Paula got a job as a bartender at a punk rock club, which she loved, and at a chain restaurants’ lounge, which she hated. She pocketed money freely from the franchise and, as she had always done, when a purse went unattended, she took the cash from it. Her theft grew more wonton at the chain restaurant and although they had no proof of her pocketing money, they let Paula go.
On her last day, she used her shift breaks to save employee information on a USB drive. The girls now had a warehouse of information to create identities with and apply for credit under. Through that winter, they built false identifications into useable identities and applied for credit cards, lines of credit and loans, pulling cash, eventually buying jewelry, clothes, and in the spring, a small condominium unit they shared.
They filled safety deposit boxes with jewelry and cash. They used fake credit cards to shop, Paula in a green leopard print Von Furstenberg dress, her black hair in dreadlocks, walking the mall with headphones on. Their complexions allowed them to pass with false identities on multiple ethnic backgrounds. They chose Spanish or Italian sounding names that seemed glamorous, Isabella Espinoza, Magdalena Bellini. They hit the town, partying hard. Tiffany continued to work despite the wealth she was building. While waitressing the lucrative brunch scene, she met Tala Vahedi.
“Oh my, how have you been?” A regular who often dined alone or with a single friend, the woman had started a conversation with Tiffany, believing her to be her daughter’s friend, her daughter having left for college some time ago.
“You’re not even Persian American?” Tala Vahedi asked.
“I’m white and Shoshone. I come from Wind River,” Tiffany said flatly.
American Indian culture fascinated Tala Vahedi. The two began to talk, at first about clothes and city life but also about Tala’s daughter, whom she missed dearly.
Tala Vahedi came to the restaurant more often, and slowly, Tiffany began to get to know her, and have a wine with her after her shift. Over time, the two would shop but mostly walk and talk. The older woman Vahedi had an encyclopedic knowledge of jewelry, linens, fabrics, tableware and cosmetics. On instruments of femininity, Tala Vahedi was a master, and she shared her wisdom with the younger woman.
One day she said, “You may not believe it but I’ve been by Wind River a few times.”
“Really, I don’t believe it, why?”
“My husband bought us a ranch house at Jackson Hole. He tried to make me ski. Can you imagine? We have not been there in ages; I really do not like the wilderness. Would you like to stay there some time?”
“Yes,” said Tiffany Oldman. “I want to go to Jackson and see my brother Barney.”
Before going to the Vahedi estate at Wilson, Tiffany created an I.D. based on the names of friends of Vahedi’s daughter, and chose to name herself Avina Zadeh. She took a serving job at the White Buffalo in Teton village. A young woman who is idle only gets in trouble, Vahedi said. Then, one day at brunch, Catherine Kinderdine entered the restaurant, radiating life like a young queen, sat at table alone, and smiled at Avina.
57.
Swindle Vetch took three more Budweiser from the half-sized refrigerator and brought them out to the green-carpeted living room.
The trailer pointed at an asphalted side street and the street was quiet. Several nearby structures were unoccupied and trailer homes scattered through the small park were meagre. Swindle Vetch handed a beer to Donald Swain who sat swaying back and forth on a rocking chair abandoned on the street when someone left town in a rush.
Heavy Dunbar sat broad and deep chested on the frayed green sofa beneath the bay window at the trailer’s end, and watched Swain work himself back and forth in the chair. He said,
“Well Mr. Swain, you’ve been a real help to us up here. We’re branching out to more resort towns like Jackson and we can’t do it without good help. It’s not muscle we need in our people, its loyalty.”
Donald Swain smiled and his eyes were large and he looked at Vetch and looked back at Heavy, nodding.
Heavy cocked his head to the side and laid his large arms along the back of the sofa in a willfully casual posture.
“The Jackals need to grow in order to survive but we can only grow by adding new members that we can count on.”
“Yes sir.”
“You’ve been on some trips now with the big trucks and that’s a risk, especially given that you did hard federal time already.”
“I sure did,” a smile rose across Swain’s broad mouth.
Heavy continued, “And you’ve lived a life on the road with only your bike to call your own, more or less. You’ve been a strike and a prospect for the Jackals now for a bit and we think we could use you around a lot more. You could be of use to us.”
Donald Swain looked at Vetch and looked back at Heavy; he took a long draught from his beer.
Swindle Vetch watched Donald Swain, watched his eyes move around while Heavy spoke in encouraging tones, about becoming a full patch member, of realizing his dream of being a 1% member of a real outlaw club, of becoming a Jackal. There was excitement in the man’s lively eyes.
“We have it planned out for you Donald Swain,” Heavy said, leaning forward, his fleshy elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. “Tonight, at the garage, we have a party planned for you. We are patching you in as a full member of the Jackals Outlaw Club of Denver.”
“Well, I’ll be dammed!” Swain raised his voice, set his beers down, and leaned back in the rocking chair. “My own patch as a Jackal and a party for little old me!” he said.
Donald Swain looked up at the roof and around down with his head cocked at the two men, shaking his head with boyish wonder. The serenity in Swain’s eyes made him seem like a very different man, it was an instant change, and it struck Vetch how abruptly the man was suddenly someone else. Swain cocked his head returning Vetch’s stare and the two men held one another’s gaze. Swain’s eyes did not dart around like Vetch thought they did, the dark pupils were still as glass. The man was calm, composed. Swain kept his eyes on Vetch until Vetch looked at Heavy.
Heavy spoke next, “there is a tradition with the Jackals, we have a little gauntlet to put you through, it’s part of the patching in ceremony that guarantees you to be trustworthy, that you can be counted on, that you won’t sing on other Jackals and that you’d rather die than give a brother up. Are you prepared to prove yourself son?”
“Yes sir, you better believe I am.”
Swain slowly wiped his hands along the thighs of his jeans. “You just let me know what y’ all need,” he said. The Oklahoma was fully in his voice for the first time.
“Tell him Swindle,” said Heavy and the large man leaned back on the sofa beneath the foil window and placed his big boots onto the table. Powerfully built, Heavy sank down into the worn sofa, relaxing with the knowledge that the time to end this was near.
“We got some treats for you at the garage, and some of the good old boys have made the trip up to welcome you into the Club. We’re gonna drink you in. We have a real party planned for you.”
Swain nodded up and down in approval. “I’m real proud.” He leaned back as though to savor the occasion.
“There are a few things that every Jackal has to do before we add the rocker onto his vest.” Heavy imposed his large body forward and clasped his palms together before him.
“You gotta come clean to us son.”
Swain glanced at Vetch and then back at the big man.
“Every Jackal has to tell his full story to the Sergeant-at-arms to be verified as trustworthy, to become one percent, to start new as a pledged member of the tribe. That way, we know your story. That way, what you see about us, should you see something over the years, well, it’s just equaled up with what we already know about you,” said Vetch.
“No jackal tells stories to non-Jackals, but there are no secrets among us. We have to know every new Jackal’s full story, because you’re gonna know ours,” Heavy said.
“I understand. No
secrets among brothers.”
“That’s right,” said Vetch leaning forward. “You gotta come clean to us about anything we should know that you did, because you’re gonna have plenty of valuable information about your brothers in the years to come. It’s a trade off every Jackal makes. Trust is based on transparency,” Swindle Vetch said.
“Trust is based on transparency. I like that turn of phrase,” Swain said.
“You tell us what burdens your soul, because you’re gonna come to know plenty about us over the years,” Heavy said.
“Well hell” Swain said. “There ain’t no problem there for me!” he pressed a can of beer between his knees and rubbed his hands together as if in anticipation of a gift, “y’ all already know all there is to know about me. What you see here is what you get.”
The other two men laughed. “Every jackal starts out by coming clean Donald, by sharing what rides inside.” Heavy made a slow gesture, his large finger pointed across the table at Swain’s chest.
“Well, I transported plenty of your precious ice up here.”
“Have you ever done intravenous drugs Donald?”
“No sir.”
“Good,” said Heavy. “A man who gets addicted to such a thing defiles himself as a man and beyond that, he becomes a weakling that cannot withstand interrogation, and he disgraces his brotherhood. For some smack, a junkie will tell the feds any damn thing that comes to mind. He’d sell his own mother to get out of a box.”
“A junkie cannot do business. Cannot be trusted,” Swindle Vetch said in agreement.
“Yessir, but that ain’t any issue for me.” Swain looked the two men over.
Heavy continued, “Donald, we have to ask you a question that every Jackal must answer fully to get his rocker and patch.”
Swain nodded in agreement, rocking back and forth in his chair, calm.
“Have you ever taken a human life Donald?”
Swain began to settle in more now, his rocking slowed.
Vetch watched his reaction to the question and his movements became slower, as though he were finally beginning to understand what they asked of him. Leaning back in his chair, his breathing slowed and steadied, realization crossed his face, and gave them a broad smile.
Heavy said, “Tell us what you been up to so that we can trust you. No judgments, but that way, all there is to know is out on the table and we can move forward as brothers, as a tribe, and we’ll get in that truck right now and go meet the boys and start the process of patching you in as a fully protected, vouched for member. You’ll never walk alone again. You’ll never go to a prison again without the best defense money can pay for. They’ll never be able to strap you to a damn slab again. Not once you’ve come clean to us.”
“Fire away,” Donald Swain said. “What do y’ all want to hear?”
Heavy looked to Swindle Vetch. Vetch said, “Tell us all about the black haired girl from the Nite Ride Saloon.”
The men studied one another for a moment.
Vetch broke the silence, forced a smile and raised his voice as though to laugh and said, “tell us about the girl you took up that hill and what you had planned for her and then we will tell you what we’ve done our own selves.”
Silence stood in the room. Vetch studied Swain’s eyes, they reinforced for him that Swain had changed. He wasn’t who they thought he was.
Heavy said, “We can’t sit here all night. I’ll tell you first about something you could not possibly know, as an offer of trust. In 1986, I killed a man named Michael Ray Ross, a snitch working for the feds to build federal cases on bikers as some type of go-between, we took him into the foothills, we shot him, and I dug a hole and buried him as simple as that. They never did find his body. Shit, you know, looking back, he was no more than twenty-two or twenty-three. I wasn’t much older than that myself.”
Heavy waited for the other to begin, for Swain to tell the story of how the black haired girl died that night. Swindle Vetch swallowed hard. Donald Swain was perfectly calm and comfortable in the silence. This wouldn’t be so easy.
Swindle had never been present for a murder. The thought made his forehead bead with sweat, he wanted it to be over, he wanted the man to confess, so they could get him in the truck to take him to the garage, and then make a quick stop at the construction office. Heavy would put a bullet in his head when he stepped out of the truck. Finally, they could toss his ass in a hole, pour cement over him, and never think about him again.
“We don’t care about any skin beef Donald. Young girls, that’s a helluva hobby, but that’s your thing man, and that’s cool, if that’s what you’re into, but you can’t keep it from us if you’re gonna be a brother. You need to come clean, son.”
Swain slapped his knees and rubbed his thighs. “Well then, get comfy boys, because that story is quite a tale.” The three men laughed. Swain stood up and said, “Let me grab some more of these beers, you’re gonna need a cool one for this, because it’s a hellish tale when I begin at the beginning, and for my new brothers, I’ll take you through the whole ordeal.” He stood and turned out of the small living room.
Swindle Vetch looked at the big man on the sofa, rolled his eyes and wiped his brow, already fatigued, he said softly, “I’m looking forward to getting to the site office, so we can be done with all this.” He was tired but relieved, finally comfortable with the idea of getting rid of Swain forever. It was worth the risk. When the story about the black haired girl was over, he’d be ready to do it himself, more than ready to help bury the bastard. Rare to kill a man and keep a pure conscience afterward, he guessed.
Donald Swain re-entered the room wearing a Wolf headdress with fur curling around his shoulders. With brisk strides past the broken down kitchenette into the living room, he raised a long Colt Navy pistol and released a deafening clap of flame into the room. He was above the other men instantly in a cloud of metallic smoke.
Swindle Vetch jumped off the armchair but landed back down on an armrest tipping it onto the floor. Donald Swain released a second deafening crack of the pistol and a second round slammed into Heavy’s head and continued through the bay window. As if drawn in its wake, Heavy’s head caved off to the side. Blood ran down the silver foil. Swindle Vetch leapt off the ground, but Swain drove him into the wall with a vice-like grasp of his throat and brought the wooden butt of the old pistol down onto Vetch’s forehead. He dropped to his knees. Vetch’s hand flew to the opened gash while his eyes flew to Heavy. Blue smoke swirled around the large man’s demolished head and pulled out through the smashed window, the lifeless body sitting heavier than ever in the deep sofa. Swindle shrieked. Dogs barked and howled at trailers up and down the small park. Swain paced back and forth in the middle of the narrow trailer as Vetch walked on his knees toward him, his hands raised high above his head, screaming that he wouldn’t tell; he wouldn’t tell. He breathed pleadings and sobbed. Swain stepped toward him and placed the muzzle of the long pistol to his forehead as Vetch scrambled backward—until there was nowhere else to go. With the muzzle of the old Colt, Swain pushed his head back against the trailer wall. The loud crack shook the frail dwelling, and skull and brain debris specked a hole blown through the wall.
Donald Swain walked back down the narrow hall to a closet, pulled out a bottle of lighter fuel and squeezed it over the two dead men, and then threw wooden matches onto the filthy floor until one caught and flames rolled over the tin room. He threw the bottle of lighter fluid onto Heavy’s broad stomach.
The screen door banged against the trailer as he walked out into the clear brightness of the day.
58.
By her open driver window, teenaged girls gossiped in hushed voices, sharing some secret, winding in and out of families on the boardwalk. They reappeared on the street jaywalking through cars lined up at a red light holding fruit smoothie drinks from a franchised hut. Their hair, long and straightened with hot irons, shimmered in the midday light. They revealed their youthful bodies in tightfitting yoga pants or
very short shorts and tank tops. A fourth girl followed along, scrolling through a smart phone. They disappeared into the groups of tourists jostling to get pictures taken beneath the elk antler arches at the entrance to the town square.
Brouwer left town center through crowded streets, squawking her siren for pedestrians to move. She approached highway patrol units and could see the captain’s sizeable frame standing alongside his car. As he waved her in behind him, her radio began to bark with the voice of a dispatcher. The captain grabbed his collar radio. There was gunfire at the trailer park, flames towered the tin roofs, and a tall wolf was walking down the street with an assault rifle.
Her siren screamed into the summer day.
Highway patrol units continued ahead to take position at the exit to the rodeo grounds at the old exhibition. Children in football equipment stood in the field along Snow King Avenue and watched the patrol cars fly by on the elevated black top above them. She left the avenue and bounced down into the unpaved back entrance to the fair grounds. Grandstands and riding circles whipped past her, snow king mountain a blur of deep green to her side, she took her truck in between the rodeo rings, stables and barns and kept the town to her back, keeping herself between the gunman and the town itself.
Highway Patrol had moments to decide on a course of action and take it and she could see immediately that it wouldn’t go the way they had planned. A motorcycle left the shooting at the trailer park, loud exhaust quaking aluminum homes, gunfire echoing, the tiny park a blazing inferno, the chaos of first responders calling out in confused yelling across the radios. While fire and ambulance units descended on the confused trailer park in a cacophony of sirens, the sheriff and county police were at the Jackal’s garage, hoping to intercept Swain there.
She rattled her jeep hard across the sagebrush, hard onto the seat down a dip and then up an incline toward a berm and down a grade to approach the back of the barns. She saw him. The motorcycle spun from the black mouth of a storage bay toward the barns and stables, toward Snow King Avenue and the Interstate.
Dream of the Wolf Page 26