Winter Counts(50)
After I was done smoking, I decided to go to the casino early. Our little gaming house was nothing like the huge Indian casinos in Connecticut or Minnesota. Those casinos were near big cities, so they had a massive population to draw upon for their customers. The closest town to our local gambling den was Valentine, population two thousand. Not only that, but there was another casino over in Pine Ridge and plenty of them up in Deadwood. Some wasicus believed all Natives were rich because of casino earnings, but our casino barely broke even, much less provide any profits to tribal citizens. But I liked our little gambling house. It was a good place to relax and visit with people, even though I didn’t drink anymore.
I showed my ID and entered the main room. A cloud of cigarette smoke drifted over the gamblers like a cancerous veil. I sauntered past the slot machines to the tiny bar to get a Coke. The one advantage we had over the neighboring Pine Ridge casino was that we served booze, although there was no real bar area or any place to sit down with a drink. As I approached the bar counter, I saw Tommy. Even though it was late morning, I could tell he was already three, maybe four sheets to the wind.
“What are you doing here so early?” I said.
“Hey Virg! Shit man, good to see you! I’m playin’ some slots, trying to get on a winning streak. I’m hurting for coin, trying to win a few dollars. Got a shutoff notice, had to pawn my guitar. You playing blackjack?”
The blackjack tables were closed.
“No, just hanging out. But I’ll watch you play. Let me get a soda.”
“You spot me a beer? I hit the jackpot, pay you back.”
I came back with the drinks and watched Tommy hit the buttons on the slot machines.
He won a little bit and kept playing. Eventually he hit a pretty good jackpot—fifty dollars.
He turned to me excitedly. “See, I told you, homeboy! I knew I’d win, just gotta have faith.” He started singing. “You gotta have faith, faith, faith. Who was that song by? George Carlin? Sheeit, I don’t know, let’s go get a drink, on me.”
I sipped a fresh Coke while he downed a Bud Light.
“Never seen you drink a light beer before. What’s up with that?”
He laughed and spilled a little beer down the front of his shirt. “Watching my weight, am I right? Naw, I was drinking with my friend Ivan last night, he picked up some light brews at the off-sale, I kind of liked ’em. You know Ivan?”
I shook my head.
“He’s a cool cat, I think he’s Navajo, Pueblo, you know, one of them desert Indians. Met him at the Depot. Dude really knows about music, played me some shit I never heard before. But he started freaking me out. Said he could start fires with his breath, ’cause he’s a, uh, pyrocardiac, something like that. Told him to show me but he wouldn’t do it, said he might burn us. Sounded like some booshit, but I got outta there anyway.”
“Crazy,” I said, and looked at my watch. I had to get to lunch with Marie, her mother, and the chef. But then I had an inspiration. “Hey, you want to come along for lunch? At the restaurant here? Marie and her mom are meeting with that chef guy from California.”
I realized having Tommy along could take some of the pressure off me. I also knew that Marie’s mother detested Tommy—she thought he was a buffoon—and it tickled me to bring him along, just to irritate Ann Short Bear.
“The dude with the food truck? In the house? Hell yeah, I’ll go.”
We made our way to the other end of the casino. The restaurant was a large room with banks of pulsing fluorescent lights overhead, and about twenty plain tables. Marie’s group had already been seated. Marie was sitting at the corner, wearing a floral print blouse I hadn’t seen before. Next to her was Chef Lack, dressed in a black cook’s uniform with a silver pendant in the shape of a turtle. Then there was Ann Short Bear, wearing an expensive-looking brown pantsuit and a large turquoise necklace, along with her dog, Ava. Of course dogs weren’t allowed in the restaurant, but Ann claimed that she was an “emotional support animal,” and no one dared tell her she couldn’t bring her mutt wherever she wanted. Ava was a bichon frise with fluffy white fur and a perky, happy disposition. This was no rez dog, living on the streets and scrounging for scraps, but a pampered, happy canine. I liked the tiny dog and was glad Ann had brought her.
“Hey there,” I said, “room for two more?” Tommy and I pulled up chairs and sat down. I hugged Marie and greeted Ann, who responded with a curt nod.
“Virgil, Tommy, this is Lack Strongbow,” Marie said.
I shook Lack’s hand, and Tommy stuck out his arm for a fist bump and said, “How you doin’? I liked that food you was serving the other day, especially that meat pudding! You gotta show us how to make that stuff, it was the bomb!”
Lack smiled. “Thanks, that was bison terrine. I make it with salt, sage, and the secret ingredient, a little wojapi.”
“Lack, tell us again what wojapi is,” said Ann, beaming at the chef.
“It’s chokecherries, simmered with some honey or maple syrup.”
“I think my grandmother used to make that,” Marie said. “I remember eating it when I was a kid.”
“I’m not surprised. It’s the traditional berry soup that most Natives used to cook. My people made it with chokecherries, blackberries, and red currant.”
“Who are your people?” I asked. Marie frowned at me.