Trial by Ice and Fire (7 page)

SEVEN

T
HE PARKING LOT
at Molly's Steakhouse is overflowing with rented SUVs and Hummers, and even the street in front is loaded to capacity. We end up parking the Pig on a residential street almost two blocks away from the barn-shaped restaurant. Cali laughs when I press a button on my key chain to trigger the truck's alarm.

“Who's going to steal that pile of rust?”

“It's not as crappy as it looks. It's got a new engine and a CD player,” I tell her, not mentioning that there is also a small .22 Beretta hidden under the dashboard, and red and blue flashing lights concealed behind the front grill. “And I know you'll find this hard to believe, but there are a few people in this state who don't like me very much.”

“I've heard that about you,” she teases.

I try to enjoy the walk in the night air, which has finally begun to cool. The hours ahead, I expect, will be filled with too much noise and too many people. My vision scans the sidewalk ahead for any sign of a lurking psychopath. The eye in my head, though, is watching me. That trouble-waiting-to-happen feeling is still there. I could easily do something really dumb tonight.

A warning flares in my mind when Cali's fingers brush against my wrist. The fluttering touch is repeated several times as we walk side by side on the narrow wooden sidewalk. Then her fingers lock around my wrist and slide down to my own fingers, where they entwine themselves. I don't have time to think about what to do or say—we're already there.

People are standing in line to enter the restaurant. They're dressed as I feared, wearing what real Westerners would only wear to a rodeo or as costumes on Halloween. Nearly everyone sports cowboy hats and boots. Embroidered denim and leather make up the rest of their clothes. At the door a young man with a ponytail and a discreet earphone checks names off on a list. A smile-faced sign is tacked on the wall behind him, reading, “No Media, Please,” as if Wyoming is full of hungry tabloid reporters. Two crew-cut security guards, probably local off-duty cops, stand behind him ready to enforce the edict.

Cali doesn't speak to anyone as we wait our turn to enter. I assume she has been out of the Hollywood limelight too long to be easily recognized. And I'm relieved to realize that none of these out-of-towners appears to recognize me. The only good thing about my notoriety is that it's local. Even the security guards are too busy ogling the women and the movie people to pay any attention to me.

Cali gives her name and the kid with the ponytail shows us a too-perfect set of small, feral teeth. “Of course!” he says happily. “It's good to finally meet you, dear.” He kisses her cheek. Then he beams at me as he crosses off Cali's name and writes
with date
. When I answer his query about my name, I'm happy to see that he scribbles
Antonio Burns
as if it were
John Doe.

We follow the line of partygoers into the restaurant's single, wide room. It's about the size of a basketball court. The peanut shells that cover the floor crunch under our feet. There are already fifty or sixty people inside, and there is room for about a hundred more. They are packed ten-deep around the long bar at the far end of the room. Banquet tables with red-and-white-checked tablecloths stand in perfectly aligned rows down the restaurant's center. These are empty except for flowers, discarded purses and coats, and tin buckets of peanuts. Bluegrass music plays over the speakers.

We start to move past three men with drinks in their hands. They're slouching against a wall just inside the entrance. About my age or younger, all three are dressed as foolishly as the rest of the crowd in embroidered pearl-button shirts, fringed vests, and big hats. One of them wears all black like a television gunfighter. He has an ornate holster of Mexican silver slung low around his waist. There are a pair of toy pistols with long barrels on his hips.

Ignoring my attempt at a polite smile, the three “cowboys” all stare intently at Cali. Their eyes linger on her legs and butt as she passes ahead of me.

One of them says loudly in a fake-Western accent, “Fine-looking heifer you got there, pardner. I bet she could take my bull by the horns.”

I slow and pause, trying to take in the extent of the comment. His friends snicker and leer some more, glancing at me then away again at Cali. One of them even bends forward and cocks his head for a better view of her ass. Cali keeps moving but I see the muscles tighten in her shoulders and back.

“I might have to put my brand on her,” the wanna-be gunfighter in black says in the same mocking accent. “Then we could take turns milking each other.” His two friends bray with laughter.

I come to a complete stop and stare at the men who've dared to say these things loud enough for Cali to hear. Who have said them to me, as if I'm expected to just take it, blush, and keep on moving.

Their eyes are already red and watery from too many drinks. The one who spoke first looks away from me then down at the floor. The gunfighter meets my stare, still smirking. I can no longer hear the music. In the periphery of my vision I note Cali turning around and coming back toward us. Her hand touches my arm but it feels as if she's touching someone else.

“Let's go, Anton,” she says.

“What did you say?” I ask the gunfighter.

He speaks with deliberate slowness, as if he's talking to an idiot. “I said I'd like to fuck your girlfriend. Up the ass, maybe.” His eyes finally leave mine and leer again toward Cali. His tongue parts his lips, flickering.

“Don't say anything, Anton. Let's go,” Cali says from far, far away.

“Come outside. We need to have a talk,” I say to the man.

He puffs up his chest and sticks out his jaw. “Do you know who I am, scar face?”

I feel a broad smile tightening my cheeks. I can't hold back a short laugh. “Do you know who
I
am?”

One of the other three men steps between us. “Don't mess with him, dude,” he tells me. “You know who he is? He's Danny Gorgon.”

The name is a little bit familiar. Some action-movie hero, I think. Shoot-'em-ups with lots of gunfire, broken glass, and blood. All of it fake. I push away the man who'd reverently spoken his friend's name without taking my eyes off Gorgon.

“Come outside,” I say again.

“Get out of my sight, cocksucker.” He pulls one of the toy guns from his holster and touches the barrel between my eyes.

Moving my right hand across my body then up and out again, I catch the wrist of the hand holding the gun and jerk it around. The pain of the twisting joints in his elbow and shoulder spin Gorgon until he's facing the wall. The toy gun drops softly into the broken peanut shells at my feet. His hat is knocked off his head when his forehead touches the plaster. In profile, as Gorgon turns, I see his mouth drop open in anger and shock. When he tries to shake free from my grasp, I bounce him hard off the wall then lift his turned wrist high up between his shoulder blades.

“You're under arrest,” I say softly in his ear. “For . . . Disorderly Conduct.” I try to remember from my police-academy days seven years ago if the elements of that crime include offensive language or fighting words. I think so. I hope so.

Someone's fingers pull at my shirtsleeve but I knock them away with my free hand. I reach up under my shirt for the handcuffs clipped next to the H&K on my belt. People are gaping from the entryway. Others are hurrying toward us from the bar. At the forefront is a woman dressed normally in a navy blue suit. Like me, she is Hispanic—another exotic at this party. Also like me, she's armed. Her jacket flutters open as she trots and I see an old-fashioned shoulder harness and the butt of a surprisingly large automatic. A real one.

I've gotten the handcuffs around only one of Gorgon's wrists when he tries to shake loose again. I bounce his face off the wall a second time.

“Let go of him!” the woman wearing the big gun says as she comes up to us. She has a hand up under her jacket now, touching her gun. The two friends of Gorgon's, who have been crowding in behind me and yelling, quiet down and make way for her.

“Miss, you're interfering with a lawful arrest. Back off.”

She looks puzzled and stops, but she doesn't step back.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Wyoming Division of Criminal Investigation.” I snatch Gorgon's other wrist and ratchet the remaining cuff tight around it. Tight enough that it should hurt. “You better explain to me why you're carrying that cannon,” I add over my shoulder.

Another woman is now pushing through the gathering crowd. She's asking, “What's happening? What's happening?” I glance in her direction and immediately see why the crowd is parting so eagerly for her.

She could be Cali's older, prettier sister. The features of her face are the same—the color of her eyes, the oval shape, the small, pointed chin—but on this woman the overall effect is much leaner. Sexier. Like Cali she's blonde and tan, only her hair is far longer and her tan has an orange sheen to it that you don't get from the sun. A pair of low-cut blue jeans so tight there must be Lycra in the denim that encases her legs and, just barely, her hips. Her upper torso is covered by a short leather vest studded with rhinestones. She appears to be unusually delicate and tiny because I expect her to be much bigger. Screen-sized. She moves with an easy grace and assuredness that her daughter does not possess.

“What's happening?” Alana Reese asks again, this time to the woman with the gun.

“Apparently this guy's a Wyoming cop. He's arresting Danny for something.”

“Why is there a policeman at my party?”

“I invited him, Mom,” Cali says, stepping forward.

“Oh Cali! What have you done now?” Alana Reese says it with a despairing chuckle then opens her bare arms to embrace her daughter. “You're always causing trouble,” she chides. “Now, please, ask him to stop whatever he's doing, dear. Have him let Danny go.”

“Anton,” Cali says, “please let him go.”

The reality of the situation is beginning to dawn on me. Arresting a celebrity on a petty charge like Disorderly Conduct will probably only get me in more trouble with the office. My employment there is tenuous enough. And I'm embarrassed to once again be the center of attention. I don't need to make it worse just because of a juvenile sense of chivalry or machismo. So like a well-trained guard dog I fish in my pocket for the handcuff keys and release Gorgon.

He rubs his wrists and then his forehead. There's a red spot that will turn black-and-blue from where I'd twice bounced him off the wall. He fixes me with an action hero's deadly glare before allowing his friends to pull him toward the bar.

“You'll pay for that, asshole,” he says to me before moving into the crowd.

I kick his hat through the peanut shells after him. “You forgot something.”

EIGHT

P
LEASE, EVERYONE, GO AWAY.
” Alana Reese makes shooing motions at the mob that's pressing in around us.

Like good flunkies they wander off while talking excitedly to one another and stealing glances back at us. The bluegrass music continues to play on the restaurant's sound system. The sound is slowly coming back to me as my narrow focus recedes.

“Mom, meet Antonio Burns. He's going to find the guy who tried to get in my window.”

Looking at Cali's mother, I feel the full force of her beauty and poise. She holds out her hand and I shake it gently. The hand is cold but electric. While I've always been smug and unimpressed with the occasional Hollywood people I've seen vacationing in Wyoming, I can't help but feel as if I'm in the presence of a superstar. There is definitely something otherworldly—a bit of magic—in a woman like this. A woman so sure of herself.

“You appear to know how to make an entrance, young man,” Alana Reese says with a smile. “Let me introduce you to another police officer. This is Angela Hernandez. She's with the FBI, and she's hoping to arrest someone who's been bothering
me
.”

The federal agent doesn't smile when she grasps my hand.

“Where have I heard your name before, Antonio Burns?” she asks.

I shrug. “I have no idea.” Then to Cali's mother I say, “I'm sorry about the commotion. But that man said something unbelievably crude about your daughter—”

Alana Reese laughs and interrupts me. “Please, Mr. Burns. Don't be ridiculous. Being in the spotlight makes our skins thick. I'm sure my daughter took no offense.”

I look at Cali, sure she had been offended to the core, but she just shakes her curls at me.

“Danny can be quite ungovernable. And passionate, too. But I assure you that whatever he said, he was just having a little fun. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some guests to calm.”

My eyes can't help but linger on her as she turns away. She glances over her shoulder and catches me with another knowing smile. “Cali, would you mind coming with me?”

I'm left alone with Angela Hernandez, although I keep a close eye on my ward as she moves around the room with her mother. We both stand with our backs to the wall, right about where I'd pushed Danny Gorgon's face against it. I sense the FBI agent studying me carefully, maybe disdainfully, taking in my shoes, my painter's jeans, the heavy brown shirt with its fraying collar, and then scrutinizing the scar on my face. A bit of arrogance is a given with FBI agents; like us at DCI, they call themselves special agents. Unlike us, they seem to take the “special” part seriously. Being a minority woman in a traditionally white man's job, a certain defensiveness and aggressive response is understandable.

“Are you Latino?
Habla español?
” she asks.

“En el lado de mi madre.”
On my mother's side.

“Me pienso recuerdo donde oí hablar usted.”
I think I remember where I heard about you, she says, turning fully to face me.

I cut her off. “Ms. Reese's being threatened, too?”

Hernandez rolls her eyes. “She's been getting threats for more than twenty-five years, and she's got private bodyguards three times my size. I think she just likes having a pet agent with a badge as a part of her traveling show.”

“Why is the FBI involved?” I would have expected that the Los Angeles Police Department would handle any threats against the Hollywood elite. And the town police or Teton County sheriff's when she's at her vacation home in Jackson.

The agent answers my question with a question. “How come you're involved in Cali's case?”

“She and her boss, the County Attorney, called the State Attorney General and asked that our office be assigned. There's a potential conflict of interest, with Cali being a prosecutor here, so they wanted us to handle it.”

“These kind of women usually get what they want. You wouldn't believe it if I told you who Alana called to have the FBI assigned to watch out for her.”

Money and fame have their privileges. I remember hearing that Alana Reese is one of the few Republicans in the movie world, and that she actively campaigns for that party's candidates. A Republican administration would owe her a lot of favors. I guess that Agent Hernandez was selected to be the movie star's personal guard dog because she's attractive in a full-figured way. Or could be if she smiled. She has glossy black hair pulled back in a ponytail and a face like a Mayan princess—broad cheekbones, a pinched, curving nose, and very little chin. The man's white shirt she wears beneath the navy coat is unbuttoned to the top of a lacy bra. A good portion of her prominent breasts are lifted into view. Despite the conservative blue suit, that unbuttoned shirt looks pretty Hollywood for an FBI agent.

“I'm still hoping this will be temporary, but unfortunately the lady likes me,” Agent Hernandez tells me.

“Well, that's easy to fix.”

“You could probably give lessons, judging by your performance here already.” For a moment I think she might smile. Her lips, though, remain horizontal. Only the skin around her eyes crinkles. “It wouldn't be good for my career, though. And anyway, just between us, I've been trying to write a screenplay. So all this may work out to my benefit someday.”

I like her candor. Most FBI agents that I've known would be furious at being assigned to what amounts to guard duty—although some of the men might be pleased by the potential fringe benefits. Instead, Angela Hernandez accepts it cheerfully and intends to use it to her advantage.

“How serious is the threat to Cali? You think this guy will come after her again? Alana's worried about it.”

“She doesn't look too worried.” I nod to where the star is standing with a man wearing a cowboy hat, laughing close to his face and massaging his upper arm with one hand while holding a martini glass with the other.

“Yeah, I know how it looks,” Hernandez says. “She's like this all the time in public. She could have two broken legs and she'd still be smiling like that. Tell me about what happened—I just heard the secondhand version from Alana.”

“I just saw the report for the first time today. I'd say it's pretty serious. And weird. The guy broke her kitchen window and tried to crawl through with a stun gun and a roll of tape. He didn't seem too concerned with stealth, although he did run away when an old family friend came along.”

“Any idea who he is?”

“Nothing definite. No prints or anything—he was wearing gloves. Anyway, I'm just getting started. How about the threats against Mom?”

She holds one hand in the air, palm to the ground, and lets it waver back and forth. “Like I said, I think she just likes bragging that she has a personal FBI agent. She gets boxes of the stuff. Threats, love letters, pictures, and all that. A few months ago some
demente
cut off his penis and mailed it. So now all mail coming into all her houses goes through an X-ray machine and then is opened by her private security staff. The only thing that's happened up here, though, is that some crazy fan broke into her ranch a couple of weeks ago and stole her old wedding dress and some other personal things. We should compare notes sometime. In the last few months I've become an expert on stalkers. Plus I have a master's in psychology.”

We exchange cards and arrange to have coffee on Monday morning.

“If you are who I think you are, it might be interesting to get to know you better,” she says, finally giving me a slight smile.

I look back blankly, pretending I have no idea what she's talking about. “I look forward to it. See you Monday.”

When she leaves, I'm left standing alone against the wall near the entrance. Cali is still with her mother at the bar, smiling as they talk with a circle of her mother's admirers. Aside from that group, everyone else in the place seems to be gawking in my direction. Their stares don't look friendly. Either they have figured out who I am or I've offended them all by accosting one of their stars.

A waiter comes by and I order a beer.

A half hour later I'm finishing my third Snake River Ale and still standing alone. Even though I'm not thirsty, the beers have been necessary because I have nothing else to do. Cali finally returns to end my awkward vigil. The times she had been in view between bodies and big hats I watched her put away at least three martinis. Now she looks a little unsteady on her high-riding heels as she comes toward me.

With her is a tall, older man, who I'd noticed earlier also alone on the fringe of the crowd. He is dressed in boots, jeans, and a Western shirt but they look authentic on him. The clothes are well used and not ironed or starched.

“Anton, I want you to meet my uncle Bill.” Then to Laughlin, “This is Antonio Burns. He's the cop who's investigating what happened the other night.”

He looks older than I'd expected, this legendary hardman. But then he must be in his mid-sixties by now. He'd been putting up hard routes in the Canadian Rockies long before I was born. Wrinkles pattern every inch of his tan face. But he still looks very fit, strong, and spare, with stooped shoulders from decades of carrying a pack in the backcountry. His white hair lies in wisps on a freckled skull.

“It's a pleasure to meet you,” I say, shaking his hand. It is calloused and I can feel the power radiating down through the sinews of his forearm. There's a tremble to it, too, that surprises me. I notice that the tremble runs through his entire body. “I've been up some of your routes in the Bugaboos. About five years ago my brother and I did Black Lightning on the North Face of Snowpatch Spire. If you don't mind my saying so, 5.9 A2 my ass.”

That makes him smile in a lopsided way. His eyes are wet and rheumy but sharp beneath the fluid when he looks at me.

“You didn't like my grades.”

“We felt sandbagged, my brother and me. And that must have been twenty years after you did the first ascent.” I recall reading in a guidebook that all Laughlin's early routes had asterisks beside them because, the editors believed, it was commonly known that they were often dangerously underrated so that a second ascensionist would have no idea what he was getting into.

He asks what other routes I'd done and I tell him. The memories are plainly visible on his face as I mention their names. He smiles at his drink and nods his head.

“Are you still climbing?” I ask him.

“Nope. Last time I tied into a rope was a long time ago. I lost the desire when I lost too many friends.”

The mortality rate was high for climbers of his generation, before there were modern means of placing protection. In his den my dad has a collection of photographs of friends and partners he'd lost in the early days. And he'd been nowhere as prolific a climber as Bill Laughlin.

“'Course,” he continues, glancing at Cali and nodding slightly as if in apology, “some of my best friends I lost in other ways.” Then he turns back to me. “You're looking after my girl, Officer Burns?”

“Yes, sir.” The
sir
is strange coming out of my mouth. I don't use the word lightly. But it feels natural when addressing this man. “I understand that you may have saved her life the other night.”

“Nah, it wasn't like that. I was just walking down the street. Can't sleep much these days—you think too much when you're old, so I do a lot of walking at night. Anyway, I heard glass break and saw a fellow trying to crawl in Cali's window. I yelled at him and he ran off. That's all.”

“Did you get a good look at him?”

“Nope. My vision's not what it used to be. And I think he was wearing something that covered his face.”

“Any idea of his size or shape?”

He shakes his head. “He was just a shadow. But he was no climber—could see that,” he adds with a smile. “That fellow was having a hard time with the window. Now excuse me, I think I'd better be getting home. I'm tired and I'm afraid I've worn out my welcome in these parts.”

Cali starts to protest but he holds up his hand. Instead of speaking she cuts a glare to where her mother is standing close to two men and smiling coquettishly as she sips from her glass, then Cali stands on tiptoe in her cowboy boots and kisses Bill Laughlin on the corner of his lips. I like watching her do it—I like watching the way the old man's eyes seem to light up and get even wetter.

When he's gone Cali says to me, “We need to go.” Her face is suddenly tight and there is a teaspoon-sized bulge of clenched muscle by each jaw.

“What's the matter?”

“Mom wants you—us—out of here, too. Danny and his pals are looking to make some more trouble.”

I know she added the “us” part to soften the blow of my being ejected from the party. Voluntarily or not, I'm happy to leave.

At the bar I see Danny Gorgon and his friends looking our way. It pains me not to gaze back, but then I could be stuck standing here for minutes in a childish stare fight. Instead I do something equally juvenile—I touch my forehead with the heel of my hand and give him a smiling wince—ouch!—to remind him of the way I'd bounced his head off the wall a half hour earlier. He doesn't smile back.

I remember a lesson my father taught my brother and me.
When you hurt a man, hurt him bad. You don't want him waking up in the morning thinking maybe next time he can take you. Thinking about revenge. You want him waking up scared, not mad
. From the look in Danny Gorgon's eyes I suspect I've violated Dad's rule.

It's full night when we get outside. The air is chillier now and Cali stays close by my side as we walk the two blocks back to the truck. I hear boot heels thunking on the plank sidewalk behind us. When I turn around there are three silhouettes about a half block away.

“How long are they going to be in town?” I ask, staring at the dark shapes.

“Two weeks. Ugh. They're doing readings for my mom's next movie. Development, it's called. Danny is going to play her love interest. He must be more than twenty years younger than her. By the way, that was really gross, what he said before you handcuffed him. So, even though Mom doesn't agree, I want to say thanks. But she's right, too, you know. You should just ignore them. They're bored and looking for some excitement. And guys like Danny, they don't have any limits.”