Yellow Medicine

by Anthony Neil Smith

  The kid did his James Dean shrug again, said, “Fuck you, I don’t wanna.”

  I pulled my hands out of my pockets, cracked my knuckles. Innocent enough, but Ian freaked.

  “Why can’t you leave me alone? Don’t track them down, let me handle things. You’ll just get me killed.”

  “Dude, I’ve kept you from getting killed once or twice already. I’m your de facto bodyguard. Better to be under my wing than a worm I’m aiming for.”

  He squirmed, looking around and over his shoulder and I wondered what this would look like if a security guard happened to round the corner at just the right moment. I’d have to tell him I suspected the kid was keestering drugs.

  Eventually he stood, sighing and jerking his body, like that would make me call it off. He turned around, unbuckled, and thumbed his waistband down far enough to let me see the bandage. Pants were so baggy I wondered how he kept them on at all.

  “I need to see the mark. It’ll be like a fingerprint, you know.”

  He said, “Gaaawd” and peeled the adhesive off. The skin was charred, leaking yellow, and the area surrounding it was red and puffy. What Drew took to be an “F” looked more like a Chinese symbol, and it was resting in a waning quarter moon. I didn’t get it—not a ranch symbol. I had a hunch, though. Made my stomach drop. Needed to do a little research.

  “Zip up. Listen, I’ll need to take a photo later.”

  “Do you really—”

  “Sorry.” Quiet. “Really, I’m sorry.”

  Shrug. “’S okay.”

  We let the gusts shove us around. I felt bad for him once I saw it, but not enough to ease up. He was still a petty troublemaker who was lying to a woman I’d die for, getting mixed up with outsiders who knew how to outflank me, and who caused the death of a good informant. If I hadn’t promised Drew, I’d have thrown the kid in jail for a couple weeks. Maybe she would have preferred that, too. At least then we’d have known where he was sleeping.

  “All right. Stay put. I’ll be back tonight at eight. Be here.”

  “Out here?” He looked around.

  “Just, here, on campus. One of those two dorms. Okay? Drew will let you know when I’m coming.”

  Ian cringed at her name. “Promise you won’t tell her, man. It’s one little mistake, you know. I’m under a lot of pressure.”

  I wiped the frost off my mustache. So whiny, the young folks these days. Nothing’s ever their fault. “Men don’t rat out other men. You break her heart, though, I come after you.”

  He slumped, pulled the sweater’s hoodie over his crown, and started towards the girls’ dorm.

  “Where are you going?”

  He spun. “Back to Heather’s.”

  I shook my head, pointed towards the first res hall I tried. “Back to your own kind. No coed hideout for you.”

  “Give me a break. Why not?” Then he figured it out. “Shit, man, you weren’t serious.”

  My finger still outstretched towards the men’s dorm. A statue. Tried not to grin.

  He finally got the message and stormed off. “Unbelievable. No fair. No fair at all.”

  However pissed Ian was at me, at least he understood that I was in charge. I expected no fight from him later on. It would keep him safe, I hoped.

  *

  The difference between my love for Drew and Ian’s was that she didn’t feel the same way about me. Somehow he’d risen to the top of her affections in spite of all the obvious warning signs. Coming to me to protect him, that’s a big act of love. Agreeing to a night with me she didn’t want as payment—I couldn’t accept that. Drew needed to want me freely, her whole heart in it, in order for me take her again. I’d kill for her, but I wouldn’t fuck her. Well, not unless she asked me to.

  I didn’t knock on Heather’s door this time. I tried the handle. Still unlocked. I stepped inside. She was lying on the bed, same clothes, her bare feet crossed at the ankles. Staring at the ceiling. I went to her and sat down, ran my longest finger along her leg, traced the tattoo on her ankle.

  “Have you considered your options?”

  She turned her face to me. “I can’t believe you. Is this how you get your kicks?”

  I swirled my fingertips on her T-shirt. She flinched. I made a move to the bottom of her shirt, slipped under. Her skin was warm.

  “I don’t think the punishment for this sort of thing fits the crime. Why ruin your college career over something that should be legal anyway?”

  She propped on her elbows. “Exactly. See?”

  “I couldn’t do that to you. I’d be a hypocrite.”

  Her expression brightened like spring sun on her face. “A little pot never hurt anyone. Mild stuff.”

  Aw, yeah. There it was. Hope. She saw light at the end of the tunnel.

  Too bad the train was coming.

  “Wish I could overlook it. But the law is the law.”

  The bright face went sour. “Please, I’m sorry and all. Can’t you forget about it?

  I grinned. “Sorry, it’s part of the deal.”

  “I don’t mean to be like this. I’m just having fun. God, I’m only, like, nineteen, you know? I promise I won’t do it again.”

  Her voice rattled like ice cubes in a glass. Fear all over her. Jesus, I’d read all the signs wrong, thought she would be into it. What the hell was I doing?

  I scooted down to the end of the bed, my hand trailing down her leg. I could have done it if I wanted. Really. She would have liked it, too. I remembered Drew on her prom night, the way everything seemed natural between us, the way she played with the radio in the cruiser while her boyfriend stewed in the backseat. I never felt one moment of resistance or fear from her. I’d fooled myself into thinking it was about the badge, the gun. Chicks dug that shit.

  Not this one. And I didn’t want to be that guy after all.

  I stood, said, “Give me the pot.”

  Heather’s face relaxed some, and she reached for a stuffed yellow and green dragon on her bedside table, shoved two fingers inside its mouth, and brought back a sandwich baggie with hardly enough marijuana for two or three more joints. I took it from her, started to close my hand around it, then changed my mind.

  “I’m not going to take it. I almost did. I’m just saying be careful, okay?”

  She nodded, her head hunched against her shoulders. “What…what about…you know?”

  I grinned, took a step back. “As long as you don’t tell Ian, I suppose we can let it slide. As far as anyone else is concerned, I just fucked you fiercely, darlin’.”

  I left the room in a hurry. I didn’t want to think about what I was missing under Heather’s skirt. Instead, I pictured Drew on stage, the lights on her face, bass slung low. My punk rock baby. Took the steps two a time until the wind bit into me as good as any cold shower. The only time I’d ever been grateful for that bitter fucking wind.

  SIX

  Yellow Medicine County was named after the root of the moon seed plant, something the Indians used for, you guessed it, medicine. With so much Indian heritage and history out here, obvious in the names of towns, counties, rivers, and lakes, you’d think things would be pretty cozy between Native Americans and the descendants of Norse Vikings. But my first few weeks in Minnesota, it was a little shocking to find so much racism towards the Sioux. Down South, it’s an honor to say you have Indian blood in you. Here, there’s tension over land, money, entitlements, education, heritage, dating, you name it. Not as subtle as the white/black line in Mississippi, where everyone has to live and work with each other every day, much more so than the Scandinavians and the Sioux.

  I wasn’t trying to make the world a better place, except for myself and my children—you better know I sent those checks every month—and once I knew about the racial pressure cooker, it made sense to exploit it. I learned which band leaders could use a little cooperation or appreciate a blind eye. I was able to get the inside scoop on all the players on both sides, a good ref enforcing the ground rules but willing to le
t things slide since it’s a rough game and all. But one flagrant violation gained the offender a severe penalty.

  Even after a year and a half, it felt as if I was missing something. Somehow being blocked from seeing the real game. I couldn’t quite understand it at first until it hit me that I was still thinking like a Southerner, all casual and charming. The Minnesotans were layered, masterminds of playing politics, dual-operators. All that chit-chat about the weather? The way you answer helps them figure you out. Cold repressed sons of bitches. Whoever coined the term “Minnesota Nice” must have never been around truly nice people, raised by a family of killers or something. Friendly on the surface, but it was forced. The only “nice” I’d seen was from the women I fucked, and even then it was obvious they were hiding something.

  At the same time, the whole state was pretty goofy. These people held the world record for “Most People Doing a Cartwheel”. They sculpted a beauty pageant winner’s head from a big block of butter. They really liked food on a stick. They deified Garrison Keillor, for Christ’s sake.

  Said all that to say this: I still had a lot to learn, I had to be very careful, and sometimes I tripped over my ego.

  The sheriff asked to see me before I started my shift. Graham had been Chief Deputy for three years before the good citizens voted him into office. And pretty young for the job at thirty-seven considering the two previous sheriffs had each held the post over twenty years—started in their fifties. One guy had been stone deaf the last year of his term but faked hearing, none the wiser until he didn’t turn around when his son tossed a chunk of firewood at him, put him in a coma. So my brother-in-law was a soft-hearted evangelical peace officer who thought I was a reckless liability.

  I thought he was a pussy.

  He brought me a coffee with too much cream in it—he liked to fix his own instead of asking Layla—and then took his chair. The desk was arranged to soften you up, with his wife and two children smiling from framed photos. My niece looked like an angel in the family photo, but outside of the house I’d caught her dressing way too sexy for fifteen, meeting up with college boys. My nephew, seventeen, was in a Christian rock band. Jesus, what a horror show.

  “How’s it going? Done any more work on the house?”

  I shook my head. “Maybe I’m not the DIY type after all. Still like to try, though.”

  “You ever need a hand for painting, carpentry, let me know. George and I could help out. Maybe even get Layla and Kirk, make a day of it.”

  Aw, how about that? He wanted to be my brother for real. Yeah, sure. He just wanted me close, wanted me to trust him. Like I had a new family or something—George was his second-in-charge, a nice enough guy, liked to dress well but still a hard-bitten country guy. Layla’s husband Kirk was also worth bringing along for a fishing trip, although I preferred my way of doing things to theirs. Our one and only ice fishing trip together was the least “fishing” I’d ever seen.

  I could enjoy their company for a few hours, sure, but I didn’t see how I’d ever really fit in. Not that I had to with Minnesotans. We drank beer, we watched a game, we complained about politics, especially when they found out I wasn’t voting for their team.

  I said, “Sure, I’ll let you know.”

  He hovered over the desk, finally resting on his elbows, one hand covering the other. His Mac laptop was closed, pushed off to the side. No papers on his desktop at all.

  “Billy, I heard that you had a suspect on his knees off the shoulder of the highway last night. Had your sidearm out, too. I checked this morning for your report but it doesn’t appear to have been filed yet. Plus, there’s no record of you logging someone in to the holding area.”

  He waited, expecting me to jump in and defend myself. Half the fun was having him do all the work. The choir boy hated confrontation. He liked spontaneous confession so much better. Cleansing souls and all. I told him, “So?”

  “Was my witness correct? Did you threaten a suspect last night and then not bring him in?” Lines of concern around his eyes.

  Time to let him off the hook. “It was a courtesy for Terrell Rome at the casino. He had a drunk who needed a ride home, and I wasn’t busy.”

  “That’s not really our jurisdiction.”

  I let out a long breath. “You should have seen the guy, though. Puking on himself, bumping into walls. I just wanted to get him home safely. We stopped on the way because he was feeling ill, vomiting in the car. Did Layla mention that? She told me to clean it out myself.”

  Graham had pulled a small notebook from his desk drawer and a goddamn fancy pen, took notes. He was thinking I would be more apt to tell the truth if I thought he might check up on me. But Layla would lie for me. We hit it off nicely. She liked the way I saw the world. Plus, her husband and I could talk cars and war movies all day long.

  “Keep going,” he said.

  “Not much more to it. I brought him outside, let him finish, and then took him home.”

  “Was he handcuffed?”

  It was that truck driver from the electric company. I’d have to look him up, see if he had any secrets. “No sir. He was just a drunk man needing a ride. I felt some pity. You might even know him. A doctor who works down in Marshall.”

  Something in Graham wanted to ask. He would love to hear the gossip, would love to question the man and see if our stories were the same. To do that, though, would stain his dignity. Even if he could check my story with Hulka, he knew the good doctor would keep his mouth shut. Not worth the embarrassment, not in small towns like ours.

  Graham tapped his pen on the pad. A flat sound. Chinese water torture. Other men might be willing to confess just to fill the air with any other sound. He finally sighed and said, “We’re not a taxi service. Next time tell the fine folks at the casino to arrange other modes of transportation unless it’s an emergency, will you?”

  “Got it.”

  “And file reports, even for favors.”

  I nodded, waited. This wasn’t the only reason he called me in, right? I expected him to tell me they’d found Trigger and Spaceman’s bodies. He knew I kept track of the meth activity around here. My references all agreed that my specialty was being able to think like a dealer, like a businessman. Like a gangsta.

  “Something else, Billy?”

  Or maybe I should be the one to tell him. Redeem myself before the whole world came crashing down in some sort of turf war where I try to be a one-man army. Better to get all the county’s law enforcement involved. Protect our citizens from the scum of the earth, the demons looking to damn the souls of our children.

  Too bad I’d lost my soul in a hurricane.

  “No. Nothing. Just thinking we should get lunch one day this week.”

  “I’d like that. Let’s try for Thursday.”

  I rose from the chair and gave him a thumbs-up. “You got it.”

  He wrote it on his pad. “Heard from Ham and Savannah lately?”

  So word had gotten back about my latest late night drunk call. I’m sure he meant well, but it stung. He thought it part of his duty to keep me in line if Ginny complained. Son of a bitch.

  I answered on my way out the door. “Wouldn’t want to disturb their sleep.”

  *

  On my way out I sat on the edge of Layla’s desk while she talked to her husband on the phone and flipped through a Motor Trend. She and her husband collected old sports cars, restored and sold some of them. I think she only had the job because she liked the guns.

  I said, “You remember me calling in about my passenger last night, right?”

  She gave me The Look over the top of her glasses, then said to Kirk, “Just Billy. He’s up to no good.”

  I held my hand to my chest, tried to look wounded.

  She said, “The sheriff knows who it was?”

  I shook my head. “Don’t think that’s any of his business.”

  “Okay, I can agree with that.” She winked at me.

  “Thanks doll. Tell that husband of yours he’l
l have to fight me for you one day.”

  “Fuck off, prick.”

  On the way to my car, I heard someone else in the parking lot call my name. I looked over, saw Nathan Eberle coming my way. We started here about the same time, but he was a lot younger, fresh out of college. A scrappy little go-getter. His greenness got on my nerves, but I’d ridden with him a few times, tried to instill a bit of my policing philosophy in him. He didn’t seem to approve. More like Graham than me. Still, good to have along when I didn’t feel like fishing alone.

  “Afternoon, Nate. Just getting off shift?”

  “Couple more hours.” Skinny kid. A meth dealer could probably break him in half. I hoped he would at least take my advice on shooting his perp in the leg if it looked like things might get frisky. He said, “Almost time to hit the river, right? Reel a few in?”

  I let out a sigh. “You’d better not be talking about ice fishing, for Christ’s sake.”

  Nate and everyone else had heard my bitching and moaning about that trip. He laughed. “What, this still too cold for you? Another two or three weeks, I’d say the ice will be gone. I’ve got a canoe.”

  “We’ll see. You guys still have thicker blood than mine.”

  “You can wear a coat or two.” Kid was fucking with me, I swear.

  Shook my head as I opened the door to my cruiser. “At least I can get laid, young man.”

  *

  I went to see Spaceman’s mom, but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to let her know he was dead yet. I wanted to see the bodies myself, but I imagined the Asians had already gotten rid of the evidence. At least no one had found them so far. It was probably guilt that led me to see her, thinking of how I’d let these guys keep up their business for selfish reasons. They were stupid enough to think my invulnerability had rubbed off on them. Soon as Ian told me they were dead, my stomach ached.

  His mom was named Sheryl and she worked at the local diner in Pale Falls. Most mornings you’d find the old men in town at the horseshoe breakfast counter betting dimes on the roll of a die. They didn’t say much. When they did it was so thickly accented that I couldn’t make it out. The breakfasts were tasteless, the sausage like cardboard, and hash browns never a convincing substitute for buttery grits. The coffee, well, I started bringing my own. The other half of the joint was a sit-down restaurant that hadn’t been changed since it opened—tables, chairs, overhead lights, all stuck on “1963”. The salad bar was suspicious. I swear I’ve never seen anyone touch it, but it was always only half-full.