Bad Company (13 page)

“It makes me wonder how I’m going to replace Edna’s foie gras,” Sally moaned.

Hawk, still trying to get himself under control, giggled once, inhaled deeply, exhaled with a “whew.” “Go online,” he said, “www.gooseguts.”

“But of course,” said Sally. “The Internet.”

“In this world of consumerism and folk syncretism,” Hawk declared, “you can get anything you want.”

Chapter 11
Go Rodeo!

By the time Sally got done deleting all the messages from Sheldon Stover, Hawk had contracted a case of hiccups from repeated fits of giggling, and Sally was ready to throw the answering machine against a wall. But the last message on the machine was from Brit, saying that her cousin Jerry Jeff was entered in the calf roping that night. That summer Jerry Jeff had started winning decent prize money roping, and everybody thought he’d qualify for the National High School Rodeo. In honor of Jerry Jeff, Uncle Dwayne had invited everybody to be his guests that night at the rodeo. Alice’s Restaurant would have to wait.

Dwayne, as Sally knew, was a member of the Jubilee Days Committee, a bunch of beef-eating boosters who made sure there were plenty of posters around town, an abundance of ads in the program, lots of free publicity on local radio, and most importantly, big prize money for the PRCA circuit cowboys and cowgirls who came to compete. It was good that amateur ranch hands and local kids like Jerry Jeff came out to try their luck in a non-PRCA event, but the crowds came to see bull riders and barrel racers who had made (and broken) their bones touring, riding, and roping for a living.

To Sally, Dwayne had always been something of an enigma. Where Dickie wore his heart like an open wound, and Delice masked hers with a cynical toughness that didn’t fool her friends for a minute, as long as Sally had known him, Dwayne had never displayed a whisper of passion for anything, except music. Everyone in town knew that his wife fooled around on him, but Sally had never heard him say a jealous word, or show the least bit of concern. As a couple, Nattie and Dwayne kept a busy social schedule, and Dwayne was unfailingly pleasant and polite and even sweet to Nattie, praising her business skills, and even her fashion sense (not all that surprising in a man whose idea of sharp dressing ran to brown suits). Nattie liked big baubles, and Dwayne had, in the years since he’d gotten her out of the Gallery bar and into the Escalade, given her plenty of what Hawk called “hog jewelry”—bracelets big as bagels, necklaces that resembled horse collars, earrings so pendulous her head looked like a chandelier, all studded with gem-stones in every color of the rainbow. But as devoted as Dwayne appeared, Sally had to wonder about that marriage. Fleetingly she considered their sex life, and quickly squelched a mental image of Nattie with a whip in her hand.

Well, hell, you never knew about people. Maybe Dwayne was the one with the whip. Maybe he had a little whippersnapper on the side, and that was why he was so tolerant of Nattie’s shenanigans. For all Sally knew, he attended meetings of a group sex cult once a week, when everyone thought he was just having bowling night. He was a banker. A trained specialist in discretion.

Dwayne and Nattie had never had kids, and they never talked about it. But if Dwayne wasn’t anybody’s father, he and Dickie had long acted as surrogate daddies to Delice’s boy, Jerry Jeff. They took JJ trout fishing and duck hunting, showed up at his football and baseball games, watched him try his hand at calf roping and saddle broncs, did what they could to make up for his own father’s conspicuous absence. JJ’s love of sports and indifference to school was a constant source of frustration to Delice, but Dwayne had quietly let it be known that if the kid ever did shape up and manage to get himself into college somewhere, Dwayne would be happy to foot the bill. The way it was looking, JJ was pushing to go to UW on a rodeo scholarship. The rodeo part didn’t please Delice, but she figured that maybe he’d get an education by accident.

Dwayne had left guest passes for Hawk and Sally at the gate to the VIP parking area. They parked and went to the rodeo committee lounge to meet the Langhams. The lounge was in a low cinder-block building behind the arena, next to a big dusty lot where the contestants hung out before and between events, having a smoke, or communing with their horses, or flirting with the buckle bunnies who always managed to find their way into the restricted area. Sally spotted Dickie Langham, talking to Jerry Jeff and another cowboy.

The lounge itself was decorated in early chamber of commerce—linoleum floor, fake wood-grain Formica meeting table, beige folding metal chairs, and walls lined with photographs of the members of the rodeo committees for each year. Row after row of head shots of white men in gray Stetsons wearing business smiles. Dwayne was sitting in a chair, feet up on the table, sporting the Stetson and a brown and gold satin baseball jacket that had “Jubilee Days Committee” emblazoned on the back, and his name embroidered over the breast pocket. Brit was there too, slouching on a beat-up couch in faded jeans and well-worn cowboy boots. In honor of her cousin, she wore a Western shirt, black twill. She wouldn’t wear a hat, and that was probably unfair to the cowboys. Her shiny blond hair was like a lust-triggering death ray that drew them close and laid them out, before they even knew what hit them. Marsh Carhart was there, resembling an ad out of the
Sundance
catalogue, standing in a corner talking quietly with Nattie. She was decked out in yellow this time, from hat to boots, looking a little like a character out of
Curious George Meets Cat Ballou.
If she really wanted men to pay attention to her, she’d better stay away from Brit.

Everybody was drinking out of plastic cups, making small talk. Dwayne asked Sally and Hawk if they felt like a beverage, and they said sure. He opened a refrigerator stocked with soda and beer and jugs of wine and booze, poured them each a big slug of Jim Beam, and added some Cuervo to his own cup. “We can’t take these out of here,” he said, “so drink up, Shriners.”

It had been a long time since Sally had tossed down four fingers of Beam in under two minutes, but she did her duty. A fireball slid down her throat and detonated in her gut, and little white sparks exploded behind her eyelids. Yee hah—go rodeo!

And not a moment too soon. Outside, dusk had fallen, the first stars were coming out, the moon was rising fast, big and bright as a searchlight. The rodeo announcer finished reading a list of sponsors, and now he was asking everyone to rise for the national anthem, to be played by the Casper Troopers Drum and Bugle Corps. The noisy waiting area, crowded now with chattering contestants, restless horses, fans, and officials, fell first to a murmur, and then to a hush as the contestants reined their mounts to a standstill, the dust settled, and everyone faced the flag. Some of the cowboys and cowgirls put their hands over their hearts. More than half the people sang along.

Maybe it was the bourbon. Sally felt tears come into her eyes and cursed herself for a sentimental idiot. For God’s sake, this was the country that had reduced Vietnam to a cinder, savaged its own black citizens, paved paradise and put up a parking lot. She didn’t believe in countries. She didn’t even believe in borders. Jim Beam and Laramie, Wyoming, had weakened her mind.

But damn, there was something about the moment that shocked her out of herself. About the silvery-dark light, the cooling air, the smell of horses and popcorn and drifting dust, the earnest faces, young and old, the kids holding their parents’ hands. Some sense of order, repose, well-being, gratitude for the simplest things. A ritual of communion, reminding everyone there that they were part of something larger, if not always noble, at least worth a minute of recognition. A community. She looked at Hawk. His hands were at his side, and he wasn’t singing. (He never sang. Ever. Except, rarely, late at night, out on the lone highway, in the deep privacy of his truck, if a Merle Haggard song came on the radio.) He was silent and still, looking at her, a warming glance. He smiled. Peace and harmony.

But then, for some reason, her skin began to crawl, a chill starting at the base of her spine, traveling up as a shiver, all the way to the top of her head. Maybe another side effect of that honking hunk of Jim Beam? She turned, saw Bone Bandy lolling against a fence, staring at her, and the peaceful night shattered.

Bone looked like he might have had a few himself. His arms were draped over the top rail of the fence, maybe all that was keeping him standing. He looked her up and down, his expression somewhere between a sneer and a leer, then leaned over and spat a stream of tobacco juice between his beat-up cowboy boots. Looked up again, narrowing his mean eyes, a silent warning. And then, as if he’d seen enough and satisfied himself, he turned and walked away.

Hawk had turned to say something to Brit. Sally looked around for Dickie. He was still talking to Jerry Jeff and his friend. She ran over and said, “Hey—did you see? Bone Bandy’s over there—hurry, you’re gonna lose him!”

Dickie said, “Excuse me, boys,” and put his arm around Sally, leading her away. “Listen, Mustang,” he half whispered. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go around running your mouth while I’m investigating a homicide.”

“What do you mean?” she asked. “You were just talking to JJ.”

“Lower your voice,” he hissed, then smiled and waved at some Langham or other. “Sure I was talking to him— he’s a calf roper, and so’s his buddy over there. As you’ll recall, Monette’s hands had been tied with a piggin’ string. It might be useful to know if any of the ropers are missing one.”

“Can’t you just buy them in any ranch supply store?” she asked.

“Sure,” said Dickie. “But from what I’ve been able to piece together in the last couple of days, only two were sold in Laramie in the past week, both to local cowboys. Obviously, if any of these kids killed her, he’s not going to up and admit a damn thing. But there’s also the possibility that the perpetrator stole the rope.”

“Or maybe just bought himself a piggin’ string in Cheyenne, or Rock Springs, or Denver . . .” Sally said.

Dickie sighed. “Or Amarillo, Texas. Or Paris, France. Isn’t police work great?”

“What about Bone?” she asked, looking around. “I don’t see him. He’s getting away!”

Another sigh, this one heavier, very weary. “I’ve already talked to him, Sal. He’s got his trailer out at the KOA. Went out and paid him a visit this afternoon. I wish there were some reason we could hold him for questioning, but at this point we don’t have jack shit. He says he don’t know nothin’ about nothin’. He admits he came into town Saturday, and he’s mostly been hanging out at the KOA and the Torch Tavern since then. Several witnesses at both places corroborate that.”

“Did he see Monette?” she asked.

Dickie pursed his lips. “Sally,” he said very patiently. “Have I mentioned that this is a police matter?”

“He did see her. You’re not saying he didn’t, so he must have. Did he go to the Lifeway? Did somebody see them there? Did he go to her house? I know what his truck looks like . . .”

“Easy, easy,” Dickie said, steering her farther away from people. “Okay, yeah. We have information to put him at the Lifeway on Sunday afternoon. They talked. We’re looking into it. Will that satisfy you?”

She put on her fierce face. “What about my house? Can you put him there?”

Dickie looked heavenward, then back at her. “No. He claims he was at the Torch all last night. A bartender and a cocktail waitress say he was there from at least eight to closing time. He could have come by earlier, of course— but at this point, we don’t know.”

Sally thought it over. “If it was him, you’d think he’d have done something to Delice too. We were together when we saw him at the Loose Caboose.”

“That occurred to me,” Dickie said. “I asked her if she’d had any weird encounters around town this week, and she said no. Doesn’t look like anybody bothered her house. But then, Jerry Jeff told me he was there watching TV all evening. Their television’s in the living room, and they never bother to pull down the shades. You can see people in there watching, right from the street. Whoever busted into your place probably wouldn’t have wanted to tangle with a big galoot like him.”

“Did you tell Delice about what happened to me?” Sally asked.

“Er, not exactly,” he said. “She was suspicious enough about why I was asking her if she’d had any problems. I just told her that we’d gotten some calls about prowlers, since the murder and all. I don’t know if I convinced her. And by tomorrow morning, she’ll see the report of a robber at your house in the
Boomerang
.”

“Shit. I’d better tell her about it. She’ll be really pissed at me for not saying anything this afternoon. Delice thinks my business is her business.”

“Well,” said Dickie, “hold off if you can. All I need is for her to get the same bug up her ass about this case that you have. Thank God she’s too busy this week to do anything except serve beer and burgers and beat up drunks.”

He didn’t know that Delice was not too busy to meddle in the Wood’s Hole land swap. No reason to bother him with it—nothing illegal there, as far as Sally knew, and of course, Dickie had his hands full with the murder. And whatever else was going on.

Despite Dickie’s big arm around her, Sally felt the chill slide up her back again. She looked around quickly for Bone, but he wasn’t there. Instead she found herself looking into the light green eyes of Scotty Atkins. Scotty raised his eyebrows but didn’t smile.

Dickie saw Scotty too. “I gotta go. Now you just have a good time at the rodeo and leave things to Scotty and me. We don’t need you playing detective. Monette doesn’t either. And it won’t do you any good yourself, come to that,” he added, for emphasis, giving her shoulders a squeeze and then striding off in Atkins’s direction.

Sally felt a little ashamed. Scotty probably took a dim view of the likelihood that Sally was pumping Dickie for privileged information. Dickie didn’t need the added stress. Maybe she was just indulging herself, and getting in the cops’ way. Curiosity and fury weren’t reasons enough for her to interfere in police business. And the fact that she and Hawk had found the body, and then somebody had walked into her house and shredded her underwear and left that message on her mirror, didn’t mean she had some special stake in this thing. Right?

Yeah. Right.

“Hey, we were looking for you,” said Hawk, who’d walked over with Brit. “Dwayne says we can go down by the chutes. The bareback bronc riding is about to start, any minute.”