Winter Counts(7)

I rode past the big tipi-shaped building of the tribal college, then down Main Street with its small collection of businesses: the dollar store, the pawnshop, the off-sale liquor stand. The little motel where they used to sell Indian tacos. All the churches established by missionaries long ago to convert the heathens. The car repair shop where my uncle had spent most of his life before dying of diabetes. The snack shop where my mother had eaten her last meal.

I pulled up by Rick’s trailer, the gravel crunching under my tires. Ben had said Rick was in Denver, but I’d be careful anyway. No telling who might be poking around out there. As I walked over, I tried to slow my breathing, which sounded too loud in my head.

The trailer looked abandoned. There were no cars around, but that didn’t mean it was empty. It was one of the corrugated metal types of trailer homes, with ridged gray sides like an old battleship. The front door was closed. Faded beige curtains covered the tiny windows so I couldn’t make out what was inside.

I wasn’t sure, but I thought I heard some rattling coming from within. I took my handgun out—a Glock 19 with a standard magazine—and crouched behind a bush. If anyone came out, I’d have a clear shot if they tried to mess with me. Who could be in there? Maybe kids looking for drugs?

Another noise from inside. I wished I’d left my bike down the road and out of sight, but it was too late for that now. The seconds ticked by slowly as I waited for someone to come out. Then a sound like something falling came from inside the trailer.

I was done with this shit. I pulled my gun up and slowly moved to the door. I waited for five seconds, then made my move. I stood back and kicked the flimsy door. It made a crumpling sound as it gave way, and I nearly fell on my face as it opened.

“Who’s there? Come out now!”

My eyes adjusted to the light, and I saw a window was open, the wind blowing in. Trash was scattered all over, and there was a large hole in the corner of the floor. The wooden floor had rotted out, leaving the pink insulation exposed. It looked like dirty cotton candy. Feeling foolish, I slowly moved to the little bathroom and stuck my head in. No one in there, just a filthy toilet and more rubbish. One room left.

The bedroom door was ajar, and I pushed it open with my foot but stood back in case anyone took a shot. I waited a few seconds, trying to stay as still as possible.

No gunfire, so I slowly moved inside the doorway. There was no one there either, just a small bed, a dresser, and more trash. I relaxed a little.

I poked my foot in one of the piles on the floor. It looked like mostly food wrappers and empty beer cans. I didn’t see anything that looked like heroin. I started going through the drawers. Nothing, just an old phone directory, matches, ballpoint pens, and a few razor blades.

Then I saw it. Son of a bitch.

A package of balloons, the little ones used to wrap up heroin and other drugs. Sure, they were just balloons, but I didn’t think Rick Crow was having too many kids’ parties in this shithole. I felt anger rising up through my spine like a red wave.

But a bunch of balloons didn’t prove anything. Ben had said there was no solid evidence linking Rick to heroin, and I hadn’t seen any clear sign that junk was being sold here. I could use the money, but something about this job still seemed wrong. It was hard to believe that a two-bit hustler like Rick had the connections for serious drugs. Maybe someone had given Ben bad information—someone who wanted to set Rick up. There was no shortage of people who’d be happy to see Rick gone, and I was one of them. But I still needed to be sure that this job was legit.

I sifted through the garbage with my foot, looking for anything else that might give me more information. I picked up a notebook on a counter and leafed through it. There was a little writing on the first page. Some random numbers and a name: Martin Angel. The name wasn’t familiar to me, but I could look it up later. I poked around a bit more, looking for some clues. Nothing. On a whim, I picked up the filthy little twin mattress to see if there was anything underneath.

A box of .38 Super ammo.

But no gun.

THERE WERE ONLY THREE restaurants on the rez. A sandwich shop, with perpetually soggy cold cuts and wilted vegetables, the grill at the Depot bar, and JR’s Pizza, a shack selling something that vaguely resembled Italian food. I had a few bucks left—after buying some smokes—and wanted to treat Nathan, so I took him to the pizza place, which was his favorite. There was a flyer tacked outside the restaurant with a picture of a smiling young woman: MISSING, DONNA FLYING HAWK, HAVE YOU SEEN ME? A grungy rez dog sat on the sidewalk outside the place, eating what looked like a dead bird.

The place was tiny, with a small counter and a couple of broken-down tables and chairs. A handwritten sign taped to the drink cooler proclaimed WALL OF SHAME. It listed the people who’d passed bad checks and the amounts they owed: Yolanda White, $9.27; Stephanie Turning Heart, $19.48; Owen Bear Runner, $47.77. The one thing I liked about JR’s is that they had Shasta Cola, the low-rent Coke alternative I’d grown up drinking. My mother brought home six-packs when I was a kid, and I still loved them. They had a deep sugar punch that was like a horse kick to the head. We grabbed two cans and sat down.

“What do you want, a large pepperoni?” I asked him.

He grinned. “Sure, if you can afford it.”

“Yeah, I got you covered.”

“What’s the occasion?”

“Nothing. Wanted some food. You have a good time last night?”