Winter Counts(60)
I nodded.
“The US had this deal for white settlers, called, ah, depredation claims. Turns out, if you were one of them settlers moving to Indian Country and you got attacked—got your horse stolen, cabin burned down, whatever—you could file some paper with the government and get paid back. In full.”
“Yeah, so?”
“Well, I been thinkin’. What about an Indian depredation claim? Why don’t we submit some claim sheet asking for what’s been taken from us? Our land, our kids; shit, what about the buffalo? Waylon told me the wasicus killed fifty million buffalo! Buffalo we needed to survive! Tatanka, you know what I’m saying?” He made little buffalo horns with his fingers and put them on his head, simulating a bison.
“Tommy, the government isn’t gonna give any money to Indians, not ever. Best we can do is hold on to what we got.”
But as I thought about it, I liked the idea more and more. Depredation claims. If something was stolen from you, all you had to do was file a claim and your losses would be restored. How about a depredation claim of the heart? Maybe I could file some form to get back the years I’d grieved for my mother, father, and sister. Or maybe I could submit a claim to have our dignity returned to us, sealed in an official envelope, the sins of the past magically wiped out, gone like the buffalo.
THE NEXT DAY I heard from Dennis, who was handling the details for the trust buy. He told me Nathan wouldn’t wear a wire for this transaction; this was a small purchase so Nathan could gain some cred with the dealers. Nathan would buy the black tar—just one hit—and bring it back to the cops, who’d verify it was heroin. Dennis said this small amount wasn’t enough to build a full-scale case against them; they needed either a larger purchase of dope or a sale on school grounds. That would come soon after the first buy. I’d asked if I’d be able to watch the purchase from a distance, but he said no. There’d be no cops at the scene, to preserve Nathan’s credibility, but he’d have the burner phone with Dennis’s number on it. If he felt anything was going wrong, he was to call the number and say the emergency code. If the cops heard that message, they’d immediately go after Nathan. Safe words.
The plan was that Nathan would buy the drugs right after school, then bring the stuff back and make a statement on the record. Dennis would come to my house so that Nathan didn’t have to drive to the police department after the buy. That made sense, because there was no point in risking a sighting of Nathan with the police. Word traveled fast around here. The moccasin internet.
On Friday afternoon, there was a knock at the door, and Dennis walked in, dressed in street clothes. Jeans and a T-shirt embossed with an image of Mount Rushmore on the front. If he was trying to blend in on the rez, he was doing a pretty piss-poor job.
It was strange to have him in my little shack. Marie brewed some coffee and set out some sunflower and dried berry cookies she’d made. The weeks she’d spent at the restaurant with Chef Lack learning how to cook indigenous foods had paid off. She was constantly experimenting with new dishes, and the pantry was stocked with varieties of wild rice, flours, and nuts. It had taken me a while to appreciate some of the stranger dishes she cooked, but I liked most everything.
“Any idea how long he’ll be there?” I asked Dennis.
“No. I told him to act natural. Maybe he’ll stick around a while, listen to music, play a video game. But don’t worry, he knows to call if things get weird.”
“How many people are there at the place?”
“From what we can tell, about six or seven. We’ve been surveilling them and doing trash analysis for the last month. Your guy Rick Crow comes and goes, two locals from the reservation, and four gangbangers from Denver. We’ve positively identified one of them, the one called Loco.”
“Yeah, Nathan mentioned him. Thinks he met him before. Said he’s got a pretty bad rep.”
“I’ll say,” said Dennis. “We’re not sure what he’s doing here. He’s the tax collector for the Aztec Kingz back in Denver.”
“Tax collector?”
“The guy who collects money people owe to the gang. The enforcer. Customers, people in the gang’s territory, affiliated gangs, gang members themselves. They have to pay what’s called a ‘gang tax.’ That’s the cash they owe for the right to call themselves an Aztec King.”
“What happens if they don’t pay?” asked Marie.
“If you’re lucky, he just roughs you up. If you’re not, you get shot or tortured. There’re a lot of stories about necklacing and all that, but that’s not really done here.”
“What’s ‘necklacing’?” asked Marie. “It sounds bad.”
“Uh, yeah. It’s when a tire is filled with gas and slipped around the vic’s chest and lit on fire. The Mexican cartels do that when they’re in a turf war. They’re pretty creative when it comes to executions. Acid baths, decapitations, boiling alive, they do it all. But that stuff’s just for show. In the States, gangs don’t have the time or energy for that crap. I’ve never heard of it happening here. Well, once.”
Necklacing. I wondered what I’d gotten Nathan involved with.
WE DRANK COFFEE, ATE, and waited for Nathan to come back. Dennis went out to his car to make some calls.
“What are you doing tomorrow?” Marie said. “Maybe you want to come by the restaurant for dinner. I’ll make you a bison burger and some wild rice soup.”