He even called a few companies in Seattle, like Sub Pop. Sub Pop discovered Nirvana and a lot of other bands, but they never returned Thomas’s phone calls. They just mailed form rejections. Black letters on white paper, just like commodity cans. U.S.D.A PORK. SORRY WE ARE UNABLE TO USE THIS. JUST ADD WATER. WE DON’T LISTEN TO UNSOLICITED DEMOS. POWDERED MILK. THANK YOU FOR YOUR INTEREST. HEAT AND SERVE.
The taverns refused to hire Coyote Springs.
“We heard you was causing some trouble,” the taverns said. “We don’t need any more trouble than we already got.”
Coyote Springs shivered with fear.
“Shit,” Junior said as he ate another mouthful of commodity peanut butter, the only source of protein in reservation diets. Victor strummed his guitar a little; his fingers had long since calloused over. He barely felt the burning. Thomas snuck out of the house to make frantic calls at the pay phone outside the Trading Post. Chess and Checkers sat beside each other on the couch, holding hands. The television didn’t work.
Coyote Springs might have sat there in Thomas’s house for years, silent and still, until their shadows could have been used to tell the time. But that Cadillac rolled onto the reservation and changed everything. All the Spokanes saw it but just assumed it was the FBI, CIA, or Jehovah’s Witnesses. That Cadillac pulled up in front of the Trading Post. The rear window rolled down.
“Hey, you,” a voice called out from the Cadillac.
“Me?” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota asked.
“Yeah, you. Do you know where we can find Coyote Springs?”
“Sure, you go down to the dirt road over there, turn left, follow that for a little while, then go right. Then left at Old Bessie’s house. You’ll recognize her house by the smell of her fry bread. Third best on the reservation. Then, right again.”
“Wait, wait,” the voice said. “Why don’t you just get in here and show us the way?”
“That’s a nice car. But I can’t fit in there,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said. “I’ll just run. Follow me.”
“Okay, but this ain’t our car anyway. We rented it and this goofy driver, too.”
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota shrugged his shoulders and ran down the road with the Cadillac in close pursuit.
“Can’t we go any faster?” the voice yelled from the Cadillac.
Sure,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said and picked up the pace. He ran past a few other cars, which forced the Cadillac to make daring passes. They raced by Old Bessie’s house and then made a right.
“Damn, that fry bread does smell good, doesn’t it?” one white man in the car said to another.
Thomas’s house sat in a little depression beside the road.
“That’s where you’ll find Coyote Springs,” the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota said. He leaned down to look inside the car.
“You sure, Chief?” the voice asked.
“I’m sure. Did you know the end of the world is near?”
“We’ve been there and back, Chief.”
The-man-who-was-probably-Lakota saw two pasty white men sitting in the back seat. They looked small inside the car, but the smell of cigar smoke and whiskey was huge. The driver was some skinny white guy in a cheap suit. Curious, the-man-who-was-probably-Lakota watched for a while, then ran back toward the Trading Post. He had work to do.
The driver stayed in the Cadillac, but the two other white men climbed out of the back of the Cadillac. Both were short and stocky, dark-haired, with moustaches that threatened to take over their faces. Those short white men walked to the front door and knocked. They knocked again. Thomas opened the door wide.
“Hello,” the white men said. “We’re Phil Sheridan and George Wright from Cavalry Records in New York City. We’ve come to talk to you about a recording contract.”
From a fax transmitted from Wellpinit to Manhattan:
Dear Mr. Armstrong:
We just met with that Indian band we heard about. Coyote Springs. They played a little for us and quite frankly, we’re impressed. The lead singer, Thomas Builds-the-Fire, is good, but his female singers, Chess and Checkers Warm Water, are outstanding. There may be a little dissension in the group because Checkers apparently quit the band earlier. She rejoined when we showed up. I think that shows ambition. Checkers is quite striking, beautiful, in fact, while Chess is pretty. Both would attract men, I think. Sort of that exotic animalistic woman thing.
We had the band play a few sets for us in their home, and we feel confident in their abilities. Builds-the-Fire plays a competent bass guitar, while Victor Joseph is really quite extraordinary on the lead guitar. He is original and powerful, a genuine talent. Junior Polatkin is only average on drums but is a very good-looking man. Very ethnically handsome. He should bring in the teenage girls, which will make up for the looks of Builds-the-Fire and Joseph. Builds-the-Fire is just sort of goofy looking, with Buddy Holly glasses and crooked teeth. Victor Joseph looks like a train ran him over in 1976. Perhaps we can focus on the grunge/punk angle for him.
Overall, this band looks and sounds Indian. They all have dark skin. Chess, Checkers, and Junior all have long hair. Thomas has a big nose, and Victor has many scars. We’re looking at some genuine crossover appeal.
We can really dress this group up, give them war paint, feathers, etc., and really play up the Indian angle. I think this band could prove to be very lucrative for Cavalry Records.
We should fly the band out to New York to do a little studio work perhaps. To see what they can do outside their home environment.
Peace,
Phil Sheridan
George Wright
“Father Arnold,” Checkers called, “are you in here?”
She searched the church but finally found Father cleaning graves out in the cemetery. He cleaned the graves of five generations of Spokane Indian Catholics.
“Hello there, Checkers.”
“Hello, Father.”
“I’m really sorry to hear about Victor and Junior. Are they okay?”
“Yeah, they just got their heads bumped a little. A few bruises here and there. Sore ribs. Might knock some sense into them.”
“It might,” Father Arnold said and laughed. He leaned against his rake. Checkers studied the rings on his fingers. A college ring, a gold ring. She wanted to kiss his hands.
“What about those two white women?”
“They left. I guess we were too Indian for them.”
“Yeah, I know how that is.”
Checkers looked around at all the graves. She didn’t know anybody buried there.
“So,” Father said, “I heard there was some fancy car out at Thomas’s place.”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
“It was some record company guys from New York. They really liked us.”
“And?”
“And I rejoined the band.”
“Just like that?”
“Yeah, I’m sorry.”
Father Arnold dropped the rake, took Checkers’s hands. He squeezed her fingers a little, smiled at her. She tried to maintain eye contact but turned her head, ashamed.
“I’m really sorry,” she said.
“Are you sure this is what you want?”
“No. But we need the money. We ain’t got no money.”
“Does everything have to be about money?”
“Of course it does. Only people with enough money ever ask that question anyway.”
“There’s a kind of freedom in poverty.”
That’s a lie, Checkers thought and felt worse for contradicting a priest, her priest.
“Jesus didn’t have any money,” Father Arnold said.
“Yeah, but Jesus could turn one loaf of bread into a few thousand. I can’t do that.”
“You’re right, Checkers. You’re right.”
Checkers looked down at the ground. She had not wanted to be right. She wanted Father Arnold to forbid her to leave.