The Western Star

by Craig Johnson

  “I’m not so sure Joe was party to the whole thing—this might’ve been Fisk’s deal.”

  “Maybe they think they’re doing something noble.”

  “Maybe, but I think it sounded more like a public relations ploy.” I slouched further into the sofa, maybe a little more tired than I thought. “I’m still not sure if it’s coming more from Wally or Carol—either way, I’m stuck in the middle.”

  “I’m sorry, Daddy.” She got up and crossed over to sit beside me. “Why don’t you just say the hell with it and go home?”

  “Hey, Al, she’s trying to get rid of me now that she got her furniture moved.”

  Alexia yelled back. “I don’t think so, Sheriff—if she could, she would move you in here along with the sofa.”

  Cady waited a moment and then rested her head on my shoulder. “Part of me wishes you might take them up on it, for me and for Lola’s sake.” She sighed. “I’m not going to say it hasn’t been nice to have you around. I get lonely, Dad.”

  I reached a hand out to my widowed daughter. “I’m sorry, honey.”

  “I don’t think my life is going to be as easy as yours and Mom’s.”

  I sighed and stared at the ring she wore around her neck. “You don’t want that, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Your old man roaming around down here with nothing to do.” I looked at Dog, his muzzle next to Lola. “At the moment, I’ve got a job, but in case you haven’t noticed, I’m rapidly approaching an age where I don’t have to have one.”

  She was silent for a moment. “What would you do?”

  “I don’t know, maybe nothing.”

  “Oh, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

  “You don’t think I’m capable?”

  She grunted a laugh. “I know you’re not.”

  Wiping her hands on a dish towel, Alexia came in from the kitchen. “Miss Cady, the enchilada casserole will be done in a half hour.”

  “Thank you, Alexia. Are you heading home?”

  “Sí, Miss Cady; with the little one asleep there really isn’t anything more for me to do, and I have promised Ricardo and his amigo that I would make them dinner.”

  My daughter sat forward and turned to look at her. “I’m sorry, you shouldn’t have stayed here cooking for us if you had to go home and cook again.”

  “I don’t mind, Ricardo es un chico muy bueno.”

  I leaned my head back on the sofa to look at her. “The other fellow, Coulter, how do he and Ricardo know each other?”

  “He met him at a club in Denver where he was playing his guitar, and they became friends.” She said nothing more, but by the look on her face, I could tell she had some doubts about her son’s amigo.

  “You don’t like him?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know; he does not talk about himself at all.” She put her hand on her chest. “Not much heart, I don’t think.”

  “Alexia, do you want to take tomorrow off? I mean we’ve got a ton of people around who can—”

  “No, no. They’re young men, and they won’t want me there too much, I am sure.”

  “Then we’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Sí, in the morning.”

  “Big Al.” I raised a hand, and she shook it, smiling at my nickname for her. “Thanks for taking care of everybody.”

  After she left, I made a pronouncement. “I like her.”

  “You like her because she’s a great cook.”

  “I like her because she cares for the two of you in my absence.”

  The Greatest Legal Mind of Our Time stretched her back and got up, looking in the playpen as Dog raised his head before collapsing again. “I think Lola sleeps better when Dog is around.”

  “I know I do.” I waited a moment before adding, “You can’t have Dog.”

  She gave me a look and started toward the kitchen. “I’m checking on the enchilada casserole—sometimes the preheat doesn’t work right; do you want anything?”

  “The enchilada casserole.”

  “Well, you’re going to have to wait another thirty minutes for that.” She came back, lifted my hat, and kissed the top of my head. “You could take a shower before the posse gets back.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “To get a bottle of wine, and some bourbon for Lucian.”

  “Who’s going to watch Lola?”

  Her head reappeared in the doorway. “I am, with Dog’s help. Go take a shower.”

  —

  “The last time I saw you was Johnston Atoll.” We shook, and I glanced down at the calluses on his powerful, deeply tanned hands. “What have you been doing since then?”

  “Picking grapes.”

  “Where?”

  He leaned against his father’s T-bird and laughed, crossed his arms, stretching the blue chambray shirt at the seams. “France, where else?”

  I studied his face; there were a few more wrinkles than I remembered. “Good to hear you laugh.”

  “I have reacquired the ability, along with a number of others.”

  “Welcome home.”

  He glanced around at the Evanston rail yard, his dark eyes finally settling on Martha, who smiled at him as she quickly climbed into the passenger seat to escape the freezing wind. “Is that what this is?”

  “I had a little trouble recognizing it myself.” I joined him in leaning on the car. “Home is home, though it be homely.” I reached out and flipped the collar of his shirt. “Don’t you have a coat?”

  He shrugged. “I did not need one in France—I did not need a lot of things.”

  “Thanks for bringing her.” I lowered my voice so that Martha couldn’t hear me, although the engine was running, which certainly masked the conversation. “I asked her to stay married to me.”

  He looked down at his scuffed chukka boots. “What did she say?”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps it is for the best.” He sighed. “Trees teach us patience, but grass teaches us persistence.”

  “And what did grapes teach you?”

  “Wine, which assists with both.”

  “Where are you headed?”

  “The real home.” He studied me for a long moment. “Where are you headed?”

  I had to be honest with somebody and figured it might as well be my best friend. “I’m not sure—it’s complicated. I didn’t seem to be assimilating like I hoped I would, so I took this job a couple of weeks ago thinking it would help; deputy for Lucian Connelly, the sheriff—you remember him?”

  The Cheyenne Nation turned his head, letting the cold wind push his hair from his face. “I seem to, tough but fair as I recall.” He unfolded his arms and pointed at the Colt semiautomatic on my hip. “Those things get heavy, so I put mine down.” He started off in the opposite direction toward Front Street. “Come on.”

  Instinctively, I fell in behind him. “Where are we going?”

  “I am going to buy a jacket.”

  I caught up and walked with him. “What, the cold finally get to you?”

  “Not really, but it would appear we need to talk.” We went through a chain-link gate and onto the sidewalk. “Why is it complicated?”

  “A man was killed—a sheriff.”

  He raised an eyebrow as he pulled open a glass door. “And why is this a complication for you?”

  “I knew him, or at least I got to know him before he was killed.” I followed the Bear into a Western wear store to the tinkling of a bell attached to the door. “Someone shot him and threw him off the train . . . I think.”

  He pursed his lips as he walked toward a hat rack, pulled off a black flat brim with a beaded band, and nestled it onto his head. “How do I look?”

  “Like Billy Jack, only a lot bigger.”

  He looked at himself in a full-length m
irror. “Who is Billy Jack?”

  “An Indian, Green Beret, hapkido expert who beats the shit out of bikers and sheriffs.”

  “An Indian protagonist?”

  “A half-breed.”

  “I like him already—at least half of him.” He pulled a fake-fleece-lined jean jacket from another rack and tried wedging it on one arm, but it was far too small. “Does he look like an Indian?”

  “Who?”

  “This Billy Jack.”

  “Not particularly.”

  He shrugged. “I have not had a lot of time for popular culture lately.”

  “It’s 1972, times are changing.”

  As he peeled the thing off, a clerk appeared, my gun belt making her a little nervous. Henry handed her the jacket. “Do you have this in an XXL?”

  The middle-aged woman with bangs and cat’s-eye glasses nodded and started to move away but not before adding, “I’m afraid you’re not allowed to try on the hats.”

  He smiled and cocked his head. “How else can you tell if they fit?”

  “We’ve had problems with Indians with head lice.”

  She scurried away with the jacket, and the Cheyenne Nation turned to look at me, the hat still solidly on his head, the flat brim underlying his statement. “You were saying something? About times changing?”

  —

  Lying there on the sofa, I was uneasy, and I didn’t know why.

  I’d finally fallen asleep about two hours ago, but now I was awake again, staring at the ceiling with a feeling I couldn’t classify, a sense of foreboding that could mean something important or just that the enchilada casserole wasn’t sitting well.

  Reaching over, I picked up my pocket watch from the coffee table—12:45 a.m., three-quarters of the way through what most people believe is the witching hour. The term really applies to the hour bracketed by three and four in the morning, earning its nickname because there are no Catholic Church services then, so the demons are at their strongest. Since I wasn’t particularly a believer in any witching hour, I got up and got a drink of water.

  Downing a glass, I looked out at the partly cloudy skies, the moon feathering its way through the night sky. As I filled myself another from the tap, I looked down and caught a glimpse of a glowing ember like that of a smoldering cigarette in the alley below. Leaning back a bit, I could see a vehicle and waited until the cigarette glowed again.

  It could be anything or anybody.

  It wasn’t like my daughter owned the alley.

  Returning to the living room, I got dressed, grabbed my jacket and hat, and made my way outside.

  I couldn’t use the front entrance to the apartment because the stairs led directly to the car that was idling outside, and I didn’t want to use the other as it was through Cady’s room, where she and Lola were sleeping with Dog.

  So I carefully opened the door to the balcony/deck and shimmied down the supports, all the while thinking that I wasn’t getting any younger.

  I finally reached the corner of the carriage house and stood there for a moment to catch my breath. When I was satisfied I wasn’t going to die, I set out around the other side, quietly opening and closing the gate behind me as I crossed the attorney general’s backyard. I turned the corner but pulled up short when I saw someone standing in my way. The man was pushing a shopping cart and appeared to be homeless. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” He gestured over his shoulder. “There’s a car out there in my alley, and I’m waitin’ for him to move.” He looked around and then added, “I didn’t want you to think I was trespassing or loitering or something.”

  “Okay.”

  “You a sheriff?”

  “I am.”

  “Saw your truck.” He scratched a face full of rusty beard and then stuck a hand out to me. “Peter Lowery.”

  I took the risk and shook the hand. “Good to meet you, Peter.”

  He looked up at Cady’s apartment. “You live up there?”

  I thought about how much personal information I wanted to share with the homeless guy who lived in the alley. “Yep.”

  He shuffled a bit, and I noticed that, along with the wool stocking cap that barely contained all the hair, he must’ve been wearing about seven layers of clothes. “Your daughter, she’s nice. Granddaughter, too?”

  “Yep.” So much for keeping things to myself.

  I guess he could read my unease. “I don’t mean any harm; it’s my neighborhood, too.”

  “Where do you live?”

  He seemed surprised by the question. “Huh?”

  “You said it’s your neighborhood—where do you live?”

  “Oh, well, I sometimes sleep over near the power pole beside that gardening shed across the alley.” He pulled at the gray wool cap that had seen better days. “I’m not drugged or psycho or anything. I just like living a free life, you know?”

  “Sure.” I stepped around him and looked at the car that was still idling in the alley. “Ever seen that car before?”

  “Nope, so I thought I’d wait here till it moved on.”

  “How long has it been here?”

  “Seventeen minutes thirty-six seconds.”

  I smiled. “That’s pretty exact.”

  He pointed at a black plastic watch on his wrist, which obviously kept time to the second. “Time’s important.”

  I nodded. “Yep, it is. Do you mind waiting here until I get over there? I’d like to surprise whoever it is.”

  “Sure, sure. But I can follow you, if you want. You know, give you some backup?”

  “That’s okay, I think I can handle it.”

  He seemed disappointed. “Okay.”

  I smiled again, hoping there was no ill will, and then moved around him toward the alley, where a sedan with Wyoming County 1 plates was parked with the motor running. I could see that somebody was smoking with his head leaning back on the seat so that he could look through the top of the windshield at Cady’s apartment.

  Glancing back at Peter and indicating to him that he should stay put, I quietly crossed into the alley, crouched down around the back of the Buick, and continued up the passenger side, where I yanked open the door and jumped in.

  “Jesus!?” Mike Barr, the Casper Star-Tribune’s Cheyenne correspondent, dropped his cigar in his lap and began frantically brushing it off onto the floor mat. “Shit . . . you scared the hell out of me.”

  I slammed the door shut. “What are you doing, Mike?”

  He clutched his shirtfront. “Trying to not have a heart attack. Walt, for God’s sake . . .”

  I pressed a hand against the dash. “What are you doing watching my daughter’s apartment?”

  “Looking for you.” He calmed down a bit and sighed. “I’ve called and left messages, stuck my card on her door—I’ve tried everything.”

  “You should have been around this afternoon when I could’ve used a ride.”

  “Up at the rodeo grounds?” He nodded. “Yeah, one of the security guys called me. You know, you’re not the first one he’s taken up there to intimidate.”

  “I’m heartbroken.”

  “So, how’d that go?”

  I glared at him. “What do you want, Mike?”

  “What do you think I want?” He turned in the seat and spotted his cigar on the floor mat. “Look, all the press is pretty much lining up with Fisk and his wife, and I can’t help but think that you’ve got your side of the story.”

  “To tell.” I rolled my window down, the stale cigar smoke getting to me.

  “Exactly.”

  “To you.”

  He grinned. “Why not?”

  “No thanks.”

  He puffed on the cigar to try to get it going again and draped his wrist over the steering wheel as wisps of smoke drifted out the partially open window. “I could be a really good fri
end to you, Walt, at a time when you need it.”

  “I’ve got a lot of friends.”

  “Maybe not enough.” I started to get out, but he stopped me with what he said next. “You’ve got a daughter who works in this town; always handy to be on the good side of the press.”

  I stared at him for a long while and then pulled the handle and stepped out. I closed the car door firmly behind me and then spoke through the open window. “Get the hell out of here, Mike. If it had been Henry Standing Bear and not me who had come down here, he would’ve broken your neck before he knew who you were.”

  —

  “Take good care of her.”

  “I will.”

  “And try not to get head lice.”

  “I will not.”

  I stood, leaving him in the Thunderbird’s driver’s seat, and walked around to where she stood, having gotten out of the car to talk to me. She took in the environs of the Evanston rail yard, where the skiff of snow had mixed with coal dust to make a peppered landscape. “It’s not exactly the airport in Casablanca.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “You want to buy a ring?”

  “Stop it.”

  I put my arms around her and pulled her in close. She didn’t resist, but maybe she just wanted to keep warm. “What am I gonna do?”

  “Walt . . .”

  “I’ve been without you for six of the crappiest years of my life, so I’m thinking I’m due a change.”

  She leaned back and looked up at me. “You’ll be fine.”

  I snorted a laugh, amused at my own misery. “Nope—of all the things I’ll be, fine isn’t one of them.”

  She glanced past me toward the huffing train. “You need to go, and so do we.”

  I opened the passenger door, feeling the blast of heat from inside drift past us. “I’ll be back home in two days.”

  “There’s no need; there’s nothing to talk about.”

  “The baby?”

  She pulled away, and I let her. “I’ve got to go.”

  “Like I said, I’ll be there in two days.”

  She looked straight ahead and didn’t say anything, so I closed the door.