Two Medicine (28 page)

“
Perfect,” I said
cheerily, smiling at him as he shook his head.

I spent the rest of the
morning on his computer, tracking down the names of the men on the
Blackfoot council, where and when the council met, and anything
regarding contact info for Alia’s foster parents – anything, in
fact, that helped tell me what her life was like in Browning up
until the day she died. My plan was to find out from the tribe if
they had known of any trouble or danger she was facing from anyone,
and what they knew about Alia’s life before her last few
days.

I also wanted to talk to
her last foster parents, and even with the bastard who had molested
her, but I didn’t know if he would still be living in Browning
after such a scandal – and he had probably gone to prison anyway. I
knew it was a stretch – looking up her old fosters – but I had so
little to actually work with that any specific idea I had gave me
encouragement.

As I punched a few letters
on the keyboard I remembered Alia telling me that that foster
couple had worked at the high school, and there was only one school
in Browning, so I just had to find out who the married couple was
at the school where one was a teacher and the other a cafeteria
lady.

Finally, at noon, Greg and
I drove off in Ronnie’s car – and two more unlikely murder
investigators there certainly never were. Greg said that his ranger
truck would attract too much attention and cause the locals to be
wary, as they were with any law enforcement, so we drove in the
jalopy. I felt a giddy excitement as I drove into Browning, but
Greg just stared sourly out the side window on the drive in.
Nonetheless, despite his moodiness I felt happy for the first time
in a while – happy to have a purpose now, to be taking a step
towards some kind of answer. Any answer.

Twenty-Two

It was once “Indian
country”… as Larry liked to say. But now Browning was a wasteland
of asphalt and grime, garbage, plastic bags, and empty liquor
bottles. An old town, a
thin
town – drab, empty, store fronts and muddy
streets, trashy, weed-filled medians next to cracked, concrete
curbs, junk and cars in peoples’ yards, completed the scene. There
was a flatness to the town that contrasted with the souring,
snow-tipped peaks you could see off in the distance. If anything,
the distant mountains on the horizon in Glacier just made Browning
all the more depressing. Even the name “Browning” was
gloomy.

I could see why Alia would
want to come to my quaint and homey store at Two Med, it was like
being on a different planet than Browning – a planet just 15 miles
away. Bars and “cigarette outlets” were plentiful in Browning
because the tribe had tax-free situations that brought a lot of
profit through those avenues. This was before casinos became legal,
however.

Greg and I parked in front
of the address I had found online where the council met once a
week, but as we got out of the car I thought we had gotten the
wrong address because the building’s sign read “VFW – Veterans of
Foreign Wars – Post 364” and there was nothing about the Blackfoot
tribe listed anywhere on the front of the building.

I looked at the
hand-scrawled address on my notepad that also had the address for
where the last two sets of foster parents may be living now, and
this was it for the council. I looked at Greg and he just shrugged.
The building looked more like an old bar than anything else, with
tinted windows and, strangely, a couple of neon signs with beer
company logos. Greg looked like he was regretting his choice to
come along as he surveyed the bar.

As we walked up to the
front of the building, I noticed a guy sitting in the doorway, and
he somehow looked familiar. Upon getting closer, I realized with a
shock that it was Jake, the brother of Clayton, who I had met
briefly at the lodge bonfire. He still had on the same mirror
finish aviators and was sitting motionless, leaning with his back
against the door. His long hair was brushed straight back, and was
moving a little in the breeze. He had on an old sleeveless t-shirt,
and faded jeans. It was actually an iconic image – this Native
American against a dilapidated backdrop, in mirror finish glasses,
proudly and sternly staring out into the distance, obstinate, an
exile, with nothing to do but stare and wait – but for what? I
figured it was just as possible that he was drunk, sitting in front
of bar at noon because he had nowhere else to go.

He didn’t turn his head or
even move a muscle as we walked past him and into the door of the
meeting place/bar. Maybe he was passed out cold.

Greg and I went in and our
eyes had to adjust for a second to the dim light inside. The VFW,
at least this part, was just a bar, and there were a few old guys,
a younger guy, and a fat older woman sitting at the bar – even at
this hour. I thought of Scotty then, and his theories of day
drinking. He’d be right at home here. A skinny, older lady with
huge, saggy boobs, and with bright yellow dyed hair with dark roots
showing was bartending. There were two old TVs mounted above the
bar, the screens facing down towards the bar at an angle, and some
video poker machines were set along a far wall.

One old man was sitting in
a slouch in front of one of them, playing each of the machines in
turn from his one chair, leaning back lazily to reach across to all
three panels, just punching button after button, watching the
screens. Mounted and framed pictures of old veterans in their
uniforms – the black-and-white photos faded in the light, ringed
the room from wall to wall, as did flags and medals of past
military valor hung here and there.

Greg had worn his ranger
uniform, since he was just on a break, and we had everyone staring
at us as we walked up to the bar. I nodded at the
bartender.

“Hi, we’re here to find
out about talking to the council…” I was trying to sound casual as
if it was a totally normal for a stranger and a park ranger to walk
into a bar at noon on a weekday and ask to speak to the chief of
the Blackfoot tribe. “I found an address for them – here,” I said,
trying to show her the notebook page, “but I have no phone number
or anything.”

“The council meets here,
right?” Greg butted in.

The bartender just stared
at Greg and me for second, and then jerked her head over to a door
that was on the other side of the bar, which led to the rest of the
building.

“
They have their meetins’
in there every week,” she said. “Next one’s next Wednesday night I
believe, but they don’t let strangers attend...” She looked over at
one of the older guys at the bar. “Bill? You know how these guys
can get a holda’ Norm and the rest of them?”

The guy named Bill was
eating peanuts out of a bowl, and looked up at us and just shook
his head.

The bartender turned back
to us and shrugged. “Bill’s Blackfoot Nation,” was all she said, as
if to explain his behavior. I looked over at “Bill” and he didn’t
look Native American at all – more like an out of work truck driver
and white as me.

I looked back to the
bartender. “Is Thunderbird here?” I asked doubtfully.

She snorted, and looked
over at the others in the bar. “Thunderbird? Har har har…” She
laughed harshly and then wiped her nose with her wrist. “No he
hasn’t been around here for a while.”

“
But he’s on the council?”
I asked, but then Greg stepped in.

“
Do you know how we can
contact Norm?” he said. “It’s on Park business and he can probably
help us.”

The bartender regarded
Greg dubiously, and then said, “He’s in the white pages.” She
walked over to one of the customers at the far end of the bar, and
pulled out a beer for him from the freezer below the bar, prying
off the top with a bottle opener what was attached to the
counter.

I looked to Greg and he
just motioned for me to follow him out. “Look Will,” he said as we
walked towards the car, “tribe business is private
here.”

“
I think I got that
impression,” I said. I looked over and saw that Jake was gone from
his doorstep perch.

“
In fact,” Greg continued,
“everything to do with the tribe is private here. They hate
outsiders mixing in their business.”

“
So how do we talk to
them?” I asked.

“
Through your buddy, I
think,” he smiled at me, and I guessed his meaning.

“
Thunderbird,
right?”

“
Think of him as the
ambassador of the council, a kind of Henry Kissinger or Hillary
Clinton,” Greg said teasingly.

“
Fine, I’ll talk to him –
whatever…”

“
We gotta find him first,”
Greg said, surveying the town around us as if he’d spot Thunderbird
meandering down the street.

“
Well it’s a weekday… Does
he have a job somewhere?”

“
I think he’s on social
security disability,” Greg said. “Or it could be veteran’s
benefits, I suppose.”

“
Super...” I groaned. “He could be
anywhere
.”

“
No,” Greg said, with a
crafty smile, as a new thought dawned on him. “I think I know where
we can find him.”

We drove over
a few miles to the other side of town. On the way,
Greg tried to explain more about the makeup of the Blackfoot
Nation.

“
You go to a tribe
gathering, one of their celebrations – a ‘powwow,’” Greg explained,
“and you see all kinds of people: those that “look” Native American
in a stereotypical sense – the skin tone, the Asian features, the
hair, the stature, the Browning accents… but others that don’t have
any of those traits will always be hanging around too – white guys
that dress “Indian” and try to believe they are, try to mix into
the tribe.

“
Even though the Blackfoot
roll their eyes and resent them trying to latch onto their history
and culture, they are always around. But also, you’ll get true,
provable members of the Nation whose lines are so mixed with whites
that nobody could ever find out what percentage native they
actually are.

“
Mix in with that all the
rest: the New Agers, hippies, psychics, holistic healers, artists,
junkies, musicians, political groups, radicals, and every kind of
fringe scene that attend those gatherings, and you have quite a
crowd. We’ve had trouble with the powwows in the past – when
they’ve been in park territory – they can get pretty wild. These
days Native American powwows look more like Woodstock than anything
it used to.

“
But
there’s two sorts of powwows, really,” he said. “There’s the ones
that are held for
just
the tribe and members of the Blackfoot nation, and
then those that are open for tourists – or “Woodstock,” more a
theme park than anything else.”

“
Which one is coming up?”
I asked.

“
The private
one.”

Greg shook his head and
stared out the side passenger window at the passing buildings and
vacant lots. “Back in the old days at the private tribe powwows –
the real ones – the tribes would have traditional, ancient games,
planned dances and sweat lodges, religious teachings, historical
teachings, crafts for the kids, language workshops, all great stuff
– true heritage stuff. Now it’s so different.”

Alia tried to tell me about it once,” I
said. “It sounds like a crazy scene.”

Greg nodded “Another
reason why they don’t like outsiders.”

Almost out of town but
still on the main road, but quite a distance from anything else, we
drove up to a large parking lot. Greg directed me to a building in
the distance that was next to a large billboard. The billboard
read: “The Candi Store” and below it: “Gentlemen’s
Club.”

I looked at Greg in the passenger seat of
the junker when I read that, “You can’t be serious.”

Greg smiled and nodded, “Thunder hangs out
here all the time, so I’ve heard. Anyway that looks like his bike,
so we’re good.”

Greg pointed out one of
the only vehicles at the place – it was Thunderbird’s beat-up
Harley, for sure.

My spirits feel at the
depressing sight. “What a dump. First a run-down bar, then a strip
club… this investigation is off to an encouraging
start.”

“
That reminds me,” Greg
said, looking at his watch. “I got to go back to work. I’ll drive
Ronnie’s car back and you can call me when you need a ride,
later.”

“
You’re leaving now?” I
asked, looking over at the blacked-out windows of the club. “Will
it even do any good talking to him in there?”

Greg undid his seatbelt,
and looked at me. “Will, you wanted to investigate. Well, here you
are…” He gestured over at the strip club. “Investigations often
lead you to places you normally wouldn’t go –that’s how it was for
my father. And things get messy. Think of it as a cop would – just
a place to get some info… and a lap dance.”

He chuckled as he opened
the car door and got out. He seemed not only a little amused as my
predicament, but also a little relieved to be getting out of there.
How would it look for a Glacier Park Ranger to be hanging out at a
gentleman’s club on duty?

I stepped out. A black
“POW” flag hung lazily on a pole next to the club; it swayed to and
fro in the breeze, the summits of mountains stood behind it far in
the distance, catching the last orange-and-red rays of a setting
sun. Somewhere in those mountains was Two Medicine store and my
home.