Seventy-two years old, the senator’s last birthday, and not on top of things the way he used to be—well, who could keep up with everything these days? Legislative papers and folders littered the surface of his desk across the office. It was doubtful that the senator had made his way through any of them. No matter. It was Colbert’s job—and he prided himself on doing it well—to read all the bills, steer the senator onto the floor with instructions on how to vote on anything that might either benefit or harm the senator’s constituency. Senator Russell had held on to his seat for almost twenty-three years by casting the votes the way his supporters expected.
And the senator’s supporters wielded a great deal of influence in the state. Russell hailed from one of the old Colorado families—the oligarchs, as Russell himself referred to them. There was no hint of irony because, as Colbert understood, the old man believed there was still a place in the modern world for oligarchs who understood what was best for everybody else.
Colbert had boned up on Colorado history when he went to work for the senator halfway through his third term. What he’d learned had impressed him. Ethan Russell, the old man’s great-grandfather, had arrived in Denver in the 1860s, after pulling a cart with the entirety of his belongings across the plains by hand. Denver was a collection of tents and log cabins, populated by gold prospectors, saloon keepers, ladies of the night, and refugees from the law and normal society. Ethan decided to give the town its first bank. He organized investors among some of the prospectors who had struck gold, opened the bank in a shop on Larimer Street with a safe in the back that a shopkeeper had hauled across the plains and, rather than haul it back when the shop went under, had left in place. Ethan put up flyers around town urging folks to leave their money with him—in the only safe in town—and soon he had enough deposits to make loans to other prospectors heading into the mountains. When the lucky ones struck gold, Ethan paid small dividends to his depositors and large dividends to himself and his investors. Within ten years, Ethan Russell ran the largest bank between the Mississippi and California. Eventually he moved into the Equitable Building on Seventeenth Street, in which he held a silent partnership, along with John Evans and Leland Stern, and several other oligarchs.
They controlled Colorado for almost a hundred years—transportation, water, electricity, gas, roads, ranches, farms, most of the land and buildings in downtown Denver, and the best real estate throughout the state. And all that control had impressed Harry Colbert, who had grown up in North Dakota on a pig farm with a mortgage that his father had never been able to pay off. After repossessing the farm, the bank had sold it to a large agribusiness company which had dotted the farmlands with metal buildings the size of football fields, where they raised the pigs. Pig farms, they called the buildings.
After World War II, things changed for the Colorado oligarchs. The state’s population began to grow beyond anything the oligarchs could have imagined. They no longer had control. Outside money poured in. Entrepreneurs started new businesses that broke the monopolies of the oligarchs. National corporations built factories that employed the newcomers crowding the new suburbs. Everything happened quickly. The oligarchs found they were no longer the wealthiest families in the state; they no longer owned the politicians; they could no longer run things their way. Colbert had wanted to cheer when he’d reached that part of their history—cheer for the ordinary people like his own family. Still the remnants of the old families tried to hang on, like Senator Russell, still looking out for the people that mattered.
Colbert cleared his throat, then cleared his throat again. The senator was as deaf as a post. Finally he walked over and touched the senator’s shoulder. Russell shook himself awake and blinked into the office. Then he smoothed his hair back into place across the pink scalp and shifted upright. “Little cat nap, waiting for you,” he said.
Colbert smiled down at the man who thought he could snap his fingers and toss Colbert into the cold when, really, it was the other way around. Russell didn’t know that, and that was what made it amusing. It was Colbert who kept the old man’s reputation intact, placated the supporters, steered the right legislation forward. Without Colbert working behind the scenes, the old man wouldn’t have had a prayer of getting reelected to his fourth term.
He sank onto the middle cushion of the sofa across from the senator. “I’m afraid the casino plan has become public knowledge.”
“Spill it.” Russell planted the heels of his Ferragamos against the sofa and sat up straight. Every once in a while, he showed the spark of his younger years, a hint of formidability, and Colbert realized that, had he known the senator then, he wouldn’t have been the one in charge.
“I’m afraid Norman Whitehorse arranged a rally on the land by the airport. My sources say at least three hundred people, most of them Indians, attended. Norman got up and announced that the tribes intended to settle the land claims for a casino. Arcott spoke on how he was going to make it happen.”
“Fools, all of them.” Russell spit out the words. “Indians are their own worst enemy. Always have been.” He shook his head, and his eyes took on a dreamy look, as if he were watching a movie in his head. “God, my granddad used to say that if those Indians had ever gotten together—instead of fighting one another—they could’ve whupped all the whites coming onto their lands. History would’ve told a different story. Why the hell did Arcott get involved?”
Colbert blew some air through his teeth. “Haven’t been able to reach him yet. I can guess . . .”
“I don’t pay you to guess.”
Colbert shrugged. Fair enough. He didn’t like this side of Russell, but every once in a while the old man reared his back. An annoying habit left over from the old days that usually passed as quickly as it came on. He was aware of the muffled sound of keyboards in the outer office. “Arcott agrees with Whitehorse that the best defense is offense,” he said. He was trying to get into Arcott’s viewpoint, see things his way. “They think the public will get behind the casino plan now that the tribes are bringing up the genocide at Sand Creek. People will say, ‘Let the Indians have whatever they want. They deserve a casino.’ ”
“It was your job to prevent any public announcements until we had the matter under control.” Russell pushed himself to his feet. “This isn’t the time for public rallies. What the hell were you doing?”
“Look, Senator,” Colbert began, but Russell’s hand sliced the air.
“Don’t give me excuses. You said Norman Whitehorse was on board with our plans.”
“I’m not the first person to lose control of the Indians.” Colbert tried for a joking tone, but he could feel the burning in his chest. He had only a handful of people in the Denver office, most of them just out of college and starry-eyed about making a difference in politics, whatever the hell that meant. And how were they expected to handle a bunch of damn Indians with their own ideas on how to do things? Besides, they were up to their asses in phone calls and complaints and requests for tours of the White House from the rest of the senator’s constituents.
Senator Russell was glaring at him.
“Whitehorse and Arcott could be right,” Colbert said, making an effort to inject the accustomed seriousness into his tone. “The public could be our best ally against the governor, make him look like a heartless bastard for opposing any casino, not wanting to see that the Arapahos and Cheyennes get justice. It could work in our favor.”
That seemed to catch the senator’s attention. He jammed his hands into the pockets of his gray suit pants and started pacing back and forth in front of the desk. He kept his head bent, his eyes focused on his steps. A long piece of brown hair slid forward again, like a strand of yarn breaking loose from the pink scalp.
“How’s the press going to play this?” he said.
“Last evening’s TV news and this morning’s Mirror covered the rally and played the story straight. Looks like the press is willing to give the proposal a chance. Political correctness, you know. They’re
not going to take a stand against justice for the Arapahos and Cheyennes. Governor Lyle probably went ballistic when he got the news. But we’re in the stronger position. We have to hammer the Sand Creek genocide and the need for justice, lean on the public’s sense of fairness and political correctness. The governor will start to look like one of the Third Colorado that marched into Sand Creek.”
“You’ve prepared a press release?”
“It will be ready within the hour. I’ll call a few reporters—the ones we might be able to control—and assure them of your concern that the tribes receive overdue justice. I’ll fax the others a press release. Should run in tomorrow’s papers and go out on the Internet. It won’t hurt to get people around the country behind this. Everyone’s in favor of justice for Indians.”
The senator was still pacing, his hands clasped behind his back now.
“Don’t worry,” Colbert said. “I’ll manage the press. The public will be behind us.” He gave the senator a moment to chew on this, then he said, “There may be one . . .” He searched for the right words. “. . . potential problem.”
The senator swung around. “Out with it!”
“The Journal has been on the story from the beginning. Catherine McLeod’s the reporter, a pain in the neck. She’s written two articles so far. One of them an interview with tribal elders on the Sand Creek Massacre. She has a reputation for being pretty independent. She may not be easy to keep in line.”
“McLeod.” The senator had drawn out the name, as if he were gathering tobacco juice before he spat it. “Ex-wife of Lawrence Stern, is she not? The bitch went after him for five million dollars.”
“I believe that was the ex-wife of Jonathan Norton.” Also oligarchs, the Norton family, Colbert was thinking. God, they all knew one another’s business, looked out for one another.
“And what was she before she married Jonathan? A cocktail waitress?”
“I believe she owned a shop in Cherry Creek.”
“She wasn’t one of us. Neither was Catherine McLeod, if I recall. Elizabeth Stern was most unhappy when Lawrence married her. Who was she?”
“Denver native. A general assignment reporter at the Journal when she met Lawrence.”
“Oh, my God. Shopkeeper, reporter. Those boys deserve a whipping, getting mixed up with girls like that. Gold diggers is what they are.”
“It’s my understanding that Catherine McLeod took a modest settlement. She’s not interested in money.”
“Not interested in money?” Senator Russell tipped his chin into the folds of his neck and laughed softly. Then he seemed to have another thought. He threw his head back and fixed Colbert with a hard stare. “Independent, you say? A crusading reporter, interested only in the truth? You manage her, Harry. You understand?”
Colbert nodded. “Don’t worry.”
“Anything else?”
“I suggest we move fast on the proposal. With the press following the story, we don’t have the luxury to line up enough votes for legislation to settle the claims.”
The senator walked over and sank back onto the sofa. “Go on.”
“There are a number of noncontroversial bills moving through Congress at present. They have majority backing and will doubtless be approved. The president is certain to sign them. I suggest we prepare a rider and attach it to one of those bills. Other senators and congressmen have used this tactic to get settlements for tribes in their states. The moment the president affixes his signature, the Arapaho and Cheyenne land claims will be settled. The matter will be out of the governor’s hands. The use of land acquired by tribes as part of a federal settlement doesn’t fall under state jurisdiction. As long as the secretary of the interior gives the okay, the tribes will be free to construct and operate a casino. We have assurances that the secretary will sign off on the casino.”
A smile was working its way across the senator’s face. “Prepare the rider,” he said.
14
From the parking place across the street, Catherine kept her eyes on the squat, white-bricked building with the green awning fluttering over the entrance and the black-lettered sign next to the parking lot at the side: Hogan’s. The branches of an old elm provided a tent of shade, and a cool breeze drifted over the convertible. Traffic hummed on I-25 a couple of blocks away. The lunch hour crowd had started to arrive, cars turning into the asphalt lot and pulling into the available spaces at the curb. A brown sedan came around the corner, and she felt her stomach lurch. The sedan drove past, a young woman at the wheel, the outline of an infant seat in the back. There were so many brown sedans. Still no sign of Marie’s Honda.
Catherine felt herself begin to relax. A normal August day with the sky as clear as blue glass, sunlight dappling the strip of grass along the curb, the temperature drifting into the nineties, but cool here in the shade. The kind of day she had loved as a child when she didn’t have anywhere to go and nothing more to do than lie on the grass in the backyard and listen to the sounds of summer, a bird chirping, a squirrel rustling the leaves of a tree, and far away, a dog yapping. She would let herself drift into a kind of peacefulness and wholeness, almost like a memory.
It had been years since she had eaten at Hogan’s, not since the days of covering social events for the Journal, stopping for a sandwich and cup of coffee before heading out to a gala where the tables were laden with ice sculptures and gourmet delicacies, knowing she would be too busy to sample any of them.
She spotted the Honda stopped at the red light a half block away, Marie’s face backlit in the brightness. After a moment, the Honda lurched down the street, made a wide right turn into the parking lot, and pulled into a space next to the brick wall of the restaurant. There was caution in the way Marie pushed the door halfway open and lifted herself out from behind the wheel, still holding on to the edge of the door. She glanced around the lot, then hurried inside the restaurant.
Catherine waited almost ten minutes, enough time for the brown sedan to arrive if, by chance, Erik had gone to her mother’s house and followed her. Finally she got out of the convertible. Rex scrambled over the top of the seat after her, and she had to push him back before she could close the door. He plopped his head on the edge and stared at her with puzzled eyes. “It’ll just be a minute,” she said, patting his head.
She crossed the street, making her way between the cars parked at the curb. Waves of heat rose off the asphalt, and the sun was hot on her face and bare arms. A red SUV pulled into the lot and stopped next to the Honda. Both doors flung open. A blond woman with enormous sunglasses and a gray-haired man jumped out and hurried toward the entrance, snatches of conversation trailing behind them. Catherine fed a couple of quarters into the newspaper stand near the entrance, took a copy of the Mirror, and followed the couple into the cool interior. Faint odors of hot grease, seared meat, and coffee hung in the air.
Catherine darted around the couple and past the hostess, who was frozen at the podium, gripping two menus and looking out across the crowded restaurant. Her mother was seated in the booth at the rear— the reddish blond hair brushed behind her ears, the little eyeglasses and the bright red lipstick—a familiar face in a sea of faces bobbing over the white tablecloths. And yet, she was struck by how white her mother looked. She slid into the booth across from her and set the newspaper and her bag on the seat. “Thanks for coming.”
“My God, are you okay?” Her mother took Catherine’s hand in both of her own. There was a sense of comfort in the warmth of her small palms, the touch of her fingers. Catherine swallowed hard at the urge to burst into tears, as if she were a child again who had fallen on the play-ground and her mother had run over, picked her up, and brushed her off. Are you okay?
“I need your help,” Catherine managed.
“Of course. Anything. What’s happened? Has that . . .” She searched for the word. “That thug,” she said, “come back?”
Catherine took a moment. She was reluctant to give her any more reason to worry than she already had.
Marie was in her early sixties, but she looked younger, skin smooth and tanned from hours on the golf course, blue eyes behind the narrow lenses of her glasses lit with intelligence, little pearls shining in her ears. It was no surprise that she had caught her father’s attention—one of the secretaries at the brokerage firm where he had worked. But she hadn’t been able to bear children, and she had poured all of her maternal love and instincts over Catherine.
“I think I saw him this morning,” Catherine managed. She didn’t want to tell her all of it.
“Oh, my—”
Catherine interrupted. “Listen, I’m going to have to . . .” Now it was her turn to search for the right words. “Be careful for a while. Stay away from the town house and office, the usual places.”
“You can stay with me. You’ll be safe at the house.”
“No, that’s just it. I can’t go anyplace he might expect.”
“You should take Dad’s gun.”
“What?”
“The revolver he taught you to use. Remember? He used to take you target shooting when you were thirteen or fourteen. He always said you were a natural.”
“No, no.” Catherine waved away the suggestion. What good would a gun have been at the town house? Or this morning? She couldn’t shoot every man in a parked brown sedan.
“I wish you would consider it,” her mother said. “What are the police doing?” A note of anger sounded in her voice.
“They’re trying to find him,” Catherine said. “But it has something to do with a story I’m working on, and I’m the one who’s going to have to figure it out.” She slipped her hand free and patted the top of Marie’s hand. She could feel the quivering beneath the smooth, white skin, and she hurried on before Marie could say anything. “I need you to take care of Rex.”
Blood Memory Page 13