He cocked his head. “You got another one of those?” He pointed to the pocket I’d shoved my smokes in.
“Sure,” I said, pulling it out, shaking one out for him.
I could see he was sweating. All I had to do was reel him in, slowly.
He took a hit, the smoke piling out in a nice, neat line.
“Work ran late,” he said, smiling, his lips a thin, neat, purple dash.
“Thing about that is, I called here. They said work didn’t run late.”
“They’re lying,” he responded, too quick. He took another hit, his hand shaking.
We smoked in silence for moment.
“You Apache, right?” he asked.
“I am. Chiricahua.”
He sniggered. “Figures. I dated an Apache girl once — White Mountain though. Real tall. And a real bitch. You got the same black eyes as her.”
“I am a real bitch, Michael.”
He glared at me.
I continued: “The other thing is, did you know Jonnie had a journal?”
He was silent now, the sweat on his brow growing more profuse.
“I found it,” I said, lighting another smoke for myself, squinting hard. “There sure is some awful shit about you in there.”
“She was like a daughter to me.”
Was. Past tense. This motherfucker. I had to assume Jonnie was dead. I already had, but this confirmed it.
“That’s a pretty nasty way to treat your daughter, Michael. Men go to jail for treating their daughters like that.”
His eyes narrowed again, almost to slits. “I ain’t got time for this,” he said, turning.
“Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn’t do that.”
“Fuck you, cunt,” he said.
I pulled my gun out, and he stopped.
“Thing is, some friends of Jonnie’s saw you take her the other day. And they can ID you. And when you add what I found in Jonnie’s journal — you molesting piece of shit — I’m guessing that wherever you go, the cops, this time, will pay attention to the evidence that’s finally right in front of their eyes, and they’ll find you. And Jonnie’s body.”
“Fuck you!” he said, turning to run. I’d hoped he do that.
I squinted. I was a great shot. My mom said that all Apaches had great aim. I wasn’t sure about that, but I knew I was good.
“Fuck!” He stopped in his tracks, clapping one hand over his right arm.
“I’m good at this. I clipped you on purpose — like a bird who’s about to spend his life in a cage. Your wings ain’t good for flying anymore. I’d stop now, or the next shot? Well, let’s just say that I’m debating: balls or heart? Of which you got neither, so it’s not like it’ll be a loss either way.”
“You fucking bitch!” he screamed, and bolted into the alley.
“Motherfucker,” I said, and went after him.
He was fleet of foot, I’d give the ballsack that, and gaining ground, turning one corner after another, until — fuck! — I’d lost him.
My God, this piece-of-shit man, this piece-of-shit life. I couldn’t let him get away with it, I just couldn’t. Jonnie’s journal had hurt me to my core. Year after year of it, him coming into her room at night, telling her to be a good girl, to be quiet — or he’d kill her mother. Until finally, one day, she’d had it. Had made the mistake of telling him that she was going to tell her mom — that’s when she’d disappeared. It had been her last entry. And I was sure as anything that when he hadn’t been able to persuade her to shut up, he’d killed her.
And now I was failing her, just like I’d failed so much in this life, never going after the right men, always in trouble with the police in Albuquerque for getting in their way — shit. I might as well give up, go home. He was gone, and Betty seemed determined to believe that her ex was behind this. Wasn’t it better to let the truth die?
I thought of Jonnie’s young brown face again — the love that her mother had for her. The fact that Jonnie was Betty’s only child. How she’d told me she lived for Jonnie. The fact that this man had taken this from her.
Fuck him.
I closed my eyes, went clear, then opened them
“I know you’re behind that dumpster, you shit-for-brains. There’s no other way out of this alleyway. You don’t come out? I’ll just shoot both your balls and your heart.”
He crawled out from behind it, scowling. “You’re just making things worse, you know that?”
I was silent.
“Betty’s already lost her child — I’m all she has left. Think about that.”
It was true.
“She wanted it,” he said. “I know she did. Always looking at me in that slutty way.” He chuckled. “Some girls are just born slutty.”
She had been eight when it had started — that was in her journal.
I wanted to kill him with everything I was.
I took a deep breath and called the cops.
Betty arrived with them. I guessed they’d called her.
I explained what I’d found, handed them her journal — told them I’d be happy to come to the station with them.
“I’m going to press charges!” Michael screamed as they cuffed him, put him in the car. “I didn’t do nothing to that kid!”
“He didn’t do it,” Betty said, the cops nodding. “I’m sure she just imagined things — kids do that. She loves her uncle!” She started sobbing then, great, jagged, near-hysterical sobs. “It’s white men who rape us, not Indian men!”
I closed my eyes. White men did rape Indian women, and the law was just beginning to shift to make them have to suffer the consequences for that. But Indian men raped Indian women too. They killed Indian women too. I knew, because I dealt with cases like this all the time in Albuquerque — the great violences brought upon all of our ancestors echoing in our souls, each generation seeing just enough incremental change to make me hope for an eventual avalanche of change.
“Betty, I read the journal. He raped her. He’s been coming into her room since she was eight years old — and he threatened you, that’s why she said nothing. But she was going to tell you. That’s when he snapped,” I explained.
She was silent.
“I’m sorry, Betty.” I ran my hand down the length of my dark hair. “I texted the kids who saw Jonnie the day she disappeared — they’ve ID’d your brother. He’s the one who threatened her — and I’m telling you, he killed her.”
Her lip trembled. “You whore!” she screamed. She chucked her purse at my head.
I ducked, picked it up, tried to give it back to her. She merely batted violently at my hand.
“I never should’ve called you!”
I nodded. This was why I always asked for half of my fee up front.
I walked over to my beat-up Honda and shut the rusting door. I wondered if and when they’d find the body. I thought again of Jonnie’s sweet face. I stared at myself in the rearview mirror, wiped at the mascara and eyeliner that had melted during the day, images of my ex floating into my mind. He was also a liar. I’d met him in the Anodyne, I’d been playing pool when he’d made his way over to me, told me he liked my biker jacket — said he liked tough girls. I’d come up smiling but cautious, shrugged out of my jacket, exposing my shoulders, the wind from the open doors grazing them. He’d told me he was getting a divorce. No kids though, he said. Good, I’d told him, I don’t do kids.
I put the car into drive. I was headed for the White Horse. Then home. Thank the Creator for home. There was always, at least, that.
Part II
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