“Okay, okay,” Peone said to the crowd. “The show’s over. Let’s clear it out.”
Since it was Seattle, the crowd obeyed the officer’s orders and dispersed. John had forgotten about the flashing lights and was singing again, in Latin. Peone had been an accomplished altar boy way back when and recognized the tune. He could almost smell the smoke from the thousands of altar candles he had lit.
“Hey, chief,” said Peone. “You okay?”
John stopped singing and noticed Peone for the first time. He saw the blue eyes and blue uniform, the pistol and badge. Blue sword, scabbard, white horse. The bugle playing.
“He’s gone.”
“No, he’s not gone. He’s in the back of my car.”
John stood, walked over to the car, and looked inside. He saw the old Indian man. He threw the Indian’s shoes at the window. They bounced off the glass and landed on the sidewalk.
“That’s not Father Duncan,” said John.
“Who?” asked Peone.
“Father Duncan. He’s gone.”
Peone could see the terrible sadness in John’s eyes. The officer wondered where the Indian thought he was, and who he thought he might be. Probably a schizophrenic. He was big and strong enough to hurt a man, but Peone, through years of applied psychology lessons taken on the streets, knew that most schizophrenics rarely hurt anybody except themselves.
“Hey, big guy,” said Peone. “You been taking your medicine?”
“No,” said John. “They’re trying to poison me.”
“Is that why you hurt your friend?” asked Peone, pointing toward the old man in the back of the car.
“He’s not my friend. I don’t know him.”
“Really?” asked the officer. “Well, then, what happened to his face?”
“I don’t know,” said John.
Officer Peone knew he would have to take John to the hospital. He was obviously sick and needed help. He began to wonder if John might be dangerous, might be the Indian Killer. Why hadn’t he called for backup?
“Hey, chief,” said Peone. “Let’s you and me go for a ride.”
John, suddenly frightened, took a step back.
“You could be the devil,” John said to Peone.
“I could be,” said Peone. “But I’m not. Come on, why don’t I take you and your friend to the hospital. Get you both fixed up, okay?”
“I’m afraid,” John whispered, then he kneeled and began to pray. “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed by thy name, thy Kingdom come, thy will be done…”
“On Earth as it is in Heaven,” continued Peone.
Surprised, John stared at Peone.
“Give us this day our daily bread…,” said Peone.
“And forgive us our trespasses,” said John, “as we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation…”
“But deliver us from evil…”
“For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever.”
“Amen,” said John and Peone together.
John closed his eyes and pressed his head against his clasped hands. He was praying. Peone reached for his handcuffs. John heard the jangle of the cuffs and keys, opened his eyes, and panicked. He leapt to his feet and ran into an alley. Peone ran a few feet after John before he came to his senses. He climbed back into his car, told the dispatcher what had happened, and then shook his head.
“Indians,” whispered Peone.
“Yeah, Indians,” said Lester, the old man in the back seat. He laughed.
“What’s so funny?” asked Peone.
“Catholic cops are funny,” said Lester.
“You were listening?”
“Yeah.”
“Yeah? Catholic Indians are funny.”
“There’s lots of Catholic Indians.”
“There’s lots of Catholic cops.”
The old man started laughing again. Peone had to laugh a little with him.
“So, tell me the truth,” said Peone. “Why did your friend beat you up? I thought you Indians took care of each other.”
“We do take care of each other,” said Lester. “But I don’t know that Indian and he didn’t beat me up. I told you. Some white guys did it. And stole my goddamn shoes.”
Peone stepped out of the car, grabbed the shoes, and threw them into the back seat with the old man.
“There’s your shoes,” said Peone when he was back in the car. He wondered how he would fill out the paperwork on this encounter. After his fellow officers heard about this, they would probably give him a nickname. Something like Altar Boy or Shoes. Peone smiled. He liked nicknames.
18. Last Call at Big Heart’s
WILSON WALKED INTO BIG Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar. There was a small crowd of forty or fifty Indians. They all stared at Wilson as he sat at the bar, where Mick had a glass of milk waiting for him.
“Slow night?” Wilson asked Mick.
“With Indians,” said Mick, “it’s never slow.”
Wilson sipped at his milk and looked around the bar. It felt changed. He studied the patrons as they studied him.
“Hey, Casper,” said Reggie, the Spokane. Ty stood behind him. “How Indian are you tonight?”
“Indian enough,” said Wilson. “Where’s Harley?”
“He’s missing in action,” said Reggie. “Tell me again, how Indian are you?”
“Indian enough.”
“Sure you are. How much Indian blood you got anyways? Maybe a thimble’s worth?”
“The blood don’t matter. It’s the heart that matters.”
Ty and Reggie laughed.
“What’s so funny?” asked Wilson.
“You know,” Reggie said. “I was reading a movie magazine last week and found out that Farrah Fawcett is one-eighth Choctaw Indian. Isn’t that funny?”
“I didn’t know that,” said Wilson.
“Yeah,” said Reggie. “That means she’s got more Indian blood than you do. If you get to be an Indian, then Farrah gets to be Indian, too.”
“If she wants to be.”
“You really think that’s how it works, don’t you?” Reggie asked Wilson. Reggie was heating up. “You think you can be Indian just by saying it, enit?”
Wilson shrugged his shoulders.
“June 25, 1876,” Reggie said.
“The Battle of Little Bighorn,” said Wilson.
“No white people survived that, did they?”
“Nope, just a Cavalry horse named Comanche.”
“Every horse is an Indian horse.”
Wilson nodded.
“We might let you be an Indian for an hour if you buy us a drink.”
Wilson bought the two Indians their drinks.
“Hey,” asked Wilson, with little subtlety. “You guys been following that Indian Killer case?”
“What about it?” asked Reggie.
“They found another body,” said Wilson.
Reggie looked at Ty, then back to Wilson.
“How do you know that?” Reggie asked Wilson.
“Well, I don’t like to talk about it, but I’m an ex-cop.”
“We know you’re an ex-cop,” said Reggie. “And you’re a writer, too. Now, tell us something we don’t know. You think we’re so stupid. I was a goddamn history major. I’ve studied books you wouldn’t know how to read. Jeez, you come in here always asking questions about how we live, what we eat, about our childhoods. Taking notes in your head. We know it. What do you do when you leave here? Dig up graves?”
Wilson was wide-eyed.
“Don’t be so surprised, Casper. You white guys always think you’re fooling us poor, dumb Injuns.”
“Well, uh, I, ah,” stuttered Wilson, trying to regain his composure. “I was down at the station. They found the body downtown. They think the Indian Killer did it.”