“Listen, folks, I admit that what was done to the Indians was wrong. But that was hundreds of years ago, and you and I were not the people who did it. We have offered our hands in friendship to the Indians, but they insist on their separation from normal society. They are an angry, bitter people, and treat the rest of us with disdain and arrogance. Maybe this whole Indian gambling thing is about revenge on the white man. They want to take all of our money. They want to corrupt our values. They want to teach our children that greed and avarice are good things.
“Let me give you an example of what Indian gambling has brought to our state. I want to tell you a little story about a young man named David Rogers. David is a student at the University of Washington. An upstanding young man, a good son, an English major who loved Hemingway. He shares a house with his brother, Aaron, who called me up this morning. Aaron told me all about his brother. You see, a couple days ago, David Rogers wanted to go gambling at the Tulalip Indian Casino just north of Seattle.
“Now, David didn’t want to go alone, so he invited his brother to come along. But he refused. In fact, Aaron tried to discourage his little brother, but David was seduced by the easy money he thought he was going to make. Aaron kept telling his brother it was dangerous. He reminded his younger brother about the scalping and murder of Justin Summers. But David would not be denied.
“So, David went to the casino alone, and, lo and behold, he won two thousand dollars at the slot machines. Can you believe that? He must have thought he was the luckiest man alive. And you know what, he was lucky for a few minutes. He was also smart. Most people would have gambled their winnings away, thinking they were on a hot streak. But David, despite the protest of the casino management, collected his money and left the casino, anxious to celebrate with his brother. He left the casino and he has not been seen since.
“That’s right, folks. David is missing. His pickup was found in the casino parking lot, but there is no trace of him. He’s disappeared. Now, I don’t want to jump to conclusions, but I can just imagine what happened.”
Truck sipped at his coffee.
“The Indian tribes of Washington State have declared a cultural war on us, and the weapon they’ve chosen is the casino.
“What do you think, folks? Give me a call…”
17. All the Indians in the World
IN SEARCH OF DAVID Rogers, Aaron and Buck drove onto the Tulalip Indian Reservation. The Tulalip Tribal Casino was just a few hundred feet off the freeway, close to a Burger King restaurant and a 7-Eleven convenience store.
“Jeez,” said Aaron, trying to ease the tension. “Long ways from camas root, don’t you think?”
Buck didn’t respond. He hadn’t spoken much since he’d arrived in Seattle. On the short trip from Seattle to the Tulalip Reservation, Buck had driven with a calculated fury. He’d raced up on slower cars, flashing his lights and honking his horn. He’d changed lanes with sudden twists of the wheel. Aaron had been terrified.
Now, as he slowly pulled into the casino parking lot, Buck seemed to have calmed.
“Where was David’s pickup?” asked Buck.
“Over there,” said Aaron and pointed to the approximate place. The police had long since taken the pickup away.
Buck and Aaron stood in the parking lot, in the place where David’s truck had been. In the very same air. Aaron breathed in deep. Unsure of what else to do, Aaron stared down at the ground, searching for evidence, some reason for David’s disappearance. Aaron knew about the two thousand dollars David was carrying, but he also knew that David would have given it to a mugger in a second. He would have never fought back. David didn’t work that way.
“Indians,” whispered Buck as two large Indian men walked out of the casino. They looked like brothers, Aaron thought, although most Indians looked alike. The Indians were laughing loudly. Buck glowered at them. Aaron knew his father was carrying a pistol beneath his jacket. Aaron took a deep breath, ready for anything to happen. The Indians, still talking and laughing, walked past the two white men. Buck and Aaron turned to watch them as they climbed into a battered pickup and drove away.
“It could’ve been them,” said Buck. “It could’ve been any of these Indians.”
Inside the casino, more Indians. But no answers. Inside the Burger King and 7-Eleven, still more Indians. Indians driving by. Indians walking. Indians laughing. A world suddenly filled with Indians. But no answers.
“They took him,” said Buck. “They’ve taken my David.”
On the drive back to Seattle, Aaron stared at the trees beside the road. Tall, dark, and thin, they looked like Indians, ready to reach out and steal everything.
“Why’d you let him go there alone?” Buck asked Aaron.
“I told him not to go,” said Aaron.
“You’re his big brother. You’re supposed to take care of him.”
“I’m sorry.”
Buck backhanded his son and bloodied his nose.
“No excuses,” said Buck. “You let him down. You let me down.”
Aaron, fighting back tears, wiped blood from his face. Buck passed a gasoline truck and two recreational vehicles. Aaron thought about his late mother, how she wasted away and died during one long summer.
“He’s all we have,” said Buck. “He’s all we have left.”
Aaron and Buck drove in silence after that. They didn’t speak when Buck dropped Aaron off at his house. They didn’t speak after Buck drove back to the family farm, sat at the kitchen table, and waited for his younger son to come home. He waited for a long time.
For Aaron, school simply ceased to be important. He felt a tremendous amount of guilt for letting David go alone to the casino. David had asked him to come along, but Aaron had refused. Their other roommates, Barry and Sean, had also passed on the offer, but Aaron felt a special responsibility for David. He was a weak, clumsy boy who had often needed protection from school bullies. Aaron had always provided that protection until the night that David disappeared.
Aaron designed a missing-person sign on his computer, printed hundreds of copies, and stapled them to telephone poles and advertising kiosks all over western Washington. Two or three times, he drove alone to the Tulalip Tribal Casino to look for any signs of David. Somewhere deep inside himself, Aaron realized it was probably hopeless, but it was all he knew to do. He could not cry, though he wanted to. He locked himself in the bathroom, stripped naked, sat on the floor, and prayed for tears. But it would not happen. After that, with only the faintest trace of emotion, he walked from store to store, asking each to place a missing-person flyer in the window. The store managers never turned him down. Everybody knew about the missing college student, the boy from Spokane who loved Hemingway. Aaron spent so much time searching for David that he just stopped attending classes. His other roommates, Barry and Sean, tried to comfort him in their clumsy ways, wanting to ease his pain, but Aaron refused all compassion. He needed some kind of ceremony in which to express his grief, but he was without ceremony. Without the ability to mourn properly, Aaron could only steep in his anger. Tapping a thirty-six-inch baseball bat against the floor, he spent hours alone in his dark bedroom, listening to Truck Schultz’s radio show. Aaron made plans for revenge against the unknown. He stood and smashed the bat against the wall, punching a hole in the plaster. Then he swung the bat again.