Hallowed Ground (26 page)

I wanted to point out the (popular) county commissioner who had played a shell game with federal funds shared equal responsibility for the demise of the range along with the Medicine Wheel Holy Society.

“Now they’re findin’ dead bodies.” He spit again. “Heard you were up at Bear Butte with that Indian guy when he was shot.”

I nodded.

“Why?”

“For a case I’m working on.”

As one, their hard gazes zoomed in and fried me like a bug in a zapper.

Dale asked, “Who’re you workin’ for? The tribe? Or that greedy contractor from the rez?”

His vehemence didn’t surprise me.

“Can’t imagine your daddy’d be happy about either one of them payin’ your bills,” Maurice added slyly.

“My
Daddy
,” I emphasized through clenched teeth, “doesn’t have a damn thing to say about how I make my living.”

“Maybe he should. Maybe you oughta listen to him, instead of messin’ in something that ain’t none of your business.”

Stung, I retorted, “But the Sihasapa tribe legally putting a casino on their property is somehow
your
business?”

Dale got right in my face. “Damn right it is. We ain’t gonna sit back and do nothin’ while this county goes to hell in a hand basket. We’ll show’em we’re more than just a bunch of dumb ranchers that they can push around.”

A strange sense of déjà vu crept over me. “Show who?”

They didn’t exchange a smug look. In fact, they didn’t look at each other at all, just glared at me.

“Are you guys planning something?”

I swear crickets chirped in the immediate silence.

“Is my father in on this?” I said to Don.

“Why don’t you ask him?” Dale sneered.

“Because I’m asking Don.”

Don seemed torn, but Maurice wasn’t. “See? That’s why Doug don’t tell her nothin’. He’s got no idea where her loyalties lie.”

My bow nearly crashed from the amount of angry sweat covering my palm. “True. But Sheriff Richards knows exactly where my loyalties lie. Maybe I should talk to him?”

No one moved or answered, so naturally I felt perfectly entitled to goad them some more.

“Or Red Granger? He might be real interested.”

Maurice laughed. “You do that. Maybe when they spout their same tired lines then you’ll figure out you’re on the wrong side.”

Side? What side? When had I time-traveled to the late 1800’s where grazing rights, water rights and land disputes had turned neighbors into enemies?

“I’d watch my step, if I was you,” Dale warned. “Better yet, since you don’t seem to have a problem stayin’ away from your dad, maybe ya oughta keep away ’til this is settled.”

God. Were these guys, my father’s friends, threatening me?

“Let’s go,” Maurice said.

Dale trotted after him like an eager pup.

Don hung back for a second.

“What the hell is going on, Don? Talk to me.”

“I can’t. For your own good, Julie, drop this case and stay away,” he said quietly before he climbed in the truck.

I watched the dust plumes chase the fence line until they evaporated into the atmosphere, leaving clear blue skies, but no sense of peace.

So much for releasing my pent-up energy. I was more frustrated now than before.

AFTER I UNLOADED MY EQUIPMENT I DEBATED ABOUT what to do.

Hiding out at the office had potential. But Kevin would use it as his escape pod. He needed a break from reality much worse than I did.

Kevin. Was he overwhelmed with the demands of Lilly’s grieving family? Same story for Martinez dealing with Harvey?

I drove past the ranch. Dad wouldn’t talk to me if I stopped at the house, especially if Maurice, Don, and Dale had alerted him to my presence. He’d be spitting mad. I was not in the frame of mind to handle his temper. Plus, with the Browning in my possession I might be tempted to use it on him.

At home, I changed clothes and cars. Successfully avoided Mrs. Babbitt. I drove aimlessly for several miles. On a whim I headed to Sturgis. T-shirt vendors had already set up tents along Lazelle Street. Vultures. The motorcycle rally was still weeks away.

If they were locals I’d cut them some slack. If anyone deserved to make a few bucks from the doctors, lawyers, and stockbrokers who rolled into town posing as “bikers”, it was Sturgis residents who put up with two weeks of hell.

These vendors were from California—according to the plates on their Haulmark trailer. They’d take their profits out of state.

I followed 385 until I hit Boulder Canyon. Don’t know what I hoped to accomplish in Deadwood, but it beat sitting around twiddling my thumbs.

Rock cliffs lined the twisting road. The DOT had broadened the goatpath into a real road a few years back. Some Black Hills residents had cried foul, arguing widening the road would make the historic drive lose its charm. Evidently those naysayers hadn’t followed a fifty-foot motor home driving 25 mph up the canyon, with no chance to pass, stretching what should’ve been a twenty-minute drive into forty.

One thing the new improved road hadn’t done was decrease the amount of fatal accidents, especially during the Rally. Diamond shaped signs asking, “Why Die?” were staked along the embankments, marking where some motorist had crashed.

A main draw to the Sturgis Rally was South Dakota does not have a motorcycle helmet law—great for feeling the wind on your face as you take in the breathtaking vistas of the Black Hills—bad when your bike skids out of control, throws you over the handlebars and head first into a rock the size of Mt. Rushmore.

Mottled patches of sunlight filtered through the pine trees. I caught a glimpse of the creekbed running along the left side of the road. Dry as a bone. Even at this higher elevation we hadn’t had much snow in the last few years. Not only do the farmers and ranchers suffer during a drought, winter sports—skiing, and snowmobiling—do too.

With the windows rolled down, and the cool darkness of the canyon soothing my mind, time zipped by and soon I was climbing the last, steep craggy hill into Deadwood.

Deadwood. Notorious Old West town, home to Calamity Jane, Seth Bullock, Poker Alice, Potato Creek Johnny, and William Butler Hickock—otherwise known as Wild Bill.

Thank God Deadwood doesn’t look anything like it did during its heyday in the late 1870s. No rickety-ass boardwalks leading to cheaply constructed saloons and whorehouses. The street, which in the goldrush days was ankle deep mud mixed with animal shit, had been repaved, cobblestone style, thanks to historic preservation funds.

A few buildings, the brick ones lucky enough to survive the various fires over the last 130 years, are still standing. The Old Style Saloon #10 where Wild Bill played the infamous dead man’s hand. The Adams House, now a museum, and The Bullock and The Franklin hotels. The unique underground tunnels, dug by Chinese immigrants and used as opium dens, were closed to public tours because of the dangers of cave-ins.

In the early 1980s Deadwood was practically . . . dead. The push for legalized gambling brought it back from the brink of extinction. Back then, Lead, Deadwood’s sister city, was the economic center. Then Homestake Mine pulled up stakes in 2001, abandoning the formerly lucrative gold mine and the hundreds of workers who’d been dependent on it.

Although gambling had saved Deadwood, in some ways it’d destroyed it. The quaint corner drugstore, the family owned grocery market, the clothing boutique, and the barbershop all vanished. The only businesses you’ll find on Main Street Deadwood are gaming halls, a souvenir shop or two, restaurants and bars supporting gaming, and hotels—new and old—catering to bus tours and low stakes gamblers.

I’m not a gambler. I work too damn hard for my money. So I wasn’t familiar with the location of the casinos unless they had a restaurant.

I drove slowly to avoid hitting tourists who apparently didn’t realize Main Street was actually a
through
street.

Bingo. The Golden Boot. I kept driving until I found Trader Pete’s. They were on opposite ends of town. I pulled into the parking garage halfway between.

A nasty metal machine spit out a parking stub. Like most Midwesterners, I hated to pay to park.

I emerged from the dungeon into the sunshine.

As I waited at the intersection, I surveyed the jagged fire escapes bumping out of the bowed backs of the buildings, like ugly scars on old skin. Some were made of metal, some of wood. A wide alley, walled off from the street, ran parallel to the road. I debated on ducking in the back door of Trader Pete’s, but with various delivery trucks clogging the passage, I walked until I hit Main Street.

Muzak blared from loudspeakers, so no matter where you went you were subjected to yet another crappy instrumental rendition of “The Girl from Ipanema.”

Trader Pete’s didn’t impress me. Decorated in the standard bordello fare: heavy red velvet curtains, flocked wallpaper, gargantuan chandeliers, gold painted molding, fake tropical plants, vibrantly jewel-toned carpet. And the main focus: dozens of slot and video poker machines.

I meandered up to the cashier’s cage. Didn’t have a lick of cash to my name so I wrote a check for a whopping twenty bucks. The gum-snapping granny gave me an odd look at the small amount, half pity/half curiosity.

Tempting to ask if she was Rondelle’s friend Robin, or if she’d known Rondelle. But the cops would start canvassing soon and I didn’t want her remembering I’d been here nosing around before they’d released Rondelle’s name. The row of cameras sporadically blinked, the red light reminding me Big Brother was watching.

I grinned and blew it a kiss.

With my tube of quarters and five rolls of nickels, I hunkered down in the nickel slot area in the far corner away from the more lucrative Blackjack and Poker tables. One thing I did like about casinos; I could smoke and no one could bitch about it.

I’d made a tidy profit of fifty-five cents, was enjoying my cup of warm Coors and my fifth cigarette when the chair beside me screeched. I didn’t glance up from the blue glow of the video screen, it’d just encourage the intruder to talk to me. I was feeling highly antisocial, because, hey, I
was
winning.

A couple of bad hands sent me back to my starting point of two bucks. I cashed out, figuring I’d give another machine a chance at making me rich before trying to sneak upstairs.

Don’t know what I expected to discover. With the amount of security cameras I’d probably get caught, but it was worth a shot. My situation with the Carluccis couldn’t get worse, could it?

I heard Kevin groan in my head.

Better to cross paths with them in a public place than to wait for them to come at me again when I didn’t have control of the situation. Since Martinez and Kevin were unavailable, like it or not, I was on my own.

I scooped my nickels into a cardboard cup. I’d drained the last of the beer when a person behind me said, “If all our customers quit while they were ahead, we’d go out of business.”

My stomach plunged. I lowered the beer cup to the ledge near the ashtray and spun in my chair toward the voice I’d immediately recognized.

Reggie.

I stood and jiggled the container of nickels. “Well, I don’t expect that my paltry donation to the Carlucci coffers will add much to your retirement account, Reg.”

“You always such a wise ass?”

“Yep.”

“What’re you doin’ here?”

“Gambling. Drinking. Admiring the décor.” I pointed to a sparkling chandelier, which would’ve made Liberace weep with jealousy. “Think that’s too formal for my dining room?”

He towered over me. Damn, if it didn’t send my heart galloping like a Pony Express rider.

“Cut the shit,” he said. “Who sent you?”

I peered around him. “Where’s your buddy? Tommy, right? How come he’s not helping you harass me? Thought you goombahs were joined at the hip?”

Reggie’s eyes burned fury. “Answer the question, Ms. Collins.”

I couldn’t tell if he knew Tommy was dead. He sure as hell didn’t act like he was in mourning.

“I’m up here because I was curious, okay? Rondelle told me about this place. I was in the neighborhood and wanted to check it out for myself.”

His shark grin chilled me to the bone.

“You’re in luck then, because Big Joe wants to see you in the office. Right now.” He pressed his big beak to mine. “Maybe if your luck holds, he won’t give you a personally guided tour.”

Oh double crap.

“Come on.” He grabbed my right elbow.

Big mistake.

Intuitively I dropped my arm, brought it around the outside of his forearm and knocked it away.

The change bucket went flying; nickels pinged against the metal machines and bounced on the carpet like silver raindrops.

I shoved the swivel chair between us.

“Don’t you ever fucking touch me again, Reggie. I’ll talk to Big Joe. But if you lay one fat finger on me I will hurt you bad.”

Reggie adjusted the sleeve of his ugly silk suit, glaring like I’d somehow soiled it. “
You
gonna hurt me bad? Or you talking ’bout that fuckin’ slimeball spic Martinez?”

“Me.”

“Try it and I’ll show you the meaning of hurt. That little tap I gave you coupla days ago will feel like a love pat, compared to the pain I can cause you.”

“Make you feel all macho, threatening me?”

“We’ll see how tough you are when Big Joe gets through with you.” He frowned and shoved his hand in his jacket pocket, pulling out a slim cell phone. “Shame you’ll probably disappoint him.”

Stall, stall, stall
, my brain insisted. “What about my nickels?”

“Forget them.” His pencil thin lips twisted; he allotted me an insulting once over and an Elvis-worthy sneer. “Unless you need them to make the monster truck payment this month?”

“Oh ho. That was a real knee slapper, Reg. Maybe you oughta ask Mr. C. to put in a comedy club so he could buy you a sense of humor.”

Since I’d tagged his punchline, he snarled, “Get movin’. He don’t like waiting.”

I shouldered my purse. I’d half expected he’d breathe down my neck, poking my spine with the big gun bulging beneath his suit jacket. Again, he mustn’t have found me much of a threat, as he kept his back to me. Hadn’t he learned anything from what’d happened to Wild Bill?