An Obvious Fact (10 page)

“Well, congratulations.”

“For what?”

“Winning.”

“Is that what I'm doing?” He stood, still holding the half-full bottle of cheap champagne, and, puffing on his cigar, walked toward the hill.

I studied him for a good long time and then figured if he wanted to really talk he'd get around to it on his own. I glanced over at Jamey, who was quietly packing up his tools and trying his best to appear uninterested. “When is the Show and Shine?”

He stopped working and smiled. “Noon, over in Sturgis near the Bucket of Blood Saloon.”

“Then I guess we'd better get going.”

I helped Jamey load up the tools, paraphernalia, and the
KTM, and we strapped it down on the trailer as Henry continued to study the hill.

Maybe it didn't have anything to do with Lola. Maybe it was just what happens when you finally get something you want and it turns out not to be what you wanted after all. You spend most of the time in life running after things that aren't that important, and the pursuit becomes more desirable than the prize.

I started out toward where the Bear stood but stopped. “I'm thinking he needs some time.”

The biker joined me. “Maybe so. You got somewhere you have to be?”

“A friend of ours is flying into the Rapid City airport this morning, and I was thinking I should pick her up, but it's supposed to be a surprise, so maybe I'm not.”

“Not what?”

“Supposed to pick her up.”

“Oh.” He glanced at Henry and then back at me. “You can borrow my truck, but is there anybody you can call to ask whether or not she's really coming?”

“Well, I could call the person in question, but that's going to blow the surprise, too.”

He shrugged. “If it was me I'd call; life has enough surprises as it is.”

I fished Bodaway Torres's cell phone from my pocket; it was evidence, but there was no reason why it couldn't be useful.

I punched in Vic's cell phone number and listened as it rang. After a moment she answered. “Who the fuck is this?”

“It's me.”

“What's me doing with a strange cell phone?”

“It belongs to a young man named Bodaway Torres. He wasn't using it; he's in the hospital.”

“You put him there?”

“No.”

“You just stole his phone.”

“I borrowed it—it's evidence.”

She snorted a laugh. “This is getting better and better.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm in Philadelphia.” She sniffed. “Why?”

“A little bird told me you might be surprising us and flying into Rapid City.”

There was a pause. “You know, that little bird has a problem keeping things to herself.”

“Yep, it's not her strong suit.” I smiled. “So, where are you?”

“About twenty feet behind you.” I turned and looked. “I bet you turned and looked just now.”

I turned back around. “I did not.”

“I'm getting my bag at the luggage carousel at Rapid City Regional Airport, which looks remarkably like a Mayan shopping mall with nothing in it. I heard you rode with Henry, so I figured I'd rent a car.”

“You don't have to—Jamey says I can borrow his truck.”

“What is it?”

I studied the vehicle. “It looks to be a late seventies—”

“I'll rent a car.”

“Right.”

“Where do I meet you?”

“I think we're headed for the Bucket of Blood Saloon in Sturgis for the motorcycle show.”

“Did Henry bring Lucie?”

“He did.”

“Cool—he owes me a ride. I'll meet you there.”

She hung up, and I shook my head; life as we know it was about to get interesting. I looked at the phone and then tapped Jamey on the shoulder. “Hey, do you know anything about these phones?”

He shrugged. “A little—why?”

“Can you track the previous calls on this thing?”

• • •

The Bucket of Blood Saloon during Sturgis is a marvelous place to get puked on, but then, during the rally, pretty much all of the town met that qualification.

Jamey knew the owner of the Bucket and was able to get Henry the prime corner spot for Lucie. The 1940 Indian Four was designed when the Indian Motorcycle Company of Springfield, Massachusetts, absorbed the assets of the Ace Motorcycle Corporation. Into the thirties, even though there was low demand for luxury motorcycles, Indian continued to develop and refine the inline four cylinder until the thing was capable of more than a hundred miles an hour, an unheard-of speed at that time.

With its large, decorative fenders, it looked like a jukebox on wheels, but its pedigree was so great that in 2006 it graced the 39-cent stamp and was part of the Smithsonian Motorcycle Collection at the National Museum of American History.

The Bear's was nicer.

Adding to its worth was the matching factory sidecar,
which I thought resembled a chrome-trimmed prow of a boat. “Who in the heck would ride in that thing?”

Jamey studied the vintage contraption. “I guess it's as safe as riding the motorcycle.”

“My point exactly. You know, Pete Conrad died on a motorcycle.”

“Who's Pete Conrad?”

“The third man to walk on the moon.” I sipped my canned iced tea and looked up and down Sturgis's crowded Main Street for what might pass as a rental car. “Where's Henry?”

“Inside having a drink.”

I pulled out my pocket watch and frowned, placing it back in my jeans. “A little early for that, isn't it?”

“He didn't look like it was open for discussion.”

“Oh, boy.”

About a half block down I could see a neon-orange coupe moseying its way through the throng. Every once in a while, when someone was a little slow getting out of the way, the driver revved the engine, causing the offender to hop a little quicker.

When she got closer, I could see she was holding her badge out the window. I walked over and leaned on the passenger-side door. “What is this?”

My undersheriff smiled her crocodile smile, the one that showed no innocence. “Hemi Challenger; it was the only thing the rental guy had left, so we made a deal.”

“I bet you did.” I glanced around. “Where are you going to park this thing?”

She raced the motor again. “Anywhere I want.”

I gestured toward the beer garden outside the Bucket of Blood. “We're over there where the red umbrellas are.”

Pulling out, she barely missed another mass of bikers. “See you in a few.”

I hopped back up onto the curb to keep my boots from being run over.

Jamey was waiting as I slid between some of the other classic bikes. “Who's that?”

I watched as the Great Pumpkin made a right and then a U-turn to dodge into a parking spot across the street. “A force of nature.” I glanced toward the bar and saw that Lola was headed inside. “When my undersheriff gets here, bring her over, will you?”

“You bet.”

Fighting the current on the sidewalk, I tacked my way toward the corner entrance of the bar and finally pushed through the swinging saloon-style doors. The Cheyenne Nation was seated at the last stool of the bar, up against the wall with a motorcycle boot propped up on the adjacent seat. Throwing back a shot and looking over the crowd, he puffed his cigar.

We were in trouble.

We were all in trouble.

I hadn't seen that particular look in decades, and I had been hopeful that I'd never see it again. The Bear was looking for a fight, and odds were, he'd find one.

Lola was rounding the table beside the bar where the bikers were four deep and making a lot of noise. I thought I better get over there quick but was given pause by the fact that I might be interrupting a personal conversation.

There was a high-top table by the window that had just
been vacated, so I grabbed it and waited for Vic and Jamey to arrive. As I sat, a dark-haired young woman in a skintight Sturgis tank top paused and asked if I wanted a drink other than the can of iced tea in my hands.

“No, thanks.”

“You gotta have a drink if you're gonna sit.”

I pulled out my pocket watch and acquiesced. “Give me a Rainier, a dirty martini, and a Jack and Coke.”

“Bud, Bud Light, and Coors.”

I sighed. “Coors.”

Satisfied with that, she turned and walked away.

Lola had pulled up an arm's length from the Cheyenne Nation and stood there talking with him as he clinched the cigar in the corner of his mouth, both the cigar and the Indian smoldering.

I felt someone lift my hat and turned in time to see my undersheriff place it on her head. She surveyed the place, raising her voice to be heard above the raucous music that blared from everywhere. “Bucket of Blood, huh?”

I half-yelled back, “That's what they call it.”

“Bucket of pig shit, looks like to me.”

“Maybe.” I kicked a stool out and Jamey ushered Vic onto her seat. The waitress arrived with the drinks, and I palmed her a twenty. “Keep the change.”

Vic, looking adorable in jeans and a plaid shirt tied at the waist, tipped my hat back on her head. “You making friends already?”

“Trying.”

“Looks like they've got hot and cold running venereal diseases in here. You didn't catch anything while I was gone, did
you?” Jamey pushed the martini toward Vic, and she sipped it, watching Henry and Lola. “You go over there?”

“Not yet.”

Vic studied the couple in question. “That's her, huh?”

“Yep.”

Her eyes narrowed like a gunfighter's. “Looks like ten miles of bad road, if you ask me.”

“A bit bumpy, yes.”

“So, what does she want from Henry?”

“To look into who might've hurt her son.”

She took a swallow of the cloudy martini, rife with olive brine. “I thought she wanted you to do that.”

“It would appear that she doesn't think I'm up to the job alone.”

“Hmm . . . she doesn't know you very well, does she?” Vic watched as Lola continued to talk at Henry. “How's that conversation been going for her?”

“Not so well as near as I can tell, but she's upsetting him and I'm not sure what to do about it.”

“Henry upset, huh?” She set the martini glass down and spread her hands across the lacquered surface of the table, and I noticed her fingernails matched the rental, casting further doubt on her having acquired the muscle car by accident. “I know this isn't my usual response in these types of situations.” She smiled. “But stay the fuck out of it.”

Jamey nodded, backing up Vic. “I was thinking the same thing.”

It was about then that one of the bikers at a table adjacent to the conversationalists said something to the Bear.

Vic turned her head, and we all watched as the Cheyenne
Nation said something back. The bikers looked at each other, and the talker laughed and said something again.

Henry responded, but this time his answer was shorter.

The biker reached out and slapped the Bear's boot, indicating, I think, that he should move it and let Lola have a seat.

“Oh, no.”

The Cheyenne Nation removed the cigar from his mouth and stubbed it out in the shot glass.

Both Jamey and Vic were already standing. “We'd better . . .”

Henry slowly rose from the stool like a bird of prey.

There were five of them, but it didn't matter.

Sturgis is in Meade County, South Dakota, and not so surprisingly, its jail was full. Pennington County, where I had been just the previous day, had not been and was receiving, so here I was once again in the sheriff's guest chair.

“Four of them are in the hospital.”

“He's responsible for only three of the five. She's the one who hit the guy with the popcorn maker.”

Vic turned toward me from the other chair. “Bad road—I told you.”

Irl Engelhardt closed the file and smiled at the two of us. “That's four. What happened to number five?”

Vic smiled back at him. “He ran.”

The sheriff studied us some more. “The brains of the outfit, huh?”

“So it would appear.”

“They're pressing charges.”

Vic laughed. “Five on one, and they're pressing charges?”

“Four on one.”

“Whatever.”

He leaned back in his chair. “I might be able to talk them
out of it, but somebody's going to have to pay the damages at the Bucket.”

I interrupted before things got out of hand. “I'm sure Henry won't have a problem with that; he's a business owner and knows how these things work.”

Engelhardt placed the file in his lap and rubbed his nose; finally letting his hand drop, he sat there looking very tired. I had a feeling that it was what I looked like most of the time from this side of the desk. “Walt—”

“I know what you're going to say, Irl, and I apologize. I know this is a busy week for you.”

“The busiest.”

“Yep, well, I promise it won't happen again. Things just got out of hand.”

He was nodding his head. “All right, go get your friend, but tell him I told you that if we have any more shenanigans like this I'm going to have to lock him up for real.”

“Thanks, Irl. Where is he?”

The Pennington County sheriff tapped a few keys on his desk phone. “Brenda?”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Where have we got Defending Champion Henry Standing Bear?”

There was a rustling of papers from the desk outside Irl's office. “Medical. He was complaining of headaches, and the staff thought he might have a concussion, so they shipped him over to Rapid City Regional.”

“Thanks, Brenda.” He tapped the button again. “You know where that is?”

We stood. “Um, yep.”

He reopened the file in his lap. “What do you want me to do with the woman?” He looked back up at us. “Wojciechowski?”

“Have you got anything like solitary confinement? It might be the only way to keep the world safe.” Vic followed me toward the door and closed it behind us as we made a speedy retreat.

“I'm glad I made it back before all the excitement was over with.” As we crossed the bull pen and made our way down the steps, she shook her head. “You've got to admit, as fights go it was pretty impressive.”

“On one side it was.”

We stepped through the glass doors onto the sidewalk as she raised the key fob and unlocked the Dodge. I opened the door and struggled to fit. “How do people get in these things, anyway?” I watched as she pulled a parking ticket from under the windshield wiper and tossed it into the back. She climbed in and hit the ignition. “I'm guessing you're not going to pay that?”

Vic made a face, slammed the selector in gear, and, after laying a good twenty feet of rubber as we sped off toward the hospital, weaved through traffic like she was in a Friedkin film. “I'm on the fucking job.”

I fastened my seat belt as quickly as I could. “Who did you say were your driving instructors—the Blue Angels?”

I pointed the way, she turned a corner, and I felt the car go slightly airborne as we went over some railroad tracks. “I like driving fast—I like doing things fast.” She gave me a side-glance. “Most things, that is.” I indicated a right-hand turn, and she flat tracked the Dodge around another corner,
expertly correcting the drift. Rocketing into the hospital parking lot, she slipped into a diagonal spot and cut the engine. “So, you miss me?”

I still had both hands braced against the dash. “Can I open my eyes now?”

“Pussy.”

I shook my head and got out of the car, happy to be on solid boot leather. “C'mon, the ER is this way.”

She caught up as we weaved our way through the parked cars, and I swallowed. “Where are we on Michael's case?”

She took a deep breath and then shot it out through her shapely nostrils. “Zip-nada. The woman who witnessed the incident from the building across the street couldn't identify her own husband in a lineup, and it looks like we've ground to a halt.” She stepped in front of me and stopped me in my tracks. “I've got the files.”

I chewed the skin on the inside of my cheek. “The originals?”

“Yes.”

“Katz and Gowder gave them to you?”

At the mention of the Philadelphia police detectives, she stiffened a bit, and I had my answer before she spoke. “
Gave
is a relative term.”

“Vic—”

“He's my little brother, Walt, and he's dead.”

I stuffed my hands in my jeans and stared at the parking lot's painted lines. “I'm sure that they—”

“You're the best, and I need the best; this is personal.”

“I know.”

“It's what you do.”

“I know.”

She tilted her head back and squinted up at me. “You'd do it for any citizen on the street, so why not for me?”

“You're right.”

“What?”

Taking a deep breath, I repeated myself. “I said you're right.” She looked as if she wasn't quite sure what to say next, so I helped. “Copy the files and give them to me, and I'll go through them.” I waited a moment. “It's personal for me, too. He was my son-in-law.”

Her eyes clouded, and she reached out and grabbed my shirtfront, pulling herself in and muffling her voice against my chest. “Thanks.”

Just then, a sheriff's deputy hustled from the ER. Moving toward his unit at a clip, he was rapidly followed by another. They jumped in and backed out, barely missing us.

“What's up?”

The deputy looked a little anxious, but I think he recognized me from my visit to their headquarters the previous day. He called out as he slapped the car into drive. “Fugitive at large.”

“Who?”

I barely caught his voice as they peeled away. “Some damn Indian.”

Vic's face pulled back from my chest as she watched them go. “Uh-oh.”

Boy howdy.

• • •

“So, why are we searching in the one place he supposedly escaped from?”

The fact that I'd gotten lost twice in the labyrinth of Rapid City Regional did nothing to lessen the assurance of my next statement. “I've got a hunch.”

“About?”

“Bodaway Torres is in the ICU here, and I think Henry might've decided to look in on him. Lola's been hitting him pretty hard, and I'm thinking it's had an effect.”

I finally found the ICU at the end of yet another hall, and I could see the giant Lola had introduced me to still sitting in his chair. I waved at the man with the dark sunglasses, but he didn't move. “Hey, Big Easy.”

Vic murmured. “What, he's from New Orleans?”

“Yep, um, I'm not sure. It's complicated.” We stopped, and I looked past him toward the nurse's station, but the one woman there was ignoring us and I brought my eyes back to the large man. “Easy, I'm looking for . . .”

I leaned in closer and examined him, Vic joining me. “What the fuck, he's asleep?”

I took one of the giant's hands, lifting it and then letting it drop. “Out cold.”

“He's a sound sleeper.”

I examined a dent in the drywall behind him, about where the biker's head would've been if he'd been standing. “Might be more than that.” I felt the man's pulse, just to be sure he was alive, and then glanced in his nostrils, where I could see blood, and at his face, where the beginnings of two black eyes were hidden beneath the sunglasses. “He's unconscious, but he's all right.”

My undersheriff made a face. “Have I told you lately how scary your friends are?”

I moved past him toward the observation window around the corner. “You're one of my friends.”

She followed after me. “Case in point.”

The Cheyenne Nation was standing there with his arms folded, the torn motocross jersey still hanging from his shoulder with a few bloodstains here and there—fresh from the Indian Wars.

I stood beside him and looked in at Bodaway, nothing having changed. The Bear didn't say anything, but there was a look of sadness on his face.

Vic came up and stood with me. “Handsome.”

I nodded, glanced at Henry again, and then looked back at the young man. There's something profoundly sad in the striking down of a young person in his prime, an injustice that offends beyond all others. I've had numerous engagements with the Reaper, but it's outside the lines when he takes the young—just plain cheating.

I studied Torres's profile, the strength of the jaw, the powerful nose, and the black, black hair. I stood there for a long while, not trusting what might come out of my mouth next.

My undersheriff turned, leaned her back against the glass, and looked at the two of us. “So, what happened?”

“Um . . . he was riding out near Devils Tower and somebody ran him off the road. Mike Novo did a preliminary and said it was possible that he wasn't going particularly fast but that he had some weight on the back, either saddlebags full of something heavy, or possibly a passenger.”

Her eyes drifted over to the Bear and then back to me. “No witnesses?”

“No, but there was a young woman named Chloe Nance
who found him, and I'm thinking there might be a connection there. According to her father, she has a substance abuse problem and Bodaway here might've been supplying.”

“You think it was drugs on the back of the bike?”

I shook my head. “His mother says no, and besides, they wouldn't weigh enough to be a factor, but he is under investigation by the ATF for illegal gun sales.”

“The Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms ATF?”

I glanced around to make sure that Big Easy was still out. “None other. I got a visit last night from Brady Post, one of the chief enforcers for the Tre Tre Nomads; he's fully patched and undercover with these guys.” I paused. “And then there's the paint issue.”

She folded her arms. “The paint issue?”

“Irl let me in to the impound lot at the sheriff's department, and I found gold paint on the side of the Harley Bodaway here was riding.”

“Gold.”

“Lola Wojciechowski drives a '66 Cadillac DeVille, gold in color.”

There was a predictable pause. “You think she ran over her own son?”

I glanced at Henry. “The more you get to know her, the more it seems like a possibility, but then again it appears that the vehicle is something of a staff car for the entire Tre Tre Nomad gang.”

“So, somebody in his own gang ran over him?”

“Possibly.” I pulled out the cell phone, handed it to Vic, and gestured toward the young man in the bed. “This is Bodaway's phone. Can you pull up his previous calls?”

She took it and began pushing buttons at an alarming rate. “Made or received?”

“It can do both?”

She shook her head. “You are such a Neanderthal.”

Henry cleared his throat, and I turned to look at him. “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“You want to talk?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

I started to look at Vic but then turned back. “You ever going to want to talk?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Vic showed me the phone and started counting. “Seventeen calls from the Nance household, a couple from the 310 area code, thirty-two from Lola Wojciechowski, nine from a number with a Phoenix area code but no ID, and twenty-one from a place called The Chop Shop, with a few from a pizza place, the last two both here in Rapid City.” She looked at the phone screen. “I say we start with the pizza place. I'm famished.”

I looked back at the Bear. “You need a getaway car, and we've got one.”

Studying the Cheyenne Nation just as I had, Vic pushed off the glass window. “And a driver, but you'll have to hunker down in the back, seeing as how you're on the lam and all.”

 

• • •

Piesano's Pacchia is a joint up on Canyon Lake Drive, reputed to make the best pizza in the Hills, and when the Philadelphian concurred, I feigned a heart attack and slumped in my half of the booth.

“No, really, this is good pizza.” She chewed and postulated. “Not as good as my uncle's, but it's good.”

I sipped my iced tea and glanced outside where a large man with long, dark hair sat on the hood of an orange muscle car with his back to us.

The waitress, a cute little blonde, came over, refilled my tea, and offered Vic more wine, but my undersheriff showed restraint. Vic waited until the waitress departed and then set down the rules. “Okay, I'm going to ask a few questions, but I don't want you to do anything but answer the questions one at a time. No embellishments.”

I turned back to her. “Okay.”

“How old is Bodaway Torres?”

“Thirty-two.”

She nodded. “How long ago did Henry know Lola?”

“A little over thirty years ago.”

There was a pause as she thought about how to proceed, deciding on her usual course: straight forward and full speed ahead. “Asking the question as a crass white woman, would you say that Bodaway bears more than a passing resemblance to Henry fucking Standing Bear?”

I sighed. “The thought more than crossed my mind when I saw the two of them together.”

She turned her head and watched him. “Have you ever seen him this upset about something before?”