«Did you ever see the movie they made about me?» came the bellowing roar from within the closed tepee. «The son of a bitch playing me had the biggest lisp I ever heard! Embarrassing, real embarrassing!»
«Mac, that’s what I’m talking about! This crazy charade you’re putting us through is embarrassing to us. We’re going to get shot down and be the laughingstock of all the reservations!»
«Not yet you’re not—we’re not! Although the term ‘shot down’ is kinda interesting.»
«No it isn’t, you lotus brain! It’s been over three months now and we haven’t heard a word. Three months of insanity, running around half-naked or in costumes with beads that scratch our asses like hell, and burning our fingers and getting poison ivy in places also embarrassing whenever we have to run into the woods—»
«Slit trenches have always been an acceptable part of military life, boy. And you can’t argue with the separation of the sexes—the army wouldn’t have it any other way.»
«This isn’t the army and I’m not a soldier and I want my clothes back—»
«Any day now, son!» interrupted the harsh, gravelly voice inside the tepee. «You’ll see!»
«No, you lunatic, not any day or any month or any year! Those old farts on the Supreme Court are probably sitting around in chambers laughing their heads off, and I won’t be able to practice in the loosest court in American Samoa… Come on, Mac! Admit it, it’s over—it was a hell of an idea and I’ve got to say there was maybe a grain, a grain, maybe, of substance, but now it’s become ridiculous.»
«Our good people have suffered for a hundred and twelve years, boy. Suffered at the hands of the brutal, avaricious white man, and we shall be justly recompensed and set free!… What’s a few more days?»
«Mac, you’re not remotely related!»
«In this old soldier’s heart we’re bonded, son, and I won’t let you down.»
«Let us down, please? Let me down, and give me my clothes back and tell those two idiots who follow me around to leave me alone!»
«You’re too impatient, young fella, and I can’t let you turn on our tribal brothers—»
«Our …? Mac, you’re certifiable, so let me lay one on you, brother brave. It’s a little matter of a pro forma judicial statute of which you may not be aware, but you damn well should be. Four months ago, when this whole whack-a-doo war dance started, you asked me if I’d passed my bar exam, and I told you that I was sure I had. Well, I’m still sure I passed the damn thing, but if you asked me to provide you with certification, I couldn’t do it. You see, I haven’t received formal notification from the Nebraska bar, and I may not for another two months, which is perfectly normal for the bar and perfectly impermissible where your legal powwow with the Supreme Court is concerned.»
«What …?» came the prolonged, disemboweling roar from behind the closed front flap of the tepee.
«That joint’s a busy place, brother, and except under extraordinary circumstances, which must be spelled out and approved, no unaccredited attorney may petition the Supreme Court, even as temporary counsel. I told you that. You’re dead by default even if you were awarded a positive decision, which is about as likely as this Indian brave learning to ride a goddamned horse!»
The harrowing scream from within the cone of painted ersatz animal skins was longer than before and infinitely more heartrending. «How could you do this?»
«I didn’t do it, Mac, you did! I told you to officially list your attorney-of-record, but you said you couldn’t because he was dead and you’d figure something out later, and in the meantime we’d use the non nomen precedent from 1826.»
«You dug that one up!» cried the faceless roar.
«Yes, I did, and you were grateful, and now I suggest you dig up your late attorney of research-and-record.»
«I can’t.» The roar suddenly became the whimper of a bewildered kitten.
«Why not?»
«He won’t talk to me.»
«I would hope to hell not! Christ, I don’t mean his corpse, I mean his papers, his findings, interrogatories—his research. They’re all acceptable.»
«He wouldn’t like that.» The kitten was now a piping mouse.
«He wouldn’t know!… Mac, listen to me. Sooner or later, one of those judges’ law clerks in D.C. will learn that I’m a kid barely out of law school with hardly six months of clerking myself, and he’ll blow a shrill whistle. Even if you had a prayer, the lord god of the Court, Chief Justice Reebock, would throw a lightning bolt into it for defrauding his holy institution. Worse, for making fools of them, if even one or two corkscrews were leaning in your favor, which, as I say, is totally impossible. Forget it, Mac! It’s over. Give me my clothes back okay, and let me get out of here—»
«Where would you go, son?» The unseen piping mouse was getting out of the vocal cellar and climbing back up to a crescendo. «I mean where, boy?»
«Maybe American Samoa with a forwarded certification from the Nebraska bar, who the hell knows?»
«I never thought I’d say this, son,» cried the faceless, once more shouting voice from the tepee, «because I really thought you had the right stuff, but I can see now that I can’t bring you up to snuff!»
«Thanks for the rhyme, Mac. Now, how about my clothes?»
«You got ’em, you yellow-skinned coyote!» The fake animal skin flap opened and an assortment of Ivy League garments was hurled out of the dark space.
«That’s redskin, Mac. Not yellow-skinned, remember?» The young loinclothed brave lurched for the flying shorts, shirts, gray flannel trousers, and navy blue blazer. «Thank you, Mac, I really thank you.»
«Not yet, boy, but you will. A good officer never forgets the grunts, no matter how unworthy they might appear in the heat of battle… You were a help, I’ll say that, in the GHQ strategy sessions. Leave your forwarding address with that drunken flake you call Eagle Ass!»
«Eagle Eyes,» corrected the brave, discarding his loincloth and putting on his shorts. He reached for his blue oxford shirt. «And you gave him the booze—you gave everyone cases of booze—I never allowed so much.»
«Beware the sanctimonious Indian who turns on his tribe!» yelled the unseen manipulator of the Wopotamis.
«Fuck off, Mac!» cried the brave, shoving his feet into his Bally loafers and his striped tie into his pocket, and getting into his blazer. «Where the hell’s my Camaro?»
«Camouflaged beyond the east pasture, sixty running deer strides to the right of the August owl’s tall pine.»
«Sixty what? What goddamned owl?»
«You never were too sharp in the field; Eagle Ass told me that himself.»
«Eagle Eyes, and he’s my uncle, and he hasn’t inhaled a sober breath or seen straight since you got here!… East pasture? Where is it?»
«Check the sun, boy. It’s the compass that never fails you, but make damn sure you ash up your weapons, so the glares don’t give you away.»