“How much?” the biker asked.
“I don’t know. The guy in the picture is about eighty years old now.”
“Eighty? What the fuck does an eighty-year-old need with an inheritance?” The biker let loose a high-pitched laugh and his friends laughed with him.
I shrugged and took the photo back from Sherry.
“Thanks,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” the biker said, not sincerely.
“That’s Graham Greene,” Sherry called to me when I was at the door. “I’m telling you that’s Graham Greene.”
After a night in a motel I returned to the library the next morning and looked at images of Graham Greene. The man in my photograph did look a lot like Graham Greene, but also different. Regardless, I didn’t know where to look next. I decided to try the sheriff’s office.
The inside of the office was as nondescript as the outside and in fact so was the sheriff. He was a new sheriff, though he was over fifty. I could tell because his clothes were so neat and crisp. His dispatcher was out sick and so he was manning the desk, he told me. I showed him the photograph.
“Looks like that actor,” he said.
“I know.”
“What’s his name?”
“Graham Greene.”
“No, that’s not it. He was on that Chuck Norris television show.” He scratched his head as he looked out the window. “Floyd something. Westerman. Floyd Westerman.”
“This man’s name is Davy Cloud. He’s Arapaho and he’s about eighty now.”
“Why do you want him?
“I promised his hundred-year-old mother I’d find him.”
“You’re shittin’ me.”
“I wish I were.” I tapped the picture. “I can’t find out anything about him. I was thinking maybe he has a driver’s license.”
“And you thought you could just wander into the police station and have somebody look that up on a computer, right?”
I blew out a breath, feeling pretty stupid.
“Well, let’s take a look,” he said. He laughed.
“Really?”
“Why not?” The sheriff used the computer on the counter. “What’s the name?”
“Davy Cloud.”
“David Cloud,” he said.
“Davy,” I repeated. “It was made clear to me that the name is Davy, not David.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “No Clouds at all.”
“Okay, thanks, Sheriff.”
“What are you going to do?” he asked.
“Beats me.” I looked at him for a second. “What would you do?”
“You got a birthdate for Davy Cloud?”
“Day, month, but no year.”
The sheriff snorted out a laugh. “Then I’d give up.”
“You would?”
“I would.”
“Thanks, Sheriff.”
I liked the sheriff’s advice. It made complete sense to me and I would probably follow it because there was nothing more I knew to do. I could not drag my carcass all over Wyoming looking for someone who was probably really a carcass. But before admitting defeat I decided to go ask around on the reservation one more time. I felt guilty because my search was really half-assed. That was due to my complete incompetence and also a sheer lack of any fundamentally important information. All I had was an old photograph, and for all I knew the man in it was an actor.
I parked in front of the little store at the flashing light. It was just starting to snow. I walked inside and grabbed a cup of coffee and walked up to the register. The same heavyset woman stood behind the counter.
“Remember me?” I asked.
“You were in here asking about Roberta Cloud.”
“That’s right. I found her. Thanks to you. Tell me, do you know Ms. Cloud?” I sipped my coffee.
“She used to come in more, but I haven’t seen her in a long time. Why were you looking for her?”
“Wants me to find her son.”
“Her son?”
“He’s eighty-two years old.”
The woman laughed.
“So, you don’t know him.”
“I didn’t even know she had a son.”
“Here’s his picture. It was taken forty years ago, I think.” I handed her the photograph.
“Never seen him.”
“He doesn’t look familiar to you?”
She shook her head.
“Like an actor?”
She studied the picture again. “Nope.”
It pleased me that she didn’t think he looked like anyone else. I put Davy Cloud back in my pocket. “My name’s Jack.”
“Delores.”
“Delores, after Roberta, tell me who is the oldest person on the reservation?”
Delores looked at her feet and then out at the snow that was falling now in earnest. “It’s going to be a mess,” she said. “I’d guess that it would be Regina Shakespeare. I don’t know how old she is, but she’s almost as old as Roberta.”
“Where is her house?”
“Last I heard she was living over on Yellow Calf Road.”
“Where’s that?”
“Off Seventeen Mile before Plunkett. Plunkett is where the tribal office is.”
“Okay. How will I know her house?” I asked.
“Never been there.”
“Thanks, Delores.”
“Can I ask you a question?” Delores looked at my eyes. “Why are you doing all this?”
“I don’t know. An old lady asked me to do something for her and I said I’d try.”
“You could have said no,” she said.
“I suppose I could have. But I didn’t and here I am.”
“You must have hurt somebody along the way, I guess.”
“Excuse me?”
“You must be guilty about something.”
I stared at her for a long few seconds. “Who isn’t?”
I found my way to Yellow Calf Road. There were two houses on the dirt lane and they faced each other. On the porch of one lay a big black dog, a Doberman mix perhaps. The dog raised his head as I got out of my car and so I made the reasonable choice of trying the other house first. I walked through the deep yard and onto the narrow stoop. I knocked. I heard grunts first and immediately came barking as five or six dogs ranging from medium to huge came tearing around the corner of the house. They lunged while I tried to remain calm and slowly walk away. They did not chase me all the way to my car, but rather disappeared much as they had appeared. I looked across the road at the Doberman mix. His head was down again. I noticed smoke coming from the chimney pipe.
I walked to the other house and stepped onto the porch. The dog looked up at me and then closed his eyes. I knocked. A young man came to the door. He might have been in his midtwenties. He had two long braids that fell over his shoulders.
“I’m looking for Regina Shakespeare,” I said.
“What do you want with her?”
“It’s a long story, but I just want to ask her about Davy Cloud.”
“Who’s Davy Cloud?” he asked.
“Roberta Cloud’s son.”
“I didn’t know she had a son. And who are you?”
“My name is Jack Keene. I’m a friend of Roberta.”
“You can come in, but it won’t do any good to speak to my great-grandmother. She’s got Alzheimer’s.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“She’s in and out.”
I stepped into the house. An old-fashioned wide-stance wood-stove kept the place very warm.
“Gammy,” the man called her.
The woman sat in an old wheelchair. She didn’t look up.
“Gammy, this man wants to ask you a question.” He looked at me. “Go ahead.”
“Ma’am, sorry to bother you, but do you recall someone named Davy Cloud? He’s Roberta Cloud’s son.”
“Roberta Cloud,” Regina Shakespeare said, surprising her great-grandson. “Why, she’s even older than me.” She let out a strong, throaty laugh.
“Do you know anything about her son?” I asked. “He’d be about your age.”
“Alder wood pops too much, don’t you think?” she said. She held up her index finger and smiled at the man. “What’s this?”