Eagle, Kathleen (34 page)

They
took Crybaby for a short walk along the river after supper, enjoying the
newness and the surprising ease of being three together, caring for the moment
by not pushing into the future. It was too fragile for plans.

But
when Sidney disappeared to get ready to go to the gym, the talk turned to
intrigue. "What about this dealer who just quit?" Reese asked as he
handed Helen the dinner plates he'd dried.

"Disappeared."
She stowed the dishes in a cabinet. "Peter Jones. He was running a scam
that should have been caught by Security. Carter should have seen it himself
long before I told him about it."

"But
you did tell him."

"I
did." She sounded as though she shouldn't have. "He said he was going
to bust him, but the guy didn't show up for work after that. He didn't exactly
turn in his notice."

"Why
do you mink Carter missed seeing it? You think he wasn't paying
attention?"

She
shrugged, avoiding his eyes as she claimed two glasses from him.

"I
want to know what you think, Helen. In your professional opinion, is my brother
screwing his own people?"

"I
don't know." She sighed as she set the glasses on the shelf, still
withholding. She wouldn't let him see her eyes. "He's treading on thin
ice."

"That's
all you're gonna tell me?"

"I've
told you all along that my job is spotting card scams. I work for the BIA, not
the FBI, but they'll soon be involved." She turned to him now. "And I
won't be."

"The
FBI is supposed to be involved with finding out who killed my father. I guess
you know we're pretty cynical about—"

"Government
agencies and federal agents. I know, and with good reason. A long history of
good reasons, going all the way back to Indian agents selling rations and
letting children go hungry. And I won't say that's all
past
history. I
understand it still plays its part. I understand better than most white people
because the history affects me in a personal way." She leaned back against
the edge of the sink, crossed her arms. "You know what this Indian Gaming
Regulatory Act reminds me of? You're a student of history now, right?"

He
smiled. "Just like you and the ol' man."

"Okay,
bear with me, because this is a stretch. During the Middle Ages, the Jews in
Europe were pretty much shut out of the mainstream economy because they
couldn't own land. But the Church forbade moneylending, charging interest, so
here was a business that feudal society said the Jews could have, and welcome
to it. It was repugnant, sinful, and it didn't amount to all that much then
anyway. Much like gambling."

She
gave a graceful sweep of the hand. "Okay. Unofficially, America feels
somewhat guilty about the taking of land, the reservation system, taking the
children and marching them off to boarding schools—" She'd caught the look
in his eye. "Yes, Reese, I know the reasoning behind the Indian Child
Protection Act. Indian children were taken from their parents well into the
1960s, even the '70s; I know that. Adopted out, it was called recently, and
certainly it wasn't always a bad thing. I mean, a good home can't be a
bad..." She cast about, searching high and low for the compartments, good
and bad.

They
weren't there. They both knew that, but every time she backed off and said
"Okay," she started looking for them again, arguing with herself. It
amused him to watch her do it.

"Okay,
okay. You're right. My people always think they know what's best for your
people. But now that we have a son, it's more like
our
—well, at
least—"

He
churned the air with a rolling hand. "I'm still reaching for the 'much
like gambling' part."

She
recovered from her stammering so quickly it made him smile. When she was
instructing, she hardly missed a beat.

"Well,
of course, we keep trying to find ways to fix what we've done without giving up
any significant part of what we've gained from it. In the 1980s, when
high-stakes bingo began to spring up on the reservations, no one took notice
except the churches. Some opposed it on some sort of moral grounds, and
others—irony of ironies—said it was cutting into their Wednesday night fund-raisers."

"Then
some California Indians decided to add slot machines," Reese recalled,
"and the Supreme Court acknowledged that in states where gambling is
legal, the Indians had the right."

Helen
nodded. "When they passed the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act in '88, it was
like all these Puritans in Congress saying, Okay, let's let them have gambling.
It's repugnant and sinful, but it's a way for them to make a little money. It's
a business we don't want flourishing in our backyards. Indian reservations were
pretty isolated in their original design, so this sounded like a fine idea. It
would be an extension of charitable gambling, right?"

"We
could become America's favorite charity," he acknowledged, "if only
we had a telethon."

"But
the BIA was not prepared for the industry to spring up overnight. Suddenly the
money was there for Indian enterprise because non-Indian businessmen, domestic
and foreign, saw the potential for huge profits. And there were few regulations
in place. So these casino management companies continue to make out like, well,
one-armed bandits. But..." She laid a hand on his arm. "But, Reese,
some of these people have no sense of humor."

"So
I'm told."

"And
there are many people—powerful, well-heeled people—who would like to see IGRA,
the gaming act, repealed. Corruption in tribal government is good press for
their cause. They can say, See? Just goes to show that we shouldn't have any
laws that give unfair advantage to one group over—"

"Jesus,
tell that to the oil companies. Mining companies, logging, how about—"

"I
know." She nodded, smiling. Standing next to the sink, they could hear
water running elsewhere. Sid was showering. "Men take their games
seriously. Your father told a wonderful story about Iktomi, the spider, who
challenged Coyote to a game, then laid down the rules and proceeded to cheat at
every turn. When Iktomi collected the bet, Coyote said, 'Of course you won. You
must be playing by different rules.' Iktomi said, 'Not only that, cousin. I'm
playing a different game.' "

Reese
laughed. He had forgotten the story, but he would file it away this time, and
he would give credit when he used it.
This is what my father told my...
wife.

"So
how long do you think the IGRA is good for?" he asked her, his secret
thoughts spawning within him a secret smile.

Her
smile was apologetic. "I'd say, don't put all your profits back into the
casino business. Like your uncle Silo said—"

"What
profits?"

"The
profits you would be making if Ten Star were working for Bad River instead of
for Ten Star."

"Or
if people had listened to my father."

"They
are." She put her hand on his T-shirt-covered chest, splayed her fingers,
made his flat nipple jump to attention. But she went right on talking without
even saluting. "They're still hearing his warnings, but now you've begun
to add your voice to his, questioning some irregularities. These Ten Star
people have a way of cushioning themselves, though, Reese. So in answer to your
question about my professional opinion about—"

"Did
I have a question?" He was a smiling, tingling, love-happy fool, no
question. "Oh, yeah, waaay back there."

"About
whether your brother is screwing his own people, a question for which there is
no simple answer."

"No
shit," he muttered, rolling his eyes, still smiling.

"Deep
shit, actually. And if there's one thing I know for sure about being in shit
that deep..." She frowned as she ran her fingertips over the neck band of
his T-shirt, as though she wanted it to lay just so. "Screwing people is a
side effect, but it's not what you're about. You're too busy treading shit, you
see. That's all you can manage." Her eyes suddenly claimed his, and she
finally smiled. "Have I just ruined my image?"

He
grimaced. Not even the word belonged on his Helen's lovely lips. "But if
I'd come along when you were treading..."

She
laughed. "You would gag, choke, retch,
no dogs in my house."

"The
hell," he said indignantly to Crybaby, who was lying on the floor a few
feet away. "Would I say a thing like that? No way. I'd pull you out. I'd
reach right down there, shit or no shit, wouldn't bother me."

She
was laughing at him, shaking her head, rudely doubting his heroic boast. Had
him laughing at himself.

"You
want my answer or not?" she said, getting serious.

"I
want your answer."

"I
think it's very possible that, because of his debt, Carter's required to
overlook operators like Peter Jones."

He
glanced ceilingward, took a breath. "What about murderers?"

"That
I don't know. Maybe he can't see what he doesn't want to see." She spoke
quietly now, respectful of his worst fears about his brother's involvement,
those he gave neither voice nor credence to. "I've reported Jones's
disappearance," she said. "In fact, I'm waiting for a call on him.
They're trying to find out who he is."

"Could
you use his personnel file? If we can get our hands on it before somebody slips
it into a shredder?" She nodded and so did he, with a wink and a promise
as he traced the shoulder seam of her blouse with two careful fingertips.
"I'm thinking if we can put the people you're working with in touch with
the people who are supposed to be investigating my father's death, maybe one
hand might be inspired by the other."

"The
way mine are inspired by yours?"

He
touched her chin, smiling. "How does that work again?"

A
door opened on the other side of the apartment.

She
answered, smile for smile. "Your son is out of the shower."

"Why
did he think he had to take a shower before we go to the gym?"

"Because
he's going with you. And he's very excited. And he wants to be clean. In the
last six months
clean
has moved up on the priority list several
notches."

"Maybe
I should shower," he said, slipping his arm around her. "Do I smell
okay?"

She
laughed, closed her eyes, inhaled deeply. "You smell wonderful."

"You
guys are way too weird." Their slick-combed and squeaky-clean son was
ready to go."What time do they start?"

"When
everybody gets there, and we know of at least two guys still missing."
Boldly Reese gave Helen a quick kiss. It was not the kiss he'd had in mind, but
it was a kiss. "You're waiting for a call, right? Then you're coming over
to the gym?"

She
nodded. "If I'm not there by the time you're finished, come on back and
we'll have some strawberry shortcake."

Reese's
high school alma mater had been remodeled for middle school. What was now
"the old gym" had been available for public use since the new high
school had been built, but when Reese was in school, it was
his
gym. The
only gym. The first one in which he had dazzled basketball fans. His name was
enshrined on plaque after plaque on the south wall, as Titus Hawk was quick to
point out when Reese proudly introduced his son. He wanted to make a big deal
of Sid, but Titus was too busy extolling Sid's dad. Reese noticed the boy's
sudden shyness, and he realized that Titus's glib use of "your dad"
hadn't quite clicked with him yet.

First
chance he got—after he'd introduced Sid to his cousin John Bull and son,
Glen—he grabbed Tims and buzzed in his ear while the Bulls asked Sid about the
injured dog he'd brought in on a leash. "Don't make a big deal of all this
stuff, huh?"

"What
do you mean?"

"He's
just getting used to me. You're calling me his dad—hell, he doesn't know what
to call me. Haven't even heard him say my name yet."

"What
do you want him to call you?"

"Whatever
he's comfortable with. I want to be his father."

"You
want him to call you Father? That might take some getting used to. I know I'd
have trouble keeping a straight face." Titus punched him in the shoulder,
and they both laughed. "Relax. Shouldn't be too hard for him to get used
to being your kid. Now, if he'd just found out he was Dozer Junior, that might
be a shocker."

Dozer
deflected a ball somebody had lobbed across the gym as he approached them.
"Somebody call my name?"

Reese
surveyed the gym. Some guys were shooting baskets, others just arriving or
coming out of the locker room, many of them wearing Law and Order sweats or
T-shirts. This was going to be a big game. They'd have to run several lineups
to give everyone a chance to play. He waved at Gene Brown, then clapped a hand
on Dozer's back. "What I wanna know is, who's protecting our
streets?"

"From
what?" Titus scratched his chin, stroking his scraggly goatee. "We've
got most of Bad River's baddest right here."

"I'm
on duty, but even cops get breaks." Dozer tapped Reese's chest. "Hey,
they know where I am. I've got my Dick Tracy two-way wristwatch right here, and
if that fails..." He nodded toward Skeezix Ghost Horse, who was sitting on
the wooden bleachers, elbows on knees, radio in hand. "Dispatcher."

"Did
you hook up with the FBI?"

"I
did. Turned the item over to the agent in charge. He'll be getting back to us.
He said he could get a make on a vehicle, which would be a good lead. More than
he had. I told him why I was delivering it personally. He said he understood
where I was coming from." Dozer laughed. "What do you 'spose that
means? Maybe he's paid us a visit?"

"You
think he'll do anything?"

"I
think if we don't hear right away, you and me both go see him. I dropped your
name, but dropping your butt in his chair might be even better. Plus,
Titus—" Dozer plucked Titus's shirt. "Tell Blue what you brought him,
hey."

"Yeah,
I've got that file you were asking about. Don't let me forget. It's out in the
car."

"What,
you just—"

"Lifted
it right out of the drawer," Titus reported with a grin. "Didn't even
have to be too sneaky. Hell, I'm on the gaming commission, man."

"I'll
get it back to you," Reese promised.

"Hey,
Gene!" Dozer elbowed Reese as the big man with the shaggy black mane
ambled across the floor. "Don't say anything," Dozer muttered.
"Just be friendly."

"Without
saying anything?" Reese stuck out his hand. "Hey, Gene."

"Hey,
Blue. Sorry about the ol' man."

Reese
introduced Sidney, who was sticking close, hanging onto Crybaby for security.

"Jeez,
you're gonna be as tall as your dad and a whole lot better-looking," Gene
said as he shook Sid's hand. "Sorry about your grandfather."

"Thanks."
Sid looked up at Reese, as though checking to see whether he'd done right by
the condolence.

"We
haven't given up on finding the sonuvabitch that—"

With
a fierce snarl, Crybaby suddenly lunged, snapping the leash taut, hauling on
Sid like a sled dog. Caught by surprise, Sid watched his arm shoot out in front
like something that didn't belong to him as he was towed behind a yapping, snapping
Crybaby. The dog bristled like a porcupine. Reese shouted at him, but the
shepherd was fully focused on the man who'd just come out of the locker room.

Earl
Sweeney was terrified. He scrabbled up the bleachers, hollering, "Whoa,
whoa, mad dog! Get him away!"

Reese
lent his son a hand, hauled back on the leash, and scolded Crybaby. "What
the hell is wrong with you?"

Face
drained of color, Sweeney waved a hand as he scuttled up one more level.
"Get that mad dog—I'll kill him! I'll shoot the fucker!"

"He's
okay," Reese assured the man despite Crybaby's bared canines and continued
snarling. "He'll be okay."

But
people were laughing. There was even a hoot and a couple of howls. Sweeney
glowered across the gym, glowered at the dog.

Gene
Brown was holding his sides. "Damn, Sweeney, that dog sure don't like you
much."

"He's
a mad dog, that's why. Look at him!"

"I'm
sorry, Earl. I don't know what got into him. I've never seen him do that
before." Reese helped Sid get a firm grip on Crybaby before he approached
the cowering man. "Did he bite you?"

"It's
just you, Earl," Gene said gleefully. "You wearing your skunk oil
tonight?"

"I'll
take him out," Reese said.

"That's
all right, just hold him back." Rather than stand up and walk, Sweeney
slid to the near end of the bleacher seat, then skittered down like a crab.
"That's all right. I wasn't gonna stay long anyway. Guess I won't stay at
all. Guess I've got places to be." He shook a finger as he backed around
the end of the bleachers. "But you'd better get a muzzle for that dog,
Blue Sky. He's liable to bite somebody."

"He's
had a series of traumas lately, Earl."

"Tumors,
hell. He oughta be muzzled."

"Aw,
now, look, you've got him crying," somebody said, and sure enough, Crybaby
was whining, drooling, licking his chops. He wanted a piece of Sweeney.

"This
is Blue's father's dog," Gene said. "He was there when we found him,
Sweeney, remember? Watching over the body and watching that gate."

"Did
he go after you then?" Reese wanted to know.

But
Sweeney was making a beeline for the side door, humiliated by the laughter and
showing no interest in Gene's recollections or Reese's questions.

"Nah,
he didn't go after anybody that night, but Sweeney's scared shitless of dogs,
and they can smell it on him," Gene said as he let Crybaby sniff his hand.
Once he had the shepherd's approval, he scratched his head. "This is quite
a dog. He knows his job. That night he wasn't letting those horses out of the
pasture, no way."

"The
gate was open?" Reese sat down on the bench, glanced at Sid—who was all
ears since he hadn't heard anything about how his grandfather's body had been
found—then peered at Crybaby. "There was no stock out, I was told. No
reason for him to be out on the road."

"There
wasn't any stock out, but there would have been if it wasn't for this
dog." Crybaby whimpered, and Gene scrubbed his head some more.

"But
the gate was open," Reese repeated.

"I
closed it, yeah." Crybaby licked Gene's hand. "I don't blame you,
boy. You're a hell of a dog, and Sweeney's a sorry excuse for a cop,
so..." Gene looked at Dozer. "But I guess I am, too."

"Yeah,
but you're not a bad guard," Dozer said. Gene frowned a little, and Dozer
indicated the basketball court. Gene gave a wan smile.

"Dozer,"
Reese said, signaling with a jerk of his head that it was time for a two-man
huddle. Crybaby wanted to come, too. "Sid, hold onto him. He won't do that
again."

"You
sure?"

"He'll
be fine. Gene, introduce my son to—" Reese gestured toward the court.
"We're gonna have a game here in just a minute."

"What's
up, Blue?" Dozer wanted to know when they reached the cover the partially
opened bleachers provided.

"Your
break time," Reese said. He glanced at the exit sign above the door
Sweeney had used. "I'm betting a crime's about to be committed, but if you
hurry, I think you can catch him in the act." He pointed at Crybaby with a
chin jerk. "You're looking at the sweetest dog this side of the river,
Dozer."

"The
Bad River? We've got some mean rez dogs—"

"He
ain't one of them. Now, why do you suppose he'd be trying to eat Sweeney's
liver?"

"Sweeney?"
The answer dawned in Dozer's dark eyes. "Swee-neeey."

"Whoever
it was, he came up empty the last time. But now I'm here, and the dog's here.
And we're gonna be here for a while, along with most of the Bad River police. And
Sweeney's got places to be."

"You're
right, Blue. Damn, I just bet you're right." Dozer checked his watch.
"According to my Dick Tracy watch, my break time's up."

"Maybe
you'd wanna take somebody else?"

"Hell,
yes, you can ride along. This could turn out to be more fun than—"

Reese
saluted his friend, fist to fist. "This is your game,
kola.
Yours
and Gene's."

"Gene?"
Dozer glanced at the other cop, down on the floor now with the dog, while Sid
stood next to them, looking a little lost. "Good idea. Damn, you'd better
be right, Blue. I was gonna play on the other side to keep you from
scoring."

Reese
grinned. "I'm playing for my son tonight. Nobody's gonna keep me from
scoring."

And
hardly anyone did. Soon after Dozer and Gene left, the visiting players were
assigned to teams and the game began with a tip-off. Reese played for a good
time, played for the old times, played for the joy and the camaraderie. For the
sake of all those things, he played the facilitator. He fell naturally into the
role of coach, getting everyone into the act, all ages, all skill levels.
Inclusion was his gift. But because he was Reese Blue Sky, he was expected to
perform, and he couldn't disappoint. He couldn't resist throwing in the
occasional professional moment, the move no one on the floor could match. He
played to entertain, always had, because he had always understood what he was
getting paid for.

But
this time it felt different. For the first time in his life, he knew his son
was watching. His heart thrilled when he caught the look on his son's face
after Sid watched him snake his way to the basket, handling the ball as if he'd
cast a spell, pulling a trick out of the bag that still hadn't come up empty,
sinking an impossible shot. He'd done it for Sid.

"Blue
Sky is
in
the house!" Titus shouted the moment Reese's feet touched
the floor.

Yeah,
he sure was, and he looked right at his kid, who was in the house with him. His
kid was dazzled.

When
the teams changed, the two sat side by side on the bench and shared Reese's
bottled water. Reese's hair and T-shirt were wet from his exertion. Sidney
glowed with kid dew. He made a project of petting the dog, but Reese could feel
the looks he was getting from the boy, the unabashed staring that was rude in
his culture.

"Didn't
your daddy teach you not to stare?" He tried to let the boy know with a
look that he was teasing, inviting, and explaining all at once. "Indian
people don't—"

Sidney
dropped his chin to his chest and kept on petting the dog, but Reese saw the
sudden flush of embarrassment.

"Hey,
I was just kidding." He squeezed his son's shoulder, rocked him gently.
"What's on your mind, Sid? The way you've been looking at me, you gotta be
thinking up a storm."

"Just
watching you play is so amazing. You're so good." The boy looked up, still
red-faced. "I'm just thinking I can't believe you're my father, and I'll
never be that good."

"You
might be better, if that's what you want, but you don't have to be. You like
the game? Great. Enjoy it. Play it with me for fun."

"You
looked at me funny when I missed that easy shot."

"Did
I? Show me how I looked at you."

Sidney
re-created a slightly pained grimace.

"Get
outta here," Reese said with a laugh, rocking the kid's shoulder again.
"I looked like that? Must have been gas, huh?" He'd seen some version
of that expression on another Blue Sky face, and he had to wonder, now that the
tables were turned. Maybe it hadn't meant quite what he'd felt it meant.
"You ever see that look on my face, you flash it right back at me."

The
boy nodded, then flashed the look. They both laughed as Sidney attended to the
dog again. Reese had been right about his son and the dog. They were a natural
pair.