The Highway Kind(69)

“Over fifty bucks?” Jeff asked. “C’mon. Right.”

Lorenzo didn’t smile, seeming to be thinking on something new. “The most important thing is that Faith choose the right medicine woman,” he said, cigarette hanging from his mouth. “Me and the boys built her a sacred teepee and later we’ll burn it down. I guess there’s not much else I can do for her now.”

“I’ll get you your money.”

Lorenzo nodded and scooped up the keys to the Bronco. “You better.”


“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” Jeff’s brother-in-law said. “It just sounds all so fantastic.”

“As fantastic as you in a werewolf suit solving crimes?”

“I don’t solve crimes as the werewolf,” he said. “The detective turns into a werewolf only when there’s danger or he feels threatened. He can’t think rationally when he’s the werewolf. Come on, man. You’re the writer. You know how this shit works.”

“I have to stay on the rez again tonight.”

“Until the puberty dance is over?”

“Yes,” Jeff said. “Exactly. And if I can win just one hand, I’ll go back to poker. Blackjack isn’t working for me.”

“You know that truck is in a chop shop in south Phoenix right now,” Jeff’s brother-in-law said. “Or have you really lost your mind this time? Not just faked a complete mental breakdown like when you wanted to go to India.”

“They want me at the bonfire tonight,” Jeff said. “They promise I don’t have to pay for the mescal and beer. That tonight it’s on them. I’m a real invited guest of the tribe.”

“I’m so glad for you, Jeff,” the brother-in-law said. “Next time, call your sister instead of me. I don’t have time for this crap.”

Jeff walked to the bonfire at twilight, sat down on his butt, and watched the dance of the mountain gods, shirtless men wearing black hoods and what looked to be tall candlesticks on their heads jumping around and chanting to a ceaseless drum. Soon, a bunch of girls in white buckskin began to dance, moving around the fire, their faces painted a bright white, ornate necklaces jangling from their necks. Faith, one of them, pretended not to see him.

“It will stay on the woman’s mind her whole life,” said the medicine man. He’d snuck up on him. It was the same old man who’d prepped him to wrestle Faby Apache. The one who looked a lot like Chief Dan George. Hoffman had been so damn good in that movie.

“What about the boys?” Jeff said. “What do you do for them?”

“There’s not a ceremony like this for boys,” the medicine man said. “A boy is like a lost dog. He must find his own way.”

“How’s that?”

“We all have our own path, our own journey to manhood,” he said. “I served in the Marine Corps.”

Jeff took another drink of the mescal, still looking to the bottom of the bottle for the worm but not finding it. “No shit?”

“Two tours of Vietnam,” said the medicine man. “That sucked big-time. The ladies understand ceremony. Boys this age only want to fondle themselves and get drunk.”

Faith came to Jeff later, her face painted white, dried mud from chin to below her eyes. She spoke with tight skin and a stoic face, having to be stoic because of the whole no-smiling rule. In bare feet, Jeff had let her inside the small casino hotel room where the AC unit hummed and hummed. She wore white buckskin and feathers in her hair. Her black eyes were very large and dark. She was hopped up, excited with energy, talking so fast Jeff had trouble following. “I want to give you something.”

“Why is your face white?”

“To represent the White-Painted Woman,” she said. “In the morning, after dancing all night, I will run around the sacred basket four times and wipe the clay and mashed corn from my face. The giant teepee my brothers built will fall and burn and then I’ll be a woman.”

Jeff nodded. “Sure.”

The girl took his hand and pressed it to her chest. “Do you feel this?”

“Yes,” Jeff said. “Yes, I do.”

“I am almost a woman.”

“I’m more than twice your age,” Jeff said. “I can’t accept what you want to give me. They could put me in jail. It’s wrong. Your brother would murder me.”

The girl with the white-painted face narrowed her eyes and shook her head. Beads around Faith’s neck clinked softly. She smelled like clay and cornmeal.

“Maybe in a few years,” Jeff said. “Maybe if I get my movie produced. It’s still being optioned by David Schwimmer. He was Ross on Friends. He wants to produce, direct, and star in it. I don’t think he’s ideal for the part. But I buy him as the trader. He talks smart and fast.”

“What you feel is my heart,” Faith said. “Not my boob. And my gift isn’t my womanhood. You know I’m not a woman until the morning?”

“Oh,” Jeff said. “Of course.”

“I must get back,” she said. “I am to be imbued with the spirit of Changing Woman. Changing Woman is powerful. She has the ability to heal the sick, help the weak-minded. People have come from all over the rez to be touched by the spirit of Changing Woman.”