Since I hadn’t the foggiest idea what he was talking about, I didn’t respond. I suspected a nonresponse would piss him off, and gee, I was in the mood to tangle with him.
Saro laughed. “Ain’t talking to us?”
I shrugged.
“Maybe you oughta give her an incentive to talk, Vic.”
That comment earned Saro a cool once-over. “Try it and see what happens.”
“You think you’re a tough chick?”
“Nah. She’s just stupid,” Victor said.
Come on, assholes, keep it up.
“Since you’re slow, and we ain’t got all night, I’ll spell it out. We don’t appreciate that you jumped into a fight that didn’t have nothin’ to do with you. Our nephew, Benji, ain’t none too happy you held him back, while you let a loser white cowboy kick him in the balls.”
Now this visit made sense. I finally looked at Victor. “That Indian kid is related to you guys?”
“Surprised?”
I laughed. “No. But I don’t know which makes your nephew more of a pussy. That a woman twice his age got the drop on him, or that he whined to his uncles and sent them to fight his battles. What a douche bag. Here’s my advice. Tell Benji if he ain’t got the fists to back up his big mouth, he’d be better off keeping it shut.”
Stunned silence. I doubted anyone spoke to them like that.
Victor got close enough to treat me to the booze on his breath and the stench of pot smoke clinging to his greasy hair. “Who the fuck you think you’re talking to?”
“Is your macho posturing supposed to scare me? Guess what? It doesn’t. So if you came here to get an apology from me for poor little Benji getting his feelings hurt? You might as well leave, ’cause it ain’t happening.” I jerked my thumb toward Saro. “Need me to spell it out for him, too? Since you ain’t got all night?”
Steve set down the two shots and hightailed it away. Smart man. Out of the corner of my good eye, I saw Saro upend his shot.
When Victor realized he couldn’t win our game of “don’t blink,” he quickly reached for his glass, expecting I’d flinch.
I didn’t. I didn’t break eye contact either.
He slammed the booze and backed off.
“Not smart to push us,” Saro said conversationally.
“It’s my nature.”
“Wasn’t your dad’s nature. He laid down like a beaten dog whenever he had to deal with us.”
“Which is hard to do when you’re old, crippled, and stuck in a wheelchair,” Victor added. “One time, the almighty sheriff even pissed his pants in front of us.”
“Rumor on the rez? Toward the end, Daddy Dearest pissed and shit himself all the time.” Saro’s fetid breath fanned my ear. “But you wouldn’t know about that, would you, tough girl? Since you weren’t around when Daddy was dying. Too busy planning on how you’d look trying to fill his shoes? Or should I say… shoe?”
An inferno of fury spread through me. I inhaled slowly.
“Didn’t think we did our homework on you? Think again.”
Victor leaned in and taunted me. “Looky here, bro, I think she’s gonna cry.”
I pictured snapping Victor’s neck. Seeing the last look of surprise on his ugly face before he crumpled to the floor like a bag of rotten meat.
“Why so quiet?” Saro mocked. “You burning brain cells thinking up a smart-ass response?”
“No. I’m just thinking about the differences between me and my dad, Barry.”
He stiffened slightly. Ah. He didn’t like being called Barry. Too bad.
“See, I’ve spent my life taking down bullies like you. And Barry, guess what? You’re not special. Bullies are the same across the globe, whether you’re wearing a towel on your head, a snappy suit, or braids in your hair. You prey on the weak. So fair warning. When I’m elected sheriff? Prepare yourself, because I will be preying on you. I am not weak. Not even fucking close.”
“That so?”
“Uh-huh. I will enjoy taking down your organization piece by piece. Body by body, if I have to.”
“Don’t start something you can’t win.”
“Don’t be too sure I haven’t already laid the groundwork and you’re the ones who’ll lose everything.”
Victor moved and grabbed me.
I let him keep his death grip on my forearm-it was hard as hell to do, but I had another point to make. I locked my gaze to Saro’s. “Tell him to let go of my arm, or I will break his fucking nose.”
A beat passed, and Saro inclined his head.
Victor released me.
I refocused on the TV, dismissing them.
They got the hint and vanished without speaking. And without paying for their damn drinks.
Again, the bar hummed with excitement. This type of confrontation was old hat to me and the customers at Clementine’s, but here… not so much.
I didn’t stick around long after that. My foray into reestab-lishing ties in the community, outside of Clementine’s, hadn’t turned out so well tonight-either at the high school or the local watering hole.
Probably everyone in the whole damn county was whispering about that crazy Gunderson woman.
Probably they were right.
EIGHTEEN
After a quick rundown of my daily duties the next morning at the Blackbird Diner, Geneva left me to brood in the far back booth, isolated from the restaurant activity.
A shadow blocked the patchwork of sunlight. I glanced up, expecting another nosy supporter, but Shay Turnbull slid into the high-backed bench seat across from me.
I folded the newspaper and slapped it on the table. “If you want this booth, you can have it.”
The waitress appeared. “Can I getcha something?”
“Coffee. And bring candidate Gunderson a refill.”
After she waddled off, I said, “I was leaving.”
“Was being the operative word.” Shay didn’t speak again until the coffee arrived.
Screw this. I wasn’t interested in whatever cryptic comment he’d make. I started to leave.
His hand shot out, and his fingers tightly circled my wrist. “I said you’re staying.”
“If you like that hand without broken bones, you’ll let go of my arm right now.”
“Threatening me will only cause more problems for you, Sergeant Major.”
He knew my rank? “Who the hell are you?”
“I’m so happy you asked.” Shay used his free hand to drag a wallet out of his front shirt pocket. Except it wasn’t a wallet. It was a badge. He flipped it open and thrust it in my face.
My eyes focused on the tiny text.
Fuck me. Shay Turnbull was a fed. Specifically, an agent with the ICSCU-whatever the hell that was.
“It stands for the Indian Country Special Crimes Unit,” he said as I continued to scrutinize the gold metal and black lettering.
“I still don’t know what means, Agent Turnbull.”
He released my wrist and pocketed the badge. “It means this division of the FBI works with everyone.”
“So you’re what… a super-duper double-secret agent? Able to leap from agency to agency with a single bound? Slice through bureaucratic red tape with your wit and charm? Allowed to skulk around wherever the hell you want with absolute impunity?”
“You asking if I have autonomy? Yes. And no. You asking if I answer to anyone? Don’t we all?”
Smug jackass. “So you work with the BIA?”
He nodded.
“The DEA?”
“Yep.”
“The Department of the Interior?”
“Them, too.”
Agent Turnbull studied me with the air of detachment all government clones had perfected. How had I missed the signs? His sudden unexplained appearances. Disappearances. The ominous warnings. The snappy, hip clothing and brooding good looks had thrown me off.
He angled across the table; his eyes snapped fire. “Tell me, how is it that you can fuck up a multiagency investigation, one that’s taken over five months, in a little over a week?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Which was not a lie… for a change.