Three Indian men in their early twenties walked into Big Heart’s then, laughing and carrying on, having a good time. Wilson recognized them. One was Harley Tate, the Colville with the mashed nose who couldn’t hear or talk. Another was Ty Williams, a chubby, light-skinned Coeur d’Alene. The third was Reggie Polatkin, the Spokane Indian with the startling blue eyes.
“Hey, Casper!” Reggie shouted to Jack Wilson. “How’s it hanging?”
“Down to my knee,” Wilson said, the expected response. He had learned some things in the bar.
“Hey,” said Reggie. “Buy us a pop.”
“Sure,” said Wilson. “Three Pepsis, Mick.”
“Jeez, you dumb-ass white guy,” Reggie said, shaking his head. “Don’t you ever get it right? The Colvilles drink Pepsi, but we Spokanes only drink Coke. And those damn Coeur d’Alenes drink 7UP, enit?”
“Never had it,” said Ty, the Coeur d’Alene. “Never will.”
“Well, then,” Reggie said. “What do Coeur d’Alenes drink?”
“Blood,” said Ty.
“Hey, Mick,” said Wilson. “Make that one Pepsi, one Coke, and a tomato juice.”
Reggie and his friends laughed.
“Good one, Casper, good one. Come sit with us.”
Wilson received very few invitations to sit with the Indians in Big Heart’s, so he jumped at the chance.
“Get some popcorn, too,” Reggie said to Wilson, who filled up a couple of bowls and brought them to the table.
“You’re a good man, Casper,” said Ty. “I don’t care what everybody else says.”
Wilson blushed. These Indians could still make him blush. Harley the Colville made a few frantic hand gestures, sign language. Since they were frantic, Wilson figured he was telling a joke. Ty and Reggie, who had learned sign language, made a few signs in return. They all laughed again, Ty and Reggie loud and baritone, Harley high-pitched and slow.
“What did he say?” asked Wilson.
“Nothing important,” said Reggie, still laughing a little.
They talked and laughed, signed and laughed, although Wilson understood few of the jokes, signed or spoken.
“Hey,” Reggie asked Wilson. “Where are all the white women?”
There were a dozen or so white women who liked to sleep with the Indian men who frequented Big Heart’s. Though Reggie generally preferred Indian women, he would fuck an Indian groupie now and again. He liked the power of it. He liked to come inside a white woman and then leave her lying naked on a hotel bed she’d paid for, or in the backseat of her car, or on a piece of cardboard in an alley outside Big Heart’s.
During his senior year of high school, Reggie had been sitting with his white girlfriend and a few other white friends when a drunk Indian had staggered into the pizza place. Reggie had pretended not to see the Indian, who’d flopped into a seat, laid his head on the table, and passed out. The Indian smelled like he hadn’t bathed in weeks. As if to tell a secret, Reggie’s white girlfriend had leaned forward. Reggie and his white friends had leaned toward her.
“I hate Indians,” she’d whispered.
Reggie had tried to laugh it off, but he’d felt as if he’d been torn in half. Later that night, his girlfriend had tearfully tried to apologize to him. They’d parked on a dirt road a few miles outside of Seattle.
“I’m sorry,” she’d said. “I didn’t mean you. I love you. You’re not like those other Indians. You’re not like them.”
Reggie had not said anything. Without a word, he’d kissed her hard, stripped her naked, and fucked her for the first time. She’d cried out when he roughly penetrated her. She’d been a virgin, though Reggie hadn’t asked and wouldn’t have cared. Every night for a week, he’d picked her up from her house, driven her to that same dirt road, and fucked her. No condom, no birth control pills, no withdrawal. He came inside her and hoped he’d gotten her pregnant. He’d wanted her to give birth to a brown baby. He’d wanted to dilute his Indian blood. He’d wanted some kind of revenge. He’d wanted some place to spill his pain. After a week of painful and angry sex, his white girlfriend had broken up with him. She had not been impregnated. She would never speak to him again.
“Hey,” Wilson said. “I heard something crazy.”
“What?”
“I heard a white guy was scalped.”
The Indians stopped laughing. They stared at Wilson.
“You’re full of shit,” said Reggie.
“No, really,” said Wilson. “Somebody killed him and scalped him.”
No laughter. Harley signed. Reggie signed back.
“What did he say?” asked Wilson.
“He thinks you’re full of shit, too.”
Wilson could see that Reggie was uncomfortable.
“You already knew about it, didn’t you?” Wilson asked Reggie.
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Reggie, who had moved his chair away from Wilson. Harley and Ty signed back and forth.
Reggie stared angrily at Wilson, who could not think of anything to say. He knew he had crossed some line, had violated an invisible boundary. He was not being a good cop, it was all too obvious, but he could not help himself.
“How did you hear about it?” Reggie asked suspiciously.
“I heard some guys talking about it downtown,” Wilson lied, still assuming the Indians didn’t know he was an ex-cop. “And they were talking about that young boy, too. They think he was kidnapped by the same one who scalped the white guy.”
Reggie nodded his head slowly, took a sip of his Coke. Ty and Harley exchanged nervous glances.
“Do you think an Indian would do something like that?” asked Wilson, leaning forward in his seat, ready to take mental notes.
Reggie stared at Wilson, a hard stare.
“What do you think?” asked Reggie.
Wilson sat back in his chair, drummed his fingers on the table.
“No way,” said Wilson. “I don’t think so. Not a real Indian.”
“No, huh? Is that your answer?”
Wilson shrugged his shoulders.
“Well,” said Reggie. “I think an Indian could do something like that. Maybe the question should be something different. Maybe you should be wondering which Indian wouldn’t do it. Lots of real Indian men out there have plenty enough reasons to kill a white man. Three at this table right now.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
Reggie looked at his friends. Ty and Harley stood as if to leave.
“Wait, hey,” said Wilson. “I was just talking. Come on, I’ll buy you another round.”
“No thanks.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, we’re sure.”
“Okay, then. I’ll see you around, right?”
“Listen,” said Reggie. “You know about Bigfoot? That Sioux Indian?”
“Yeah,” said Wilson. “He died at the Wounded Knee massacre in 1890. He was Minneconjou Sioux, I think. He was killed because he was leading the Ghost Dance.”
“The Ghost Dance?”
“Yeah, it was a dance that was supposed to destroy the white men and bring back the buffalo. Ghost Dancing was thought to be an act of warfare against white people.”
“Yeah, and who killed Bigfoot?”
“The Seventh Cavalry.”
“No, I mean, who killed him?”
“Some soldier, I guess. Nobody knows for sure.”
“You’re not paying attention. What color was the man who killed Bigfoot?”
“He would’ve been white.”
“Exactly, Casper. Think about that.”
The three Indians left the bar. A dozen other Indians walked in soon after and greeted Wilson. Reggie, Ty, and Harley bumped into a few friends in the parking lot. Ty and Harley were eager to talk about Wilson and the murders, but Reggie remained quiet. He knew that Wilson was probably trying to write some book about the scalping. And he’d get it wrong. Wilson didn’t understand anything about Indians. Ty, with his voice, and Harley, with his hands, told other Indians about the scalping. The word spread quickly. Within a few hours, nearly every Indian in Seattle knew about the scalping. Most Indians believed it was all just racist paranoia, but a few felt a strange combination of relief and fear, as if an apocalyptic prophecy was just beginning to come true.