Authors: Margaret Coel
“Are you Jennifer?”
“I’m Marcy,” she said. The breasts moved closer.
He tried to ignore them. “What time does Jennifer come in?”
The bartender set two whiskey sours on the tray. “Nobody here by that name,” he said, his eyes fixed on
the waitress. He was six feet tall with the neck and shoulders of a bull and a forehead that sloped upward into a receding hairline. Father John guessed his age to be about forty.
“Take it easy, Herb,” the waitress said. Picking up the tray, she pivoted on her high heels, leaning toward Father John. “Catch you later,” she whispered before moving away.
The bartender swished a white cloth over the bar, mopping up the moisture rings. “So, what’s it gonna be?”
“Coffee,” Father John said.
“Irish coffee?”
“Nope.”
Stepping sideways, the bartender picked up a glass coffee pot from a hot plate and poured steaming brown liquid into a mug. He walked back and set it down. “I thought I knew all the cops around here.”
“I’m a priest.”
Inflating both cheeks, the bartender blew out a stream of air. “You don’t say. That’s how come you look familiar. You’re that priest I seen on TV works with them Indians over on the reservation.”
That was right. Father John asked where Jennifer was working now.
The bartender shook his head. “How would I know? Never heard of her.”
“How about Marcus Deppert,” Father John said. “You heard of him?”
“This ain’t no Indian bar. You must be lookin’ for that place up the highway, the Get-Along. That’s where them Indians hang out.” The bartender walked down the bar toward the cowboys, who, Father John noticed, had stopped talking and were looking his way.
Father John took a drink of coffee. How did the bartender know Marcus was an Indian? The bartender was lying. People lied for many reasons: to hide something, to protect themselves, to hurt someone, or just out of sheer perversity. What was Herb’s reason?
Whatever the reason, Father John knew he wasn’t going to get any information at the bar. He stood up, fished some coins out of the front pocket of his blue jeans, and set them next to the coffee mug. The cowboys swiveled around almost in unison, watching him. He felt their eyes on his back as he strolled to the pool room.
The pool table took up most of the space, allowing barely enough room for a small table at the far end. Cues rested in a rack hung on the wall, and a black-and-white television blared a hockey game from an overhead shelf in one corner. Cheers went up as the puck sailed past the goalie. Rangers, two; Sabres, zip.
The two cowboys playing pool ignored the television, their attention on the pool table. They looked like brothers, medium height, wiry, with brown hair combed straight back, pink cheeks, little mustaches. They both wore cowboy boots, blue jeans, and long-sleeved western shirts—one red, the other blue—like a hundred other cowboys from ranches nearby.
Red Shirt stretched low over the table, sighting the cue. Then his arm pulled back and quickly sprang forward in a smooth stroke. The loud
whack
gave way to the
clack-clack
sound of balls shooting over the table. The four ball and six ball spun into the side pockets. He took another shot and two more balls pocketed. He circled the table, studying the lays, calling each shot before sinking the balls. The last was the eight ball, which rolled into the corner pocket as he had predicted. He
straightened from the table, a wide grin creasing his face.
“Jesus. You lucky son of bitch,” said Blue Shirt.
“Pay up.”
Turning sideways, away from the bar, the cowboys leaned together, hands touching briefly. Then Red Shirt whirled around. “You wanna shoot?”
Father John shook his head. “I’m looking for someone. A girl named Jennifer. She used to work here.”
The cowboys exchanged a quick glance.
“Why you lookin’ for her?”
“She knows a friend of mine. Marcus Deppert.”
Blue Shirt laughed. “You must be one of them guys loves Indians. Yeah, I can tell by lookin’. One of them do-good, liberal types. Traitor to his own race.”
“Do you know her?”
They both shook their heads, and Red Shirt turned his attention to chalking his cue.
Father John took off his parka, tossed it onto the small table, and lifted a cue out of the rack. Poking his index finger and thumb into the little pocket of his jeans, he extracted a folded bill. Ten dollars. It was the last money he had. He set it on the rim of the pool table. “If you win,” he said to Red Shirt, “it’s yours. If I win, you tell me what you know about Jennifer.”
The cowboys stared at each other, a mixture of amusement and challenge in their faces. Then Red Shirt said, “Deal.”
Father John chalked his cue, trying to remember the last time he’d played pool. Grace House. There had been a pool table in the rec room. But had he played? Much of his time in treatment was a blur. Before Grace House, he’d played at the prep school where he had taught. He liked to challenge the kids once in a while,
and sometimes he got beaten, but not often. Before that, his uncle’s saloon on the street level of the apartments where he’d grown up. He and Mike would wander in and shoot pool in the afternoons waiting for their mother to finish work—she had been the cook in the saloon. He had learned to play pool from the best sharks in Boston.
Red Shirt tossed a coin.
“Heads,” Father John said.
“Too bad.” The cowboy quickly pocketed the coin. He racked up the balls. Stretching his lanky body along the cue, he took a long stroke that blasted the balls across the table. The three ball banked off the rails before dropping into a corner pocket. He put a lot of English on the next shot—a beauty. Two balls in the side pockets.
Father John stood quietly watching. The cowboy could shoot the eyes off a ball. He was going to walk out of here with the ten dollars and anything he might know about Jennifer.
The next shot was easy. Red Shirt looked up and smiled as he drew back the cue. A mistake, Father John thought. The cowboy was showing off. You couldn’t get cocky at pool. You had to stay focused.
The sharp
clack
of the balls sounded. The two ball spun toward the side pocket, caught the edge of the bumper, and jumped back. Too much draw.
Now it was Father John’s turn. He walked along the table, eyeing the best shot. Red Shirt had left a bad lay. Finally Father John spotted the shot. He pointed to the pockets he intended to hit and leaned over. The heft of the cue felt natural, his swing loose and fluid, as if his muscles remembered what his mind had forgotten. There was the
whack
and the
clickety-clack
of tumbling
balls. The ten ball found its pocket, then the thirteen went down.
He felt his confidence returning, the familiar focus and intent of all the times he had stood on the pitcher’s mound, as if the game were all. He couldn’t make any mistakes. If Red Shirt got back in, he’d clear the table. He called the next shot, then sank the fourteen ball, leaving a good lay for a double. Another stroke put two more balls in. Then he sank the nine ball.
Only the twelve ball remained—a tough shot. He would have to bank off the cushion to put on just the right amount of speed. Too much and the ball would spin off course. Not enough, it would stop short.
The cowboys were quiet. Cheers went up on the TV. Father John closed off the sounds and nodded to the pocket.
Whummp.
The twelve ball took the hit and careened sideways before dropping in. Now the eight ball. He indicated the center pocket and sank the ball. An easy shot.
Father John picked up the ten-dollar bill and stuffed it back into his jeans pocket. “What’s Jennifer’s last name?” He kept his voice low.
Red Shirt removed a cigarette package from his shirt pocket, shook one out, and stuck it in his mouth. “Smith.”
“Smith?”
“Hell, that’s what she said.” The cowboy in blue shrugged. “She was a drifter. Drifted up here from Cheyenne following the cowboys after Frontier Days.”
“Yeah,” Red Shirt said. He had lit the cigarette, and smoke curled out of his nostrils. “Us cowboys got groupies just like rock stars.”
“Where does she live?”
“She never took me home with her.” Red Shirt faced his partner. “How about you? You get lucky?”
“Yeah. In my dreams.”
“What happened to her?” Father John asked.
“Up and gone one day.” The cowboy in red threw back his head and took another drag from the cigarette. “About two weeks ago. Maybe old Herb out there tried to get inside her little panties. Wouldn’t blame him none. She had one tight little ass on her.”
“Not to mention a couple of gorgeous bazooms.” His partner cupped both hands on his chest and did a little jig. His boots snapped against the tile floor.
“Ever see her boyfriend around?” Father John asked.
The room was silent except for the static noise on the TV and a woman’s laughter floating in from the bar. A curtain began to descend over the cowboys’ eyes. The one in red stepped back, stubbed out the cigarette on the floor. “The deal was the girl. Debt’s paid. Interview’s over. Time for a beer.” Swinging around, the two cowboys started for the bar.
Father John threw on his parka and followed. Silence fell over the bar as he threaded his way past the tables, almost all of which were now occupied. Outside, the cold air smelled new and clean. He took a deep breath. Innuendo, sly exchanges, and a lot of theory, that’s all he had. He was getting nowhere. The police would have to find Marcus. But would they? In the meantime the Depperts, old and alone, were waiting, fearing the worst. He had to keep on. Before Sheldon succeeded in closing down St. Francis, he had to find out what had happened to Marcus Deppert. The problem was, he didn’t know where to turn next.
He was about to get into the Toyota when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw a shadow flit across the side of
the building. He spun around, adrenaline pumping, expecting a couple of cowboys to be on him. The figure darted in front of the pickup. It was the waitress. He felt his muscles relax.
“Wait,” she called, picking her way toward him over the ice and snow, coatless, hunched forward, hugging her arms. “I heard Herb say you’re that priest that works with the Indians.” She moved close to him. “I’m sorry about in there.” She nodded toward the bar. “You know, my comin’ on to you like that. I didn’t know you was a priest. I mean, you just look like this sexy guy.” Gone was the shaky confidence. In its place, fear. He could sense it.
“That Indian guy you’re lookin’ for,”—she dropped her voice to a whisper, even though they were the only ones in the parking lot—“he might be dead.”
Father John felt his heart sink. “What are you talking about?”
“Those cowboys at the bar, they beat him up real bad.” The girl was shivering so hard, her teeth were chattering. Father John took off his parka and placed it around her shoulders. “Tell me about it.”
“A couple weeks ago, Marcus come to pick up Jennifer, just like usual. They were . . . together, you know. Well, the guys inside was waitin’ when him and Jennifer come out, and they grabbed him and took him over there.” The girl’s head flipped toward the back of the building. “Jennifer come runnin’ back in screamin’ for me to call the police, but Herb said if I did, I’d get the same. Then he pushed us out here and made us watch. Said that’s what happens to Indians that sleep with white girls. After they got done, they tossed him in his truck. Herb told Jennifer never to come back. I’d have left too, if I didn’t need this fuckin’ job.”
She glanced toward the front door, the spotlight reflecting in her eyes. They had the look of a deer caught in the sights of a rifle. She went on, “I shouldn’t be talkin’ to you, but I been so stressed out. I can’t stop thinkin’ about it, like maybe I’m some kind of witness to murder.”
“Where does Jennifer live?” Father John asked.
The girl shook her head. It was like a shudder. “An old place over on Locust Street near Tenth. It’s got a black picket fence in front. Only she’s not there no more. I been by a couple times. I think she must’ve took off.” Slinging the parka around, she handed it to him. “I gotta get back before Herb sees me gone.” She turned and started running, the high heels skidding on the ice.
Father John sat in the Toyota thinking a minute. It was the worst he’d feared. Marcus was dead. But it hadn’t happened the way he’d figured. He’d had it all wrong. The elaborate scheme involving Susan and the three white men—they had nothing to do with it. No wonder Vicky had gotten so angry. She’d had every right. Marcus had been beaten to death in the parking lot of Herb’s Place.
Dear Lord.
But then what? Had Jennifer panicked? Tried to dispose of the body in the ditch on Rendezvous Road, then returned for it? That didn’t make sense. Why would the girl protect the thugs in the bar? Why hadn’t she taken Marcus to the hospital? Neither hospital had any record of Marcus Deppert.
Father John flipped on the ignition. The engine whined as he turned onto Highway 789. Traffic was light. A couple of trucks and a semi thundered past, shooting snow and ice into the air. He drove north with the traffic, praying silently for the soul of Marcus Deppert, hoping the young man had lost consciousness
early and hadn’t suffered. There was nothing else Father John could do now, except notify Banner, who would notify the Riverton police and hope they followed up.
But first he intended to check Jennifer’s house, on the chance she might be around. He wanted to know about Marcus’s last moments in case the old people asked him. He found Locust Street and drove north to Tenth, not wanting to admit it was probably a wild goose chase. The waitress said Jennifer had taken off, and the cowboys had called her a drifter. She had probably drifted on, like a storm that blew across the plains.
The street lights formed a corridor of light ahead, making the black fence easy to spot. He pulled in next to the curb. The house was dark, except for a trace of light around the curtain at the front window. He might be in luck.
He walked up the snow-bordered sidewalk, his boots creaking against the black ice. A storm door stood slightly ajar. He pulled it open and knocked on the inner door. It was quiet inside, the quiet, Father John thought, of a still, human presence. He waited before knocking again. Slowly the door opened the width of a chain, creating a long sliver of half-light. A young woman’s face peered cautiously around the edge. “Who are you?” Her voice was high-pitched, like a child’s.