Another Man's Moccasins

I folded the rest of the clothes and returned them to the properties bag, popped the knife in, and carried the collection out to Ruby in the front office. I sat on the corner of her desk and threw my gloves in the wastebasket. Dog looked at them, but I told him no and reached down to pet his head. “Thanks for coming in on a Sunday.”

She smiled. “I had things to do on the computer anyway.”

“We may have to call the Ferg.”

“He’s floating the Big Horn. You’re not going to be able to get him until tomorrow, if at all.”

I sighed. “Still no word from Saizarbitoria?”

She shook her head no, looking past me at the unconscious ex-sheriff asleep on the bench behind me. “There’s Lucian.”

“Uh huh. How about Double Tough and Frymire?”

“Repaired to their respective lairs, to lick their collective wounds.”

I nodded. “Any word from DCI or the HPs?”

She looked like she was tired of answering my questions. "No.”

Ruby didn’t have to work weekends, but nine times out of ten she’d be here, answering the phone and keeping the machinery of Absaroka County’s law enforcement juggernaut staggering forward. I reached out and gave her a playful poke on the shoulder. “Hey, did you hear about my fight?”

She batted the neon-blue eyes in all innocence. “I hear he wiped the floor with you.”

“He did.”

“Aren’t you getting a little mature for that kind of foolishness? ”

I felt the bandage patch and the knot at the back of my head. “He was fighting; I was just trying to escape with my life.” She shook her head at me, and I decided to change the subject. “How about my daughter and the Cheyenne Nation?”

“As of an hour ago, they were finishing up lunch and going to work out.”

I made a face. “That’s my job.”

“They thought you might be busy.”

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I can’t continue with my responsibilities.” I stood, feeling out of the loop, so I changed the subject again. “I guess we should start by checking the VA here in Durant and the one over in Sheridan; maybe they’ve heard of the guy. An Indian this big is going to be hard to miss.”

She studied the sad resolution in my eyes. “What’s the matter? ”

I avoided the highly calibrated, direct, blue lie detectors that reflected up at me. “Maybe I should just go see if she’s all right.”

She covered her smile with a hand and turned back to her computer, all mock seriousness. “Maybe you should.”

I stood there, valiantly attempting to cover the ground where I stood. “Henry doesn’t know her workout schedule.”

She still didn’t look at me. “Right.”

“I think I’ll go down there.”

She nodded. “You do that.”

Having set everybody straight, I headed down the crumbling steps behind the courthouse, past the Uptown Barbershop and the Owen Wister Hotel, and went in the alley entrance of Durant Physical Therapy. I was almost halfway up the steps to the old gym when I heard Henry’s voice, patient but persistent. “Two more...”

Tan Son Nhut, Vietnam: 1967

“No.”

She looked at me, hurt and not understanding, recrossed her legs under the silk yukata, and smoothed the Stars and Stripes on her lap. The military newspaper had become her version of See Spot Run.

It was early at the Boy-Howdy Beau-Coups Good Times Lounge, and we were the only ones there. The bartender, Le Khang, would come in a little after six and make coffee but would quickly depart when he figured there was no profit margin in my custom. The last three mornings he hadn’t shown up at all, leaving the coffee making to Mai Kim. She was always in the bar when I was there, always anxious for another English lesson. She had dragged a stool over from the bar and sat there, perched in anticipation.

She took a sip of her coffee; she didn’t like coffee but felt that drinking it advanced her cause in becoming American. She cocked her head. “More lesson, yes?”

“No.” I blew a breath from my distended cheeks and tripped my fingers along the piano keys, abusing Rachmaninoff’s Concerto no. 2 in C Minor, which matched my mood in the key of melancholy. It was the Adagio sostenuto that my mother had imprinted into my soft head, evening after evening. Somehow, the Harlem Stride didn’t mesh with the quiet mornings just off Tan Son Nhut’s Gate 055.

Not dissuaded, she unfolded the wrinkled and yellowed copy of Stars and Stripes. I had been doing my part for the winning of hearts and minds by working with her on her English. She had settled on an article warning against using C-4 explosives as a field-cooking implement and was miffed that I’d shown little enthusiasm for her presentation. She cleared her throat and sat up straight. “Cookie with fire...”

I automatically corrected her. “Cooking, not cookie.”

“Cooking with fire...”

“Mai Kim, I really don’t feel like doing this this morning.”

She straightened her paper with a brisk gesture to let me know she wasn’t pleased with my interruption. “What matter with you?”

“Nothing. I just don’t want to do this right now.”