Sins of Our Fathers (9781571319128) (13 page)

“Come on.”

Pride let out another long snort and then lifted his head. He walked next to JW on a slack rope, right up to the gate. The boy looked amazed. He began heading down toward the paddock. JW made a kissing sound at the horse and reached out toward his rear end again. Pride stepped into a trot and moved into the riding ring with his head high and an eye on JW, but without any hesitation. JW tossed the lead rope over his neck as he went in and closed the gate behind him. Pride snorted and circled and came to a stop, watching him attentively as if waiting for the next order. It was the old magic.

The boy looked down as JW turned to him. “Can't fight nature, son. Gotta sweet-talk her.” He extended a hand to shake. “John White, but my friends call me JW.”

“Good for you,” the boy said, looking right at him but not offering his hand in return.

JW snorted at the response.

“Gimme my milk, you little punk,” he said and smiled.

The boy held it out, but then began to turn the carton to pour it out. JW snatched it out of his hand.

“Thanks,” he said. “You got a weak hand there? 'Cause it looked like you couldn't hold the milk up or something.” He turned and walked back across the street, jangling his keys in his pocket. He laughed and shook his head as the boy walked off toward the paddock.

“No wonder he doesn't like you,” he called. “You don't show gratitude, and you act mad all the time. Think about it.” He turned back toward his trailer, whistling “Sunshine.”

As he put a foot on the first step, he remembered the
neighbor. He glanced back over his shoulder, up the hill at the white brick house, but there was still no sign of life. He stepped up into the trailer.

The macaroni was burning.

He rushed to the stove, shut the flame off, and grabbed the smoking pot by the handle, burning his thumb and forefinger. He threw it clattering into the sink and turned on the tap. Steam filled the trailer as he sucked his burnt fingers.

10

Johnny Eagle's form leaped into focus in the oval field of JW's binoculars. He moved with a contractor through the pale ribs jutting up from the commercial building site. He looked excited, almost boyish, as he walked amid the carpenters, their air-nailers trailing pink and blue hoses. About half of the workers looked Native American. He could hear the phtt, phtt of the nailers through the open car window.

“I knew that son of a bitch was up to no good.” Jorgenson was irritated. JW took the field glasses down and set them on the dash before him. The two men sat in the plush leather interior of Jorgenson's new Cadillac. JW's seat creaked and emitted an aroma of kid leather every time he moved. “I mean, what the hell, ‘Nature's Bank'? How fucking pompous is that?”

The Caddy was parked diagonally in the corner of the PDQ store parking lot, facing the highway. JW took a bite from the Chuckwagon sandwich he had balanced on a paper napkin spread over his lap, and then refocused through the binoculars at the construction site across the road.

“Why the hell didn't you take the paperwork?” Jorgenson pressed him.

JW followed Eagle as he walked toward his black Bronco. He had forgotten how mercurial Jorgenson could be, and what a relief it was when he got the promotion and moved to Minneapolis. Trapped in his trailer home, in this plot of Jorgenson's,
JW had begun to wonder why he'd thought of him as a friend all these years. JW was only now coming to recognize some of his own blind spots, but Jorgenson seemed even less self-aware.

“He would have known,” JW replied, setting the binoculars back on the dash. “Besides, it's not necessary. Once they file their application with the comptroller of the currency, it'll all be public. I can text you a photo.”

“Don't. I gotta be hands off.”

Jorgenson's cell phone rang. The display said US Treasury. He pushed the glowing green bar on the screen.

“Ted! What did you find out? Uh-huh.” He cupped a hand over the phone. “It's a buddy of mine from Minneapolis, moved over to Treasury.”

JW examined the building site again as he listened to Jorgenson's conversation. The canopy had a concrete footing in the middle that divided it into two drive-through stalls. It was definitely a bank.

“It's already passed preliminary approval?” Jorgenson's voice rose as if someone had insulted him. “All right. Let me know if you hear anything else.” He touched the screen again and tossed the cell into the center console.

“Fuck.”

JW noticed he was pale and saw he was making a fist. “They'll be doing background checks in the next phase.” He glanced and pointed two fingers at JW. “You need to get back in there and find a reason for them to deny.”

“You should go through his loan app from last year,” countered JW. “Maybe there's an angle.”

“I did. Fucker makes himself out to be Mother Teresa, which is why you need to find some dirt on him. Something Treasury won't be able to defend to an angry public. Then we can pressure them to nip this thing in the bud.”

JW didn't really want to tell him about the bug, but suddenly felt like he needed to show some more progress.

“I planted a bug.”

“Really? You did?” His boss brightened immediately. “Why didn't you say so?”

JW shrugged and took another bite from the Chuckwagon.

“You are a crafty bastard, JW. People underestimate you at their peril.” He took a bite of his sandwich, smiling now and shaking his head. “I knew you'd come up with something. But I don't want to know any more. You pull this off, I'm telling you, you have a real chance here. Be good to have you rehabilitated.”

“I may have been seen.” There. He was out with it.

Jorgenson glanced at him sideways. JW knew that if he were ever caught it would cause serious legal and PR problems for the bank, but he felt he had to say something in case Jorgenson suddenly heard from the police.

“By who?”

“A neighbor. I thought I saw the curtain move. I knocked on the door, but there was no answer. I'm not positive.”

“We can't have any fingerprints on this, John. I told you that.”

“I know. I'll take care of it.”

Jorgenson glanced out his window and saw Deputy Bob Grossman getting out of his county sheriff's cruiser nearby. Without warning, he smashed his hand against the car's big horn.

“Jesus, Frank, wait, what are you doing?”

“It's just too risky. I'm sorry, but I've had enough.”

Grossman turned, his hand reflexively cupping his holster. Jorgenson yelled to him out the window.

“Bob! Frank Jorgenson. Can I have a word?”

The cop lowered his head, curious, and walked over warily. He put a hand on the roof and leaned down, looking in. His stern features softened.

“Frank, didn't recognize you!”

“New car. You like her?”

JW made eye contact with Grossman, who nodded to him. “JW.”

JW nodded back. “Bob.” His heart was racing.

“She's nice,” Grossman said, admiring the instrument panel. “Say, how come we never see you at the Rotary anymore?” His Old Spice wafted into the car, and JW noticed a gold rear molar glinting in the sun.

“I don't get up here much, I got banks across the whole state now.”

“Big shot, eh?” Grossman grinned.

“Yeah, well, what can I say?” Jorgenson shrugged nonchalantly.

“Well, I can't tell you how much the boys appreciate all the contributions you steer our way from the big dogs in Minneapolis. I think every business owner in town feels that way. You do a lot of good.”

“Well, JW brings some good ones in too, I'm sure—”

“Yeah, but he's puny compared to you, Mr. Statewide.” Grossman winked and grinned at JW, who shook his head in obligatory mock disgust. He and Grossman had run against each other for a city council seat several years back, and had both lost to a retired Republican environmental attorney who had moved up from Edina. The competition and shared defeat created a kind of poking friendship between them. Carol had called them “frenemies” ever since.

“Well, it's no problem,” Jorgenson said. “I'm happy to help. You know that.”

“Yes we do. Say, I tell you we're going to try a snowplow parade this year, like they do down in Frazee?”

“That'll be good,” Jorgenson laughed. A hot wind blew through the car. “Hey, I called you over because, well, frankly I'm a little freaked out. JW just told me he broke into a house on the reservation, and I need to report it.”

JW's heart sank. Jorgenson was selling him out. Grossman looked at him and the jokiness drained from his face. His eyes narrowed, and his bottom lip drooped a little. JW froze, his heart pounding in his diaphragm. The stories he had crafted raced through his mind, but they wouldn't work here.

“Frankly, I think you should arrest him,” Jorgenson continued, “because he didn't take a damn thing!” Jorgenson laughed and slapped JW on the biceps. JW smiled and nodded in return, masking his fury and pained embarrassment. Finally, Grossman laughed halfheartedly, realizing he had been the brunt of the joke in some way, or at least an unwitting player. Some months back a Native American had accused Grossman of stealing a shotgun from his house while executing a search warrant. It came out only later that the man's cousin had borrowed it to go coon hunting. JW knew it was a sore spot for Grossman, and he suspected that Jorgenson had intended to make a joke that was also a subtle jab.

“You had me,” he finally said, looking from Jorgenson to JW. “He's a funny guy,” he said, pointing at Jorgenson. Then Grossman punched him in the shoulder and walked off.

Jorgenson looked over at JW and erupted again. “You shoulda—” he got out between laughs—“you shoulda seen the look on your face!” JW was stone-faced, but he felt his jaw muscles clenching again. “Come on,” Jorgenson said and backhanded his shoulder. “We're on the same team here! Lighten up! Christ!”

JW smiled weakly and nodded. He glanced back at Eagle across the highway. He loosened his clenched fist. He briefly imagined being at the casino, playing a few hands, drinking vodka gimmies, winning real money. And then suddenly Grossman was back, leaning into JW's window this time.

“You know what I wish?” he said to them both. “I wish they'd all move. I don't mean to be racist—”

“Of course not,” Jorgenson said empathetically. It was an absolution often exchanged before slamming Native Americans.

“Half my god dang time is spent chasing after their punk kids or the drunk older ones. What do you suppose they're doing over there?”

“That's exactly what we were wondering,” said Jorgenson.

“I bet it's something to suck money out, right on the edge of town like that. Pawn shop or something.” He breathed hard through his nose as he studied it. “Well, you take care.” He rapped the top of the car door and straightened up. He hiked up his heavy belt and headed toward the convenience store.

“I'll call you,” JW said to Jorgenson.

“Don't fuck this up.”

JW nodded and got out.

He headed home down the narrow reservation road, kicking up a coyote tail of dust. The sides of his car—from the trim strips on down—were covered with grayish ochre again, and he found himself using the wipers to clear dust from his windshield when he passed through the thick clouds kicked up by cars heading in the opposite direction.

He traveled through various band settlements. There was a fair amount of construction underway in some places. The band was investing in tribal housing, building a number of cheap duplexes and some nicer single-family homes next to
old shacks. They had begun making per-capita payments a few years back. The checks weren't very large, in contrast to those cut by some bands, whose members become millionaires on their eighteenth birthdays. But they were large enough that some members used them to begin to build new houses for themselves. A Native American at the trading post had engaged JW in conversation while he got gas, and on finding out where he lived, the man told him this was why the trailer park was mostly empty now, and why some houses were only partially completed. They were waiting for their next checks.

The construction traffic—pickups, trucks pulling Bobcat trailers, cement mixers, employee cars, and delivery trucks—had slowly pushed the gravel into waves, creating a washboard surface. JW had learned to drive the road either very slowly, in order to soften the bumps, or very fast, so his wheels skipped over the tops of the waves. He was taking the second of these approaches when a slow-moving construction van pulled out of a job site just ahead, forcing him to slow down through the teeth-rattling phase in between. His windshield was immediately covered by dust as he entered the van's wake, and he turned on the wipers. He passed the job site and noticed through the ochre haze that the workers appeared to be drinking. One of them raised a beer bottle in a salute of sorts.

JW looked away. Why the hell, he thought, did the bastards have to confirm Grossman's sweeping generalizations so perfectly? But this abrupt reaction was followed quickly by recognition of the fact that Grossman's racism, like all good lies, was rooted in truth. The simple truth was that alcoholism and drug use ran much higher on the reservation than in the rest of society, and the tribal authorities didn't seem to really do that much about it. Nor did many Native Americans
seem to care much about doing away with their junk. There were collections of trashed cars, old bureaus, and sofas sitting out in their yards, and nobody seemed to care. Their dogs often slept on these sofas, or in junker cars. And then there was the story he had heard from the old Native American at the trading post: a couple he knew hung their keys on a nail high above their door when they went out drinking. That way they couldn't get back in and trash their own house while under the skull and crossbones. They slept on an old mattress on the porch until they were sober enough to climb for the key and let themselves back in.