to my seat. So I went down the hall and knocked at the dressing room door.

  No answer. I waited, knocked again, then opened it.

  The room was empty.

  I stepped in and pushed the door closed behind me. I was getting pissed off. This whole place was a lie, and as soon as this damn case was over I was requesting that transfer.