Winter Counts(63)

LATER IN THE EVENING, I called Tommy to see if he wanted to grab some food. I agreed to pick him up, and he offered to pay for the meals, having won some money again at the casino.

I honked my horn outside his little house.

“V dog! Good to see you. Where you wanna eat? Can’t go to the casino restaurant ’cause they might put me to work. How about the Depot? Kitchen’s open till nine. Pretty good burgers.”

“No, I don’t want to go there,” I said. “Too many people, too many problems.”

I never knew what sort of reaction I’d get at that place. Some people viewed me as a champion, others wanted to avenge a beating I’d laid down. “How about we drive down to Valentine?”

“Naw, that’s too far! Hungry like a mofo. Come on, let’s just run over to the Depot. You can go there once without getting in a fight, can’t you?”

“All right, fine,” I said. “You got cash?”

“Oh, yeah. Hit a pretty good jackpot, won at blackjack too. Still got a hundred left—bought all the drinks after my big win. Everybody wanted to be my friend, start up some skinships.”

“Heard you were getting friendly with Velma few nights ago.”

His face lit up. “Velma, yeah! She’s a real chili pepper—red and hot. Might go check her out at the dollar store tomorrow. But yo, there were some crazy cats at the bar last night.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Don’t think so. Some dude from Pine Ridge, he was tellin’ us that the Republic of Lakota is gonna happen soon.”

“What’s that?” I looked over at him.

“He said they filed some lawsuit to get back the land promised in the treaty of . . . 1869? 1864? Don’t know, but he was saying we’re gonna get South Dakota back, most of Nebraska and Montana too. And Wyoming! I forgot.”

“Right,” I said. “Where are all the white people gonna go?”

“That’s the best part. He said the Lakota government will set up reservations for the wasicus, give ’em commodity foods and open boarding schools for the little kids. Sheeit, I almost busted a gut! Taste of their own medicine!”

He laughed so hard that I had a hard time focusing on the road.

“All right, very funny,” I said.

“And oh, I forgot. There was some real strange dude there. He didn’t have no arms. Had a wooden arm and one of those metal ones with the hook.”

“Was he in the war or something?”

“No, that’s what I thought, too. He said it happened a long time ago. Told me he put his arms down on the railroad tracks, let the train cut ’em off. Dude said he had to sacrifice them to keep the world safe.”

“You messing with me?”

He shook his head. “Naw, it’s the truth! He was making all kinds of jokes, too, like sayin’ his piano playing wasn’t any good now. Wasn’t funny, kind of creeped me out.”

I’ll say. “The guy from around here?”

Tommy shook his head again. “No, white guy from Denver. Said his name was Gabe, Abe, something like that.”

In my head, I envisioned a man laying his arms down on the railroad tracks and having them taken off. How could a person do that?

“Was he drunk? I mean, not last night, but when he did it?”

“No, I asked him that. He didn’t mind talking about it, he wasn’t embarrassed or nothing. Said he wasn’t drunk or high, he was having a vision. Must have been some strong motherfuckin’ vision.”

A vision. I wondered if I’d have the strength to follow a vision like that.

We walked into the Depot. I hadn’t been there since I’d knocked the shit out of Guv Yellowhawk. I usually stayed away from the joint, but the hell with that. I had a right to a burger and fries.

We grabbed two spots at the bar. The place was already packed, and the noise level was deafening. CCR was blasting from the speakers, John Fogerty telling us he ain’t no fortunate son. I looked around the bar, didn’t see anyone with a major complaint against me. Yet.

“That crazy dishwasher still working here?” I asked Tommy.

“Who? Melvin? Don’t see him.”

Melvin Two Bulls had been working at the Depot for years, getting paid in food, beer, and a few bucks under the table. His only drawback as an employee was that he had the habit of taking a shower by using the spray hose by the dish machine, so you’d occasionally get a glimpse of a naked man hosing down his parts.

“I’m getting a cheeseburger. Rare. What about you?” I said.

“Yeah! Some french fries, too. But good luck gettin’ a rare burger here.”

“I thought maybe you were getting spoiled by that fancy food at the casino.”

“That’s some good stuff—most of it—but you can’t beat a burger, am I right? Lack don’t serve no beef, says it’s the food of the suppressors.”

“Suppressors?”

“Suppressors, oppressors, whatever. Just gimme some cow. Dang, I’m starvin’.”

We gave our orders to the bartender. Tommy ordered a Bud, I got a Coke.

“Yo homes, how’s it going with Nathan?” said Tommy. “He okay?”

“No, he’s getting some shit at school. They’re pulling that iyeska crap on him. Told me he wants to drop out.”