Junior shifted his stance, making his answer obvious.
“Come on, Junior. Don’t try to bullshit me now. How long have you been Saro’s”-lackey-“associate?”
“Two months. And my old man can’t blame me for doin’ exactly what he told me to do: get a job. He’d been a real dickhead about it, too, but he wouldn’t hire me to work for him, even when I’m his kid.”
Unemployment on the Eagle River Reservation was around 70 percent, so jobs were damn scarce. I realized the appeal for young guys like Junior, working for Saro. It gave them something to do, money in their pocket, and a place to belong.
Too bad Saro was a crazy murderous bastard who used and discarded these young men just because he could.
“Do you wanna know what he did? He pointed a gun in my face and told me to get out of his house and his life and never come around again. Verline tried… to stand up for me. But Rollie told her if she sided with me, he’d kick her ass out, too. She don’t have anyplace else to go.” He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Sometimes I fucking hate him.”
I waited until he’d calmed himself. “I appreciate you tracking me down and explaining your side of the situation. But you will need to come in and repeat this on record.”
He took a step back. “No way. You think I did it. That I killed Arlette. You get me there as a trick, and then you’ll throw my red ass in jail.”
“Which is why you need to tell my colleagues exactly what you told me. It’d be best if you came in on your own instead of us trying to track you down.”
“I can’t. Don’t you understand? If Saro catches me showing up to talk to the FBI, he’ll never trust me again.”
“Hate to break it to you, but Saro doesn’t trust you now.”
“So you say,” he spat. “Typical bullshit FBI move. Man. I thought I could trust you.”
“Why? Because I’m friends with your dad? Wrong. My priority is to figure out who killed Arlette. And right now you’re pretty high on the suspect list.” I got right in his face. “Prove me wrong, Junior Rondeaux. Show up to talk to us.”
“I can’t.” Then he ducked and disappeared into the darkness before I could grab him.
Shit.
My first lead, and I’d let it slip through my fingers.
I returned inside, my foul mood palpable.
Some bimbo-around my age, wearing an extra hundred pounds and a polyester shirt straight out of the ’70s-had parked her fat ass on my bar stool. Looked like she’d even helped herself to my beer. She yakked at a guy who had the expression of a trapped rabbit.
I tapped her on the shoulder.
“What?” She deigned to half turn my way.
“You’re in my seat.”
“Don’t got your name on it.”
Where was John-John? He’d point out that’d always been my seat at the bar. “I just stepped outside for a minute.”
“Tough shit. You leave, and the space ain’t yours no more.”
I tapped her shoulder again. I’m nothing if not persistent.
“What the hell do you want now?” she snarled.
“To tell you to get your bloated ass off my seat.”
Then she and all her three hundred pounds loomed over me. “Or what?”
“Or”-I grabbed a handful of her oversprayed hair and yanked, turning her sideways so I could chicken wing her arm-“I move you myself.”
“Ow. Stop. You’re hurting me.”
“That’s the point.” I tried to make her body parts touch, jerking her head back and her arm up. “Sit. Somewhere. Else. Understood?”
“Yeah, yeah. Let go of my arm.”
I released her. Stupid mistake on my part. She threw a haymaker that clipped me in the lower jaw. Before she could throw another wild swing, I ducked, backtracked, and swept her feet out from under her.
She bounced on the dirty floor.
I left her there and returned to my seat.
But John-John shook his head, and I followed his gaze to where Muskrat helped the rotund one to her feet.
“That’s it, Mercy, you’re outta here.”
“What? You’re throwing me out? Why?”
“Because it’s not okay for you to just beat the shit out of Clementine’s customers whenever the hell you get an urge.”
“But-”
“No buts. I used to let it slide with you, but no more. You know better than to throw your weight around.”
I opted not to point out my opponent would’ve crushed me like a bug had she chosen to throw her weight around.
“You’re banned, Mercy. I better not see your face around here for a month.”
The bar had gone quiet, like the patrons were anticipating additional fireworks or some firepower from me. I looked for my sister.
But Hope was too busy glaring at John-John to look at me.
He lifted a brow. “Got something to say, cousin?” The last part with more sarcasm in it than I’d ever heard from my friend.
“Yeah, you’re a dick. You were a pompous prick to me even before I married Jake. You’ve had a bug up your ass about Mercy since we walked in. So go ahead and ban me, too. Your unci ain’t gonna be happy about this, cousin.”
John-John’s face turned a darker shade of red. “Muskrat. Get them outta here.”
Muskrat was smart enough to obey John-John, and to know not to touch me when he escorted us to the door.
I was too pissed off to be drunk, so I snatched the keys.
She sighed. “I’m sorry, Mercy. I didn’t mean to screw that up for you.”
“You didn’t. I’ve been in there one time since I got back from Quantico. And it isn’t like my phone’s been ringing off the hook with calls from John-John to hang out.” Now that I thought about it, had John-John called me at all?
No.
And he had acted paranoid when he spoke of me working for the feds.
Screw him. I’d accepted him for who he was. He could return the favor.
“Well, there’s one thing we can check off our bucket list.” She gave me a sly look. “Getting kicked out of a bar together. Only next time? Let’s get really, really drunk first.”
“Deal.”
6
When the headlights from Dawson’s truck bounced up the driveway right after dusk Sunday night, my belly jumped as if I’d swallowed a live fish.
Humbling, being cowed by an eleven-year-old boy.
The dogs went crazy, and Dawson let loose a shrill whistle to quiet down the barking. Setting my beer on the counter, I grabbed the spare Carhartt jacket from the coat tree and ventured out onto the porch.
Shoonga and Butch had Lex pinned against the passenger door. I shot a look at Mason, unloading bags from the backseat of his deluxe club cab.
“Shoonga! Butch! Get over here.” The dogs raced up the steps, tails wagging, tongues lolling. “Sit.” Butch obeyed immediately. Shoonga jumped up on me. Damn dog needed obedience school. “Shoonga. Sit.” Whine, whine. I stood my ground. “Sit.” He dropped his rear onto the porch. Then he gave me the where’s-my-treat? look. Nice try, pooch. I patted him on the head with a “Good boy” and offered the same praise to Butch as I watched Mason struggling with the luggage while Lex gawked.
“Lex?” Mason said. “Wanna give me a hand here?”
“Oh. Sure.” He grabbed the biggest duffel and threw the strap over his shoulder, then he paused, waiting to follow his father up the stairs.
I cautioned the dogs to stay and held open the screen door.
Mason stopped, smiled, and kissed me before walking inside.
Lex was too busy eyeing the dogs as he passed by to pay attention to me.
They clomped upstairs, and the floor creaked as they entered Lex’s room. The acoustics in this house allowed me to hear, “This is your room. You can put your stuff away later.” The floorboards creaked as they moved down the hallway. “This is the bathroom you can use.”
“Where’s your room?” Lex asked.