Badlands (23 page)

“Vaccine?” said Madelaine.

“Don’t have any,” said Pidgeon, “takes a while to make some. So the dickheads in the government, they
hope
it doesn’t get out.”

“On their watch,” said Ripper.

Du Pré snorted.

“Largest criminal conspiracy indictment ever,” said Pidgeon, “and the civil libertarians are going batshit. The threat is real. Both of them. To our lives and to our rights. I don’t like any of this.”

“Grim,” said Ripper.

“Shit,” said Pidgeon, “if we have to be safe we will pay a big price.”

“Maybe it is not so bad,” said Du Pré, “maybe you are fighting hard but in the wrong way.”

Pidgeon frowned.

“Wrong way?” she said. “We had to find the sons of bitches, had to find out how they did what they did.”

Du Pré shook his head.

“How do people, Host of Yahweh, Moonies, them, hold on to people?” he said. “Catholic Church, too.”

“The religious compulsions of man,” said Ripper.

“Everybody got them,” said Du Pré.

Pidgeon waved her hand.

Du Pré laughed and he rolled a cigarette and lit it and he passed it to Madelaine and she took a big drag and passed it to Pidgeon who took one and Ripper cracked his window and gagged and choked and sneezed.

“Put this fucker on the roof,” said Pidgeon. “Fucking wimp.”

“I have a good yup fetish about my health,” said Ripper, “you know, low-fat diet, lots of oat bran. Thing about us y?ps is that though we know in theory everybody has to die, we know we are so wonderful that an exception will be made in our case. Doctor Spock told our parents that.”

“Jesus,” said Madelaine, “what crap.”

Pidgeon looked at Ripper.

“Spock did not say that,” she said.

Ripper looked crestfallen.

“Well,” he whined, “he
should
have.”

Pidgeon blew smoke in his face.

“You wanna play, we’ll play,” said Ripper, pulling a small, vile-looking black cigar from his pocket.

“Damn you,” said Pidgeon.

“Floor show is over,” said Ripper. “Du Pré was saying that the way to fight a spiritual war is with spiritual weapons.”

“No shit,” said Pidgeon.

“I get it,” said Ripper. He leaned forward, lit a match and held it in front of the cigar, which began to glow.

“Get what?” said Pidgeon.

“I get it!” said Ripper.

“Get what?” said Pidgeon. “You figure out Du Pré’s mysticism is what got us to the Lucas place? Harvey and I have been following that for some time. He gets it from that old son of a bitch Benetsee, who gets it from another world.”

Ripper nodded.

“How did you know it was the Lucas place they were at?” said Ripper.

“I am twelve,” said Du Pré, “me, I get this new rifle, .30-30 just before deer season. Catfoot, my papa, he give it to me, and he take me to Grandpère Du Pré, who is ver’ old, cannot walk much any more and so he will not hunt. Catfoot he leave me there with Grandpère who makes us tea. We drink tea, he says, ‘So you hunt deer,’ and I say, ‘Yes,’ and he says, ‘So you know how to hunt these deer?’ and I say, ‘Yes’ and he says, ‘How is that you hunting deer?”

Du Pré rolled himself a smoke and lit it.

“I say, Grandpère, I go where there are deer, I find a place got wind to my face, I can see their trails, I sit ver’ quiet, wait, deer come.”

Pidgeon had her arms around herself and she was looking down at the floor and listening very hard. Madelaine was looking at Du Pré and smiling a little.

“Grandpère he look at me a long time. He say, that is bullshit you are saying. Where you get that, those dumb magazines, lie around the barbershop? They are for city people, long way from the deer.”

Du Pré turned on the road north, the road home.

“I am feeling foolish,” said Du Pré. “My grandpère he don’t think much of me, deer hunter, and here I read all those magazines, the barbershop, Catfoot’s cousin Henri has it, you know. I have been hunting deer with Catfoot, I am six or so, help him butcher them out, sit with him while he wait for them. So I don’t know what I say wrong and I am sad.”

Madelaine rubbed Du Pré’s shoulder.

“So my grandpère, he leans over, he takes my shoulders, his hands, he says, you got to go, the deer’s land, yes, do them things you talk about, the magazines, but it is not the most important thing.”

Pidgeon looked up.

“My grandpère, he lean close, put his mouth, my ear, say
hunter, him dream the deer and the deer, him come.”

Ripper blew foul cigar smoke at Pidgeon.

He turned back to Du Pré.

“If you hadn’t thought of the Lucas place,” said Ripper, “they might have gotten away. Left the Lucases and Bart dead, too, in the house. Burned it, would have taken a long time to figure out. They were there waiting for the helicopter. If it came, they would have shot Bart and left then.”

“Yah,” said Du Pré.

“You dreamed this?” said Pidgeon.

Du Pré looked off toward the western horizon.

“Ah,” he said, pointing with his thumb, “there is a coyote, by them tree.”

“Why don’t we ask him?” said Pidgeon.

“Hah,” said Du Pré, “coyote, him a trickster, but I know what he say. He say what you hunt is an idea. It got no flesh to kill, got no one to talk to. But you wait, it will wear out.”

Pidgeon laughed.

“Bad ideas they wear out,” said Du Pré. “That coyote say that.”

Turn the page to continue reading from The Gabriel Du Pré Montana Mysteries

“S
HE WAS SOME PISSED,”
said Bassman. He looked carefully at the bullet holes in the rear window of his van. “Shit, I know she can shoot that good, maybe I am nicer to her.”

“You are lucky,” said Madelaine, “you don’t get one of them the back of the head.”

“Cheap-ass little twenty-five,” said Bassman. “She shot me that two times. Gun jammed. She is messing, the slide, think I am going to hit her. Me, I am taking out my jackknife, I open the blade, dig out them two slugs are stuck in my arm. They don’t even go in so far.”

Bassman held out his left forearm. There were two round scabs on the side of his elbow.

Du Pré snorted.

Bassman, he thought, him, always got that burlap blonde girlfriend, all look the same from the neck down. Big tits, round ass. Neck up they all got mean eyes. I live with that Bassman, I am probably mean, too.

They were standing out in front of the Toussaint Saloon, and it was a miserable gray April day, dead sky, old leaves and grass, and plenty of dog turds.

“So maybe she is coming after you?” said Madelaine. “You fill them women that true love, Bassman.”

“Yah,” said Bassman, “maybe she does, you know. She got a temper, that one. I give it some time, she start shooting at someone else maybe.”

We go and play the roadhouse down the Missouri, thought Du Pré, make that good music, Bassman have another burlap blonde by the second set tomorrow night. Latest he will have her then.

Bassman went in to get another beer. The giant joint he had been smoking had dried his throat.

“You got maybe one cousin is not crazy?” said Madelaine.

Du Pré shook his head.

“Me, either,” said Madelaine. “All of them, crazy.”

Du Pré laughed and he put his arm around her.

The air smelled of snow.

The clouds broke and the Wolf Mountains blazed white in the sun.

“Maybe we don’ burn up this year,” said Madelaine.

Du Pré shrugged.

Maybe.

It is very dry here still. I don’t see it so dry so deep, a long time. Bart, he is digging a coffer slot for a little dam, he says he never hit the water table, goes down twenty feet. In the bottom of a coulee.

Bassman came back out, belching. He had a huge can of beer, blue and gold, in his hand.

“Australia,” he said, holding up the can. “We maybe move there, yes?”

Madelaine snorted.

“Long way to go, a beer,” she said.

“Some people,” said Bassman, “they see the Virgin Mary, a tortilla or maybe a birthmark, their kid’s ass, me, I see this. I maybe make a pilgrimage.”

Father Van Den Heuvel came out of the tiny white Catholic church. He waved and he tripped over something in the yard. He fell on his hands, bounced up, and went on.

The big Jesuit got in his ratty old Ford and he started it and he drove away.

“Least him, don’t shut his head in the car door this time,” said Madelaine.

“Him shut his head, the car door?” said Bassman.

“Knocked cold,” said Madelaine.

“I never hear that before,” said Bassman.

“Stay a week,” said Du Pré. “You see that, couple times.”

Bart drove up in his pickup. He got out and came over to them. He looked tired, and his clothes were caked with clay.

“Water down pret’ far,” said Du Pré.

“Way down,” said Bart.

“Bad summer,” said Madelaine. “Or maybe it rain.”

“Julie’s coming,” said Bart.

“You got a new girlfriend,” said Madelaine. “Ver’ good.”

“No,” said Bart, “I got a niece. My sister Angela’s kid. Angie is a counselor in Portland.”

Madelaine nodded.

“OK,” she said.

Du Pré looked at his friend. Bart’s family had been blown apart by money and alcohol. So had Bart. He was rich, and he dug holes, and he liked it.

“Trouble?” said Madelaine.

Bart nodded.

“Trouble,” he said.

Madelaine went to him. She kissed him on the cheek.

“It be OK,” she said. “Now, you maybe come along hear some good music.”

Bart shook his head.

“I got to have that dam done tomorrow,” he said. “I just came in to get a hamburger and check my messages.”

“OK,” said Bassman, “we got some miles maybe.”

“Take a long time you piss so much,” said Madelaine.

The three of them got into Bassman’s van. It was a dope crib on wheels, with two small refrigerators and three captain’s chairs and a thick sweet fug of marijuana in the air.

“Jesus,” said Madelaine. “I get high just sitting in here.”

“Yeah,” said Bassman, starting the engine, “nice, ain’t it.”

For all his bad habits, Bassman was a very good driver. He was soon rocketing down the highway. He saw a truck coming and he slowed down so he wouldn’t meet it on the narrow bridge over Cooper’s Creek.

“So you never been there to play before, Du Pré?” said Bassman.

“
Non,
” said Du Pré, “that roadhouse it is closed for years, then it is bought, new people. Grand opening.”

“Moon of Dog Turds,” said Bassman. “These people are what? Yuppies come to Montana, open this fancy restaurant. Bad food cost a lot of money. I go one of them. All they got, goddamned
noodles.
”

Madelaine laughed.

“Noodles,” said Bassman again.

Du Pré slipped his flask out of his bag. He had some good bourbon whiskey. He rolled a cigarette.

“Pink wine the fridge,” said Bassman.

“
Non,
” said Madelaine, “too early.”

“Too bad, Talley,” said Bassman.

Du Pré nodded. Poor Talley, born with an open spine, lived for thirty-six years, most of the time infected, gets an infection they can do nothing for.

“Hell of an accordion player,” said Bassman.

“He was that,” said Du Pré. He lit his cigarette and he passed it to Madelaine. She took one long drag and gave it back.

“Him just go like that,” said Madelaine. “I am talking to him, the telephone one day, I call back two days later he is dead.”

Poor Talley, crippled, has to use crutches, plays hell out of that accordion.

Bassman got the van up to eighty-five and he kept it there.

Montana, you go fifty-five you never get anywhere, Du Pré thought. When you do get someplace, it is North Dakota.

“This girlfriend, she knows you are playing here?” said Madelaine.

“Maybe,” said Bassman. “She don’t got a car, though.”

“What you do she shows up?” said Madelaine.

“Me, I am a brave Métis,” said Bassman. “I run like hell, what I do, I see that damn woman.”

“This is that Charmayne?” said Madelaine.

“
Non,
” said Bassman, “this is Kim. Charmayne, she was maybe a year ago, little more.”

“Ah,” said Madelaine, “but they look like each other.”

“Yah,” said Bassman.

“All the time blondes,” said Madelaine.

“White bread,” said Bassman, “you know.”

Du Pré laughed.

Poor Talley, he thought.

Good man.

Bassman came to the highway that went south toward the Missouri. He looked both ways and he pulled out and accelerated.

Big fat wet flakes of snow started to fall.

The snow got thicker.

I play a song, maybe two, tonight for Talley, thought Du Pré.

“J
ESUS,” SAID
B
ASSMAN.

“Christ,” said Du Pré.

“Well,” said Madelaine, “it
is
pretty.”

They were looking at what had been the old roadhouse, once a typical Great Plains hovel, weatherproof, warm in winter, racked in the frame, covered with plywood that bore a fading coat of cheap red paint, and the marks of drunken handiwork.

The new building was made of logs.

“Mahogany, maybe?” said Bassman.