by Thomas King
“Good news is they’re backed up with a couple of bank robberies right now and won’t be able to get to us until next week.”
Claire found some ice cream in the back of the freezer and crushed a few Oreo cookies over it. “All right,” she said as Thumps was chasing the last bits of cookie around his bowl. “You’ve been fed.”
Thumps put the bowl down and tried to think of an easy way to tell Claire how he and Bert had spent their afternoon. “Floyd Small Elk is dead.”
“Floyd?” Claire was more puzzled than shocked. “How?”
“Shot.”
“An accident?”
“No.”
Claire nodded her head, but her mind was elsewhere. “You want coffee?”
“Sure.”
He did not want to be the one to tell her that Bert had seen Stick with Floyd just before Floyd was killed. That was the sheriff’s job. Thumps had seen enough messengers shot in his time.
Claire came back to the table with two cups. “Floyd was Takashi’s driver.”
Thumps sipped the coffee and tried to look relaxed. “Good coffee.”
“You drove all the way out here to tell me that?”
“I wanted to see you.”
“We talking about sex?”
There was no give in Claire. Sometimes Thumps liked that and sometimes he didn’t. Claire’s face was beginning to harden, like poured concrete.
“Sex is fine with me.” Thumps smiled so Claire could see he was kidding. It didn’t work.
“What’s Floyd got to do with Stanley?”
“Probably nothing.”
“Damn you, DreadfulWater.”
Thumps had run out of room and he knew it. “Stick was seen at Floyd’s trailer just before Floyd died.”
“He didn’t kill Floyd.”
“Nobody says he did.” Thumps reached for the coffee cup, but Claire’s eyes stopped him.
“Does the sheriff know?”
“No,” said Thumps quietly, “but he will.”
Claire leaned forward on the table. Thumps could almost feel the air leaking out of her. He hoped she wasn’t going to cry, because he had never figured out what to do with women who cried. Nothing ever seemed to work. It was as if you were supposed to let them cry, that, in the end, crying wouldn’t hurt them. The problem was that whenever a woman Thumps was with cried, he felt guilty, as if he was somehow to blame. Which wasn’t always fair. If Claire started crying now, Thumps was going to feel guilty about not finding Stick. Or he was going to feel guilty about letting Claire down. And then he’d start feeling guilty about how his life had gone, about what had happened in Eureka, about his real failures and what they had cost him.
Claire kept her head down, but the leaking had stopped. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m not going to cry.”
“You want some coffee?”
“I have some coffee.” She raised her head and looked at him. “What I would like is for you to . . . hold me.”
“Sure.”
“I’m not talking about sex.”
“Sure.” Thumps looked around the room. “You want me to do it at the table, or someplace else?”
Claire pushed away from the table and walked stiffly to the sofa.
“Look, I don’t think Stick killed anyone.” Thumps came over and sat down beside her. “But he’s going to have to give himself up.”
Claire slowly leaned into Thumps’ side, nestling up against him as if she planned on going to sleep. He wasn’t quite sure what to do. He let his arm slide down the couch. It landed on Claire’s shoulder with slightly more force than he had intended, but she didn’t jump and she didn’t pull away.
“I’ll find him.”
Claire put her hand on Thumps’ chest. “What are you thinking about?”
Why did women always ask that particular question? Thumps suspected that there was a right answer, an answer he had never hit on, and that everything else was wrong. That was one of the great joys of sex. You didn’t have to carry on an intelligent conversation. And you didn’t run the risk of being accused of not listening. Sex had its own problems to be sure. What to do afterwards, for instance. Talk, cuddle, apologize, explain, compliment, support, sympathize, reassure. Go to sleep.
Thumps could feel his right leg begin to cramp. “I don’t know,” he said, pressing his toes against the floor. “I was just thinking how nice this is.”
Claire snuggled in tighter. Her body seemed to melt around his, and her hand slid down his chest to his belt buckle.
“This is relaxing.”
No, it’s not, thought Thumps. This is definitely not relaxing. And he was sure that Claire could tell that he wasn’t relaxed.
“Are you relaxed?” she asked.
That was the benefit of being with the same woman for a period of time. While Thumps and Claire had not been steady lovers, exactly, he had gotten used to a number of her signals.
“The lights aren’t too relaxing.”
“Then turn them off.”
That was signal number two. Thumps slipped away from Claire, took two giant steps across the room, hit the light switch, and slid back into her arms without leaving a ripple.
Kissing Claire was one of Thumps’ favourite things to do. There was no rush in her, which was fine with him. She liked long, lingering kisses that were gentle and brushing rather than hard and crushing. And she liked to be touched. Everything slow and patient. She especially liked to have the sides of her breasts rubbed, and as Thumps moved his hand under her arm, Claire buried her face against his neck, shifted her thighs, and ran a hand along his leg.
“You don’t feel relaxed.”
For the next little while, Thumps worked on undoing Claire’s dress, which was one long line of buttons, and Claire worked on undoing Thumps’ belt and unzipping his pants. Thumps had slightly more trouble with the buttons. One of them got hung up in a looping thread, and he couldn’t figure out which way it went, and Claire had to give him a hand.
“Careful.”
The bra was a bigger problem. As long as Claire had the dress on, all Thumps could do was bunch the damn thing up around her neck. It didn’t look particularly erotic in that position, and each time he tried to nuzzle her nipples, it would fall down and he would have to push it back up with his nose.
“Is the bra a bother?”
“No.”
Claire’s nipples were another of Thumps’ favourite things. They were large and very sensitive. Better yet, they were dark brown, almost black, and Thumps began to lose himself in soft skin and warm butter.
He was glad Claire had worn a dress. Dresses were much sexier than jeans. With jeans, you had to peel them off—the way you shuck an ear of corn. With a dress you could slowly push it up the thighs, pausing as you went to touch and caress.
“Take my panties off.”
Thumps buried his face in Claire’s chest. “You want to go to the bedroom?”
“No,” said Claire, and she pulled Thumps’ underpants down and gently pushed him off the sofa.
Claire’s bed was comfortable and cozy. The floor was another matter. It was hard, and the shag carpet was scratchy. But Claire was on top now, and that soft butter feeling was back, and even if he got a few rug burns on his tailbone, it wouldn’t be the end of the world. Thumps ran his hands across Claire’s bottom, arched his back, and shifted his hips.
“No,” she said, leaning forward and letting her breasts fall against his chest. “I want to do it.”
Thumps closed his eyes and sighed as Claire reached down and moved him into position.
“We should use a condom,” she said.
“A condom?”
“Yes.”
Thumps tried to think whether he had a condom, and if he did, where it was. “I don’t think I have one.”
“Neither do I.”
He could feel Claire’s warm wetness against him and it was affecting his thinking. “What
about something else?” he said between breaths.
“Like what?”
“Saran wrap?” Thumps didn’t know why he said this, but it was the only thing he could think of.
“You just want to screw me.”
“Yes.”
Claire lowered herself onto his thighs. “All right.”
Thumps wasn’t sure he would have noticed that someone had come into the room, if the person hadn’t turned on the lights.
“Mom!”
Claire was off Thumps in a flash, leaving him in what he supposed was a rather silly-looking position, especially to someone who was standing above him and looking down the way Stanley Merchant was at that moment.
“What the hell are you doing?”
Since Claire had never taken off her dress, she was able to get decent in a flash. Thumps wasn’t quite so agile. Pulling his underpants on was a quick enough task, but getting his jeans up from around his ankles was difficult and time consuming.
“Jesus, you two were screwing.”
“We were making love.” Claire turned on her son. “And where the hell have you been.”
Stick was outmatched. Thumps had been there, and he knew the kid didn’t have a chance.
“Don’t change the subject,” Stick whined. “You were naked.”
“You’ve seen me naked before.”
“Yeah, but not with him.”
Thumps thought about leaving and letting Claire and Stick work this out, but there were other matters to sort through that were more pressing and serious than being caught with his pants down.
“This is disgusting, Mom.”
Thumps got off the floor so that he wouldn’t have to continue looking up at Stick.
“Where have you been?” said Claire.
“I’m hungry,” said Stick, and he headed for the kitchen and the refrigerator. “What’s to eat?”
“The sheriff’s looking for you.” Thumps could see no value in playing around.
Claire put herself between Thumps and her son. “He only wants to ask you a few questions.”
“He thinks you killed Daniel Takashi,” said Thumps.
Thumps believed that you could tell a lot about people not by how they answered questions but by how they reacted to them. Stick kept his head buried in the refrigerator.
“Did you?”
“We out of ham?” asked Stick.
Thumps glanced at Claire. He could see she was caught in the middle—not sure whether to protect her son or light into him for his bad manners. She decided on the latter and slammed the refrigerator shut, barely giving Stick time to get his arms and head out of the way.
“Hey!”
Claire was on him like a hawk on a prairie dog. “Sit down!”
Stick looked at Thumps, and then at his mother. He didn’t like it, but he sat.
“First, where the hell have you been?” Claire’s voice was low and hard.
“Fishing.” Stick lowered his eyes and tried being surly. “And don’t swear.”
Even Thumps could see it was a lie. But Claire didn’t change her tone or pace. “Did you kill Daniel Takashi?”
“No.”
“Do you know who did?”
“No.”
She waited for a moment and then turned to Thumps. “Satisfied?”
“What?”
“You heard him,” said Claire. “He said he didn’t kill Takashi.”
Thumps could see that he had better move slowly. “Yeah. And I believe him.”
“Who asked you,” said Stick, who obviously thought he could take out some of his grievance on Thumps.
“But the sheriff isn’t going to be so easy.”
“So, screw him,” said Stick.
Enough was enough. Stick had already cost him three days’ work. Thumps had spent most of an afternoon and an evening stomping around in the mountains. He had endured Roxanne, dodged the sheriff, and negotiated his way around Claire’s emotions.
“Let me lay it out for you.” He moved in close so Stick could see his pores. “The sheriff thinks you killed Daniel Takashi, and before morning, he’s going to think that you killed Floyd Small Elk as well.”
“What?”
That was genuine. Stick hadn’t known that Floyd was dead.
“He was shot.”
“You think I killed Floyd?”
“You went to Floyd’s trailer today.”
“Says who?”
“You were seen.” The sneer on Stick’s face vanished. “So here’s what we’re going to do. You’re going to go with me and your mother to town and talk to the sheriff.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“Au contraire.” Thumps paused to let the sarcasm sink in. “By now, you’re the most popular man in the state, and there is nothing the sheriff would like better than to find you, shoot you, tie you to the hood of his truck, and drag your sorry ass back to town.”
“Thumps . . .”
Thumps didn’t have to turn to see the concern on Claire’s face. He could hear it in her voice.
“No sense lying to the boy.
“I’m not a boy.”
“Then stop acting like one, and tell us what you know.”
“I don’t know anything.”
Another lie. Stick did know something. Thumps had never doubted that for a moment. The coincidences that linked Claire’s son with Takashi and Floyd were too neat to be random.
“Please, Stanley.” Claire sounded tired now. “Listen to Thumps.”
Thumps could see Stick running through his options. “Forget it,” he said. “You don’t have any options.”
Stick leaned against the sofa and looked at the ceiling. “Okay, but I need a shower, and I need something to eat.”
“That’s fair enough,” said Claire.
Stick clumped down the hall to the bathroom. “We got any Kraft dinner?”
As soon as Stick had closed the bathroom door and Thumps heard the shower, he turned to Claire. “I should probably call the sheriff and let him know we’re coming in.”
Claire put a pot of water on to boil. She didn’t look at Thumps. “What’s going to happen to him?”
“If he tells the truth, he’ll be okay.”
“He is telling the truth.”
Thumps took Claire in his arms. “No, he’s not.”
Claire pushed away, more out of distress than anger. She rummaged through the cupboard. When she looked back at Thumps, she had tears in her eyes. “This is all he wants to eat these days,” she said, tearing the top off the box.
“I’ll help him as much as I can.”
The tears were streaming down Claire’s face. She stood by the stove, her body shaking.
“You want some more coffee?” she said, trying to seal off the tears and smile at the same time.
“Sure.”
Thumps sat at the table and tried to come up with a plan. Stick was going to need an attorney. So far, all the evidence against him was circumstantial. He had led the protest against the casino project, but there was nothing to indicate that he knew Takashi or bore him any ill will. The fact that he was at Floyd’s place just before Floyd was killed was also circumstantial. More important, he had no motive. The sheriff couldn’t even come close to proving that Stick had anything to do with Takashi’s death. And if Stick hadn’t killed Takashi, then he had no reason to kill Floyd.
Of course, if Stick had killed Takashi and Floyd had found out, then Stick would have a motive for killing him. But Thumps suspected that there were other people more interested in Takashi’s death, people who had managed to stay in the shadows, so far.
The water on the stove began to boil before Thumps noticed that Stick was taking a long time in the shower. He went to the door and knocked on it.
“Stick, food’s on.”
He turned the handle. The door was locked.
“What’s wrong?” Claire was at his side. She h
ad stopped crying.
Thumps tried the door again. “Stick!”
Claire took the handle and turned it hard. “Stanley!”
Thumps put his shoulder into the door and forced it open.
“Shit!”
Stick’s clothes and his runners were in a pile on the floor. The shower was running, but there was no Stick in the tub.
“Damn it, Stick!”
Thumps rushed to the front door and out onto the porch. The air was warm and sweet with the smell of wild sage and willow. The moon was just above the horizon, and the stars were full and bright in the black sky. But Thumps wasn’t looking at the stars and he wasn’t looking at the moon. He was looking at the taillights of Stick’s Mustang as it raced off across the prairies and into the night.
FOURTEEN
Thumps stayed at Claire’s house that night. They didn’t have sex. They didn’t even sleep in the same bed. Thumps spent the night on the sofa, wrestling with a short blanket and a lumpy pillow. Turning the two deaths over and over in his mind.
He had just gotten comfortable when the sun, which evidently didn’t give a damn about either killing, decided to get the day started. The first strong blast of prairie light caught Thumps full in the face. At first, he thought someone was fooling around with a floodlight. He tried turning away and burrowing under the cushions, but the sun was relentless, and he was forced to find himself a shady spot on the floor. Or get up.
In the end, he got up and put on a pot of coffee. Claire’s kitchen was a war zone. The counter was littered with crumbs and bits of lettuce. The bean cans hadn’t been rinsed. And the mustard and ketchup were standing around with nothing to do.
Most of Claire’s dishes and flatware were floating in the sink, in a cold, greasy swamp that gave off a hazy hint of decay. It wasn’t that Claire was lazy when it came to housework. She just believed that the longer you allowed things to soak, the easier it was to get them clean.
Thumps drained the sink, ran fresh water, washed the dishes, and set them to dry in organized lines in the rack. He found a box of Coco Puffs in the cupboard. But there was no milk in the refrigerator, just a carton of something called “Hawaiian Punch.” Thumps listened for any movement from Claire’s room. She was either asleep or pretending to be asleep. Not that it mattered. Given the events of the last few days, she needed all the rest she could get.