Hiram watches them for a moment, says, Good God. It must be my lucky day.
Both stop talking and turn to him. Pardon me? asks the woman.
Hiram nods and says in his best godlike baritone, Looks like I won the Lotto this morning.
The young reporter touches her hair and steps forward, holding a microphone out as if offering Hiram said prize. She asks if he's the owner.
Hiram smiles and answers, Guilty as charged.
Do you have any comment on the graffiti?
The bony cameraman shoulders his video equipment and trains the lens on Hiram, who does his best to wear a poker face, as if looking at a pair of deuces. Ezra's arrest distracted him from the words scrawled across the bars and windows of his pawnshop. He regards his ex- convenience- store- cum- pawnshop now with momentary shock, seeing a mess of freshly spray- painted accusations: Child Molester, Kidnapper, Pervertidor.
The red paint drips and dribbles bloody punctuation at the ends of letters, like horror- movie credits. It starts at the lower left- hand corner of the building, on the brick base, then splays across the iron window gates and makes dashes on the glass behind.
Hiram's face struggles to suppress any disgust or dismay, anger or outrage. He smooths his white hair at his temples and jingles the keys in his pockets. At his feet is a pulpy mess of French fries spilled from a white Wendy's bag. Weenie sniffs at it. Hiram steps aside and scrapes the mess from his cowboy boots. Looks like someone's been using my parking lot as a dump site, haven't they?
Hiram walks to the door and unlocks it, feeling the presence of the reporter and her sidekick behind him, Weenie at his heels. Does he have any idea why his shop would be targeted? Is it the work of street gangs? Who might be the "pervert" or "child molester" in his shop?
Hiram pauses before he steps inside. I have no idea what this is all about. He smiles into the camera. I'm just a tax- paying citizen whose shop has been vandalized.
The young Asian reporter starts to speak and he cuts her off. I'm sorry, you'll excuse me if I don't have more time to chat. He furrows his brow and frowns. It appears I'll have to research the whereabouts of a paint- removal specialist.
Inside the dark shop, Hiram's brain throbs from a sudden, sharp headache. Weenie's claws tap on the tile floor as she waddles to her doggy bed behind the counter. Hiram feels faint and short of breath, limps to the back office and, with trembling hands, removes a liter of Coca- Cola from the small refrigerator. He has to crouch to retrieve the bottle from the bottom shelf of the fridge, which is tucked between a pair of file cabinets below the counter.
He rises quickly, feeling a rush of blood to his brain. All goes black and dizzy. Hiram grips the counter and steadies himself until his vision comes back. The veins in his temple thud as he fixes himself a stiff drink of bourbon and Coke. The cool, syrupy taste warms his throat, coats it with an alcoholic afterburn. He watches through the window bars as outside the reporter speaks into her microphone, the cameraman recording, a crowd of onlookers gawking behind her, kids jumping and waving.
After Hiram manages to steady his breath, he comes to stand behind the gun counter. He tries to calculate just how deep this trouble is and to imagine how he's going to wreak his vengeance on Cousin Dipshit.
But who did this? Jack would never be that bold. He got someone else to do it for him? Perhaps. How would he entice others to do his dirty work? Does Preacher John Cole know anything about this little caper gone wrong?
When Gracie arrives a quarter hour before opening, Hiram Page is already on his fourth drink. She gives him a wary look as he stands there sipping from his plastic cup, as he calls out to her in an unnaturally loud and cheery voice, Well, don't you look ravishing this morning!
She frowns and asks about the reporters, the graffiti. Someone's trying to get back at you, Mr. Page.
The many disgruntleds, he says. Any idea who it is?
She goes about her business without a reply, putting her purse in the back office, where she keeps it during work hours, checking her makeup, arranging things by the checkout counter. Hiram weaves and burps, standing behind her. He tries to focus. The world is getting a bit fuzzy around the edges.
Pervert? he says. Well, I suppose I'm no angel, but that's going a bit far. Like Mae West said, I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.
Gracie asks would it be possible for her to leave early? Will Ezra be here today? She promised her daughter she would take her to the hospital. She's having an ultrasound to find out what her baby is. Hiram starts to make a joke about what the baby is today might be something different than what it will be tomorrow, but he holds his tongue.
It appears that my nephew has run afoul of the law, he says. In fact they had him in handcuffs when I pulled in this morning.
Gracie clicks her tongue. I don't know about that boy. I don't like the way he looks at Elena.
Yes, well, he's family. We have to look out for our own, don't we?
Hiram goes on to tell Gracie yes, she can leave early, even offering her an hour earlier than she asked, saying that way she won't have to be rushing around to get there on time. He's being extra nice. Gracie will remember this later, push comes to shove.
Any idea who might have done this artwork? he asks again.
Gracie shakes her head. Looks like somebody put el mal de ojo on you.
Late in the afternoon Hiram Page finds himself alone in the shop, feeding Weenie a doggy treat, when the biggest Indian he has ever seen enters carrying a bowling- ball bag. He's unsmiling and mean- ass- looking, wearing his long black hair in a ponytail, a death' s- head belt buckle, and black cowboy boots with metal toe ornaments the shape of longhorns. Hiram's hands start sweating as soon as he sees him.
Afternoon, friend. What can I do you for?
George Armstrong Crowfoot hefts the bag in the air, then sets it on the counter. I've got something you might be interested in.
Hiram gives Weenie a final rub and shoos her to the red- plaid pillow of her doggy bed.
Sorry, but I can't help you there. I've got a dozen already and it appears the bowling craze may have—
As he's talking Crowfoot unzips the bag and pulls out the withered human head.
Friend of mine told me this was the head of Black Jack Ketchum, famous outlaw hanged in New Mexico years ago. I don't buy it, but I figured pawnshops like oddities.
Hiram regards the head for a moment, even leans in close to get a better look without touching it.
I've seen that head before. A Mr. Rodriguez offered it to me.
When was that?
I don't recall.
You seen him lately?
Nope. Hiram gives Crowfoot an all- business smile. As I said before, I think I'll pass.
Crowfoot raises it in the air. You sure? You could place it on a pike. Wow the onlookers.
Sorry, pal. I said I'll pass.
Crowfoot shrugs and places the head back on the counter. Tell you what. I'll give you a minute to reconsider. I even have a price in mind. One thousand dollars.
Hiram scoffs. A thousand for that? Do I look stupid?
Crowfoot allows that perhaps they could barter. He says he'd like to look at the handguns.
Hiram squints at him and says, Easier said than done.
How so? You wouldn't be refusing my business, now, would you?
If you plan on purchasing a firearm, we'll have to do a background check first. Fill out some paperwork.
Humor me, says Crowfoot. He points at a Beretta beneath the glass counter. I like the look of that one.
The afternoon sunlight gushes through the jaundiced shop windows and fills the room with a golden glow. Hiram moves slowly to the gun counter and places the Beretta atop the display case.
Looks like you had a visit from the spray- can patrol last night, says Crowfoot.
Pardon me?
We got a joke name for you, says Crowfoot. He Who Sells Crap to Suckers. But now that's changed. Now you're the man who tells others to ste
al children for him. You're the man who owes me money.
I'm at a loss here. What's your name again?
You're a smart guy. Always quoting this and that. You know what this is about.
This what?
This visit. I came up with that figure of one thousand dollars because it's what you owe me.
For what?
For services rendered. My part in a cattle delivery I was never paid.
I tell you what, Hiram says, I won't call the authorities if you walk out the door while I'm still in a good mood.
Call them. Be my guest.
It's my shop. I have the right to refuse—
We can talk about how you tried to con some halfwit name of Jack Brown into kidnapping a little girl, daughter of a woman who spurned you. Out Red Creek Road. That's the story I hear. They might be interested to know a few of those details. 'Less you bought off so many of them the whole corral is in your pocket.
Well, that all sounds rather dastardly. It's the first I've heard of it.
Crowfoot twirls the Beretta and says, A lying man always denies the truth.
You think you know everything, don't you?
I know enough.
You must know who did this little mural on my storefront, then, don't you?
Crowfoot stares without blinking. You want to pin some vandalism on me? That's funny.
You're the one making threats here.
No threats. Crowfoot scratches his neck with the barrel of the gun. His high cheekbones and full lips give his face a fearless expression. He seems prepared to wait. I'm here on what you might call a last- chance mission, he adds. Thought you might appreciate knowing what you're dealing with.
You thought wrong.
I was the one stomped by a steer and left to my own devices. Now I'm back.
I've had enough of this. Hand me the gun and take a hike.
Be my guest. Crowfoot places the Beretta on the counter, then reaches behind his back and pulls out a similar pistol. I got my own anyways. He fishes in his pocket and brings out a small clip, slides it into the pistol. And I just happen to have a loaded clip right here.
Hiram stands still. I asked you to leave, he repeats.
I asked for the thousand you owe me.
In what could be his last moments among the realm of the living, Hiram Page experiences a twinge of guilt and remorse, a sense that things have taken a wrong turn, he's miscalculated the variables. He puts his hands on the counter, an attitude of submission.
Looks like you've got me. But we've all got something. I've got two wives and three children, another one on the way. You want to spend years in prison, writing "I'm sorry" letters to those orphans?
His rich Gregory Peck voice quavers as he speaks. The world is turning too fast. There's no time to think. He stares at Crowfoot, who holds the loaded gun with the barrel pointed toward the ceiling, until finally he drops his gaze.
I'm locking up, he says. You do what you're going to do. Me, I got kids to feed.
Here, says Crowfoot. He offers the pistol in his wide hand, fingers splayed, palm up. If you think that's the difference between us, you can have it. You could shoot me right here. Say I was robbing you.
I could, says Hiram. He can feel his hands shaking, his palms slick with sweat.
But you won't. You're chicken.
Don't tempt me.
I want that grand, adds Crowfoot. It's what I'm owed.
Hiram goes to his cash register, turns a key, the drawer pops open. He counts out ten twenties and places them on the counter in front of Crowfoot. That's two hundred, he says. All I have on hand at the moment. And then we're even.
Crowfoot picks up the money and flings it in Page's face. What do you think I am, stupid? You owe me a grand. I know where you live. Little Pueblo, right? You got little pissant guards protecting those pretty wives? I bet they're lonesome in the daytime.
Hiram turns and heads to the back office, opens the wire- mesh gate door. Behind him he hears the sound of Crowfoot's boots on the tile floor, the jingle of the front door opening. Hiram enters the office cage and closes it, the clang ringing unnaturally loud in the empty pawnshop. He resists the impulse to duck and hide.
He has some dignity left. It may be tiny. It may be meaningless. But he's not diving beneath the desk like a frightened child. Not after the man just gave him the chance to take the pistol outright.
In his cage in the now silent shop, the bottle of bourbon is golden and lovely, like a flask that holds an elixir that offers eternal life. He fills a shot glass and gulps as if it's his last drop. When he can't stand the suspense any longer, he peers behind a pillar and through the wire mesh. Crowfoot is gone.
Hiram Page notices his hands are still shaking. On the counter sits the head of an infamous outlaw or more likely Morris Dinwoody, a world- class nobody, the lipless mouth gaping wide to show its awful teeth.
By the third jigger of whiskey Page's nerves have calmed. A hot mist fills his mouth as he collects the twenties off the floor and returns them to the cash register. He puts Weenie in the crook of his arm and scratches her floppy dog ears, douses the lights, and steps outside into a chilly November dusk in this dilapidated edge of Mexican town. He heads toward his pickup, fishing the keys from his pocket. As he backs out of the parking lot, he can't help but stare at the spray- painted legend of accusations, a wave of shame washing through him, realizing too many people know his blackest heart, too many to strike back at or wish away.
No matter: All will pass with time. He has another gulp of whiskey from his silver flask as he fiddles with his radio. He's going home to his wives, one of whom is going to have another baby.
God will forgive. It's his job.
Hiram drives past a used- car lot where an enormous inflatable yellow gorilla sits, tethered by guy wires. The wind sings in his windows. He floats and drifts and forgets he's at the wheel. This too shall pass. There's always time. Time to make up for mistakes, to turn over that proverbial new leaf. Everything happens to everybody sooner or later if there is enough time. Time is but the stream I go a- fishing in.
By the intersection of Pueblo Boulevard and Thatcher Avenue, he's talking to himself, quoting this and that, forgetful of what he's doing, lost in his labyrinthine mind full of blind back- alley deals and Indians with tomahawks, preachers' daughters and deadbeat cousins.
The next thing he knows the airbag explodes in his face, the world turns over and over and over. He comes to upside down, the inflated airbag jamming his neck against the head rest. Outside his window all he can see is grass and dirt. The truck's alarm blares. The warm, wet feel of blood on his face. He struggles to move. From above him somewhere a voice calls out, Hey, mister! You all right? Are you all right in there?
He tries to speak but no sound comes out. I'm okay, he tries to say. I'm okay.
He hears a soft whimpering, feels the warm, wet touch of Weenie's tongue licking his neck.
Any minute now, he'll get out of this jam.
R u b y a s k s W a r d to dig Lord God's grave in the backyard. He wanted to rest close to home, she says. He showed me a place near the corner of the fence, behind the woodshed. The ground's kind of hard there, but that's where he wanted. There's a shovel in the woodshed.
Softly Ward tells her that's not legal. There are laws about the removal of the dead. He'll need a death certificate, a county- approved method of interment. Usually it's a cemetery or cremation.
He didn't want any of that. He wanted me to bury him there in the yard and I plan to do it, do what he wants.
Ward shrugs. With the fever across the country, maybe what one family does won't matter.
The morning sky is pink and hazy. Ward must leap onto the shovel blade with both heels to loosen the baked- dry topsoil. At first he wears a gauze mask to keep the dust out of his mouth, but he can't catch his breath and pulls it off. By the time he gets halfway, three feet down, his back burns and his hands are blistered. He stumbles once and brushes against a cactus,
impaling his leg with a cluster of spines. It hurts to stand upright when he has to pitch the dirt out of the grave and onto the mound. The wind keeps blowing it back into the hole. He has to keep at it, can't rest or come back to finish it later.
Ruby brings him a sandwich for lunch and says she's sorry. I appreciate you doing this, she adds. I don't know what I'd do without you.
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