September was a good time for the prefabs, neither too cold nor too hot. Bill’s had a chipper, almost cheerful air. The front porch was swept, the windows clean, the neon beer signs glowing and the last of the nasturtiums bursting into bloom next to the porch. Liam escorted Amelia Gearhart up the stairs and in the door. Bill was washing glasses behind the bar. “Oh hell,” she said when she saw them coming. She was over sixty, silver of hair, blue of eye and zaftig. She knew it, too, and today had chosen to accent her manifest charms with blue jeans cinched in at the waist by a woven leather belt and a tight pink T-shirt which purported to advertise last May’s Jazz Festival in New Orleans but which really was advertising Bill.
Moses Alakuyak sat at the bar. Too tall for a Yupik, eyes too Asian for a white, he was a mongrel and gloried in it. “Ever see a purebred dog, missy?” he’d been heard to tell some poor tourist who had wandered in off the Newenham street. “Nervous, stupid, half the time got them some epilepsy or hip problems or some other goddamn thing. Always barking, always jumping on you or whoever else is in range, can’t trust them around kids or anybody else, either. Give me a good old Heinz 57 mutt every time for smarts and good manners.” He’d glared down at the hapless tourist. “Same goes for people. Mongrel horde, my ass. We’ll inherit the earth, not the goddamn meek.”
The tourist had murmured something soothing and drifted slowly but surely out the door. Anyone in Newenham could have told her she was in no danger; Mount Moses in full eruption was a common sight, worthy of attention and respect, but it was never necessary to get the women and children off the streets.
“Married five months,” Moses said, looking at Amelia, “and now she’s drinking her breakfast.” He said something in Yupik that sounded less than complimentary. Amelia wasn’t too drunk to understand, and colored to the roots of her hair.
“Knock it off, Moses,” Bill said. She looked at Liam. “What do you want to do, Liam?”
He sighed and looked around the bar. It was empty except for them, but it was going on ten-thirty and it wouldn’t be long before the lunch crowd showed. “Hell, Bill, I don’t know. This is the third time this week.”
“Want to swear out an arrest warrant?”
An arrest warrant. State of Alaska, plaintiff, versus Amelia Gearhart, defendant. To any peace officer or other authorized person, you are commanded to arrest the defendant and bring the defendant before the nearest available judicial officer without unnecessary delay to answer to a complaint/information/indictment charging the defendant with violation of Alaska Statute 28.35.030, driving a motor vehicle while under the influence of alcohol. If Liam requested one, Bill would sign it; hell, she wouldn’t even have to take Liam’s oath, Amelia was her own worst prosecution witness. The criminal process would begin, he would arrest Amelia, Bill would set bail and order Amelia to court, and she would be charged, arraigned, tried, convicted and sentenced. DWI was a Class A misdemeanor and carried a mandatory sentence and fine. More important, she would have a record, and penalties escalated for repeat offenders.
He looked at her. She was just a kid, seventeen years old, a devout Moravian who had dropped out of school to marry without her parents’ approval. Her husband saw no reason for marriage to interfere with his previous lifestyle, which had included the determined chasing of skirts as far up the Nushagak as Butch Mountain. He spent more time in the bag than out of it and never refused a fight, and Liam knew it was only a matter of time before he had to pick up Darren on his own DWI. He’d won election to the city council by standing rounds for the regulars at Bill’s and the Breeze for a week straight before the voters went to the polls, and had thus far spent most of his time in office trying to change the local ordinance governing bar closing hours, at present set at two a.m., to five a.m.
Amelia stumbled in place, and her hair fell back from one cheek. Moses’ lips tightened into a thin line, and Liam stretched out a hand to raise Amelia’s chin, revealing a bruise high up on her left cheek. “Did Darren hit you, Amelia?” he said.
She pulled away. “I’m the councilman’s wife,” she said, enunciating her words with care.
“Yeah, yeah, you’re the councilman’s wife,” Moses said, and stood up to grab her and muscle her into a chair. “You’re not gonna arrest her,” he told Liam shortly, “and you’re not gonna charge her,” he said to Bill, “so don’t stand around with your thumbs up your asses like you are.”
“You have an alternative suggestion?” Bill said, irritated.
“She’s going to hurt herself eventually, Moses,” Liam said.
“She did that when she married the jerk,” Moses replied.
Liam remembered the evening in Bill’s in May, the first day he met the shaman, when Amelia and Darren had come to Moses for his blessing. Moses, drunk and verbally abusive, had withheld any such thing, and at the time Liam had thought him harsh. “The problem is, she might hurt somebody else at the same time,” he said now.
“I’ll handle it,” Moses said.
“How?” Bill said.
“I said I’ll handle it!”
Bill refused to be outshouted. “HOW?”
Moses glared at her. “I’ll take her up to fish camp, dry her out, talk some sense into her.”
If it were possible for Bill to pout, she would have pouted. “But you just got back.”
Moses’ expression changed. “Turn the bar over to Dottie and Paul, and come with.”
Bill stood very still for a moment, and then leaned across the bar and swept Moses into a lavish kiss, to which he responded wholeheartedly.
Liam examined the king net hanging from the ceiling for holes and found it in himself to be grateful there was a bar between Moses and Bill. For two people who were older than God and who woke up nearly every morning in the same bed, their enthusiasm for each other never seemed to wane.
He thought of Wy, of waking up in the same bed every morning with her, and found himself looking forward to being older than God himself.
Bill pulled back, her face flushed. “Well, fish camp ain’t New Orleans, but it’s not a bad second best.”
Moses responded with what could only be described as a salacious grin. “We’ll have to boat you home, lady, because you won’t be able to walk.”
When Liam got to the post, Prince was already there and in his chair, typing up a report. He nodded at the computer. “What have you got?”
She made a face. “Elizabeth Katelnikoff got off the night shift at AC this morning at eight a.m. like she always does, and got home to find Art Inga and Dave Iverson wedged into the window of her bedroom, half in, half out.”
“What, they were stuck?”
“You could say that,” Prince said, considering the matter with judicial impartiality. “Seems they’d had a little too much to drink last night at a party at Tatiana Anayuk’s. You know about the permanent party at Tatiana’s, don’t you?”
“Been invited a time or two.”
“Yeah, me, too,” said Prince, who’d only been assigned to Newenham two months before, but appeared to be integrating into the local population without strain. “Anyway, Art and Dave decide they’re both in love with Elizabeth and fight a duel to see who gets her. Tatiana-who was not happy to be woken up at ten this morning, and from whom you may receive a complaint later today-says nobody won, and after that she closed the party down.”