Hawk Moon (10 page)

"I see what a home run is. You don't have to say it."

"So all we did was second base. That was all."

Because she was twenty-one years old and because her job forced her to traffic with some very scuzzy lowlifes, some people just automatically assumed that Anna was this really modern type of girl.

But she wasn't.

Not at all.

It had always been Anna's intention to be an absolute virgin on her wedding night.

Oh, a few frivolous kisses with a few frivolous beaux now and then, that was all right.

But not anything else.

"I just don't think we should see each other anymore, Trace."

"Oh God, Anna, don't say that. Please don't. You don't know how that makes me feel. All I'm saying is that if we do things just second base and then maybe third base someday, Anna well, it's our way of proving that we love each other."

But Anna was not persuaded.

"You really do need to go now, Trace. Please."

Trace left.

N
ot even the moonlight lent the settlement much beauty. A jumbled collection of ancient mobile homes and shabby little houses, the place spoke of a poverty few white people could understand. The casino's profits hadn't gotten to this section yet.

As Cindy drove slowly through the narrow streets, I saw crumbling cars, rusted lawn furniture and a myriad of windows held together with myriad pieces of tape.

A tiny, dark mobile home next to the creek was where she finally stopped. "Here."

His tan Ford was there.

"No lights," I said.

"He sits in the dark a lot."

"And drinks?"

"Uh-huh."

"You think he's armed?"

"Hard to tell."

"You mind if I take out my trusty Ruger?"

"Not if you don't mind if I take out my trusty Smith & Wesson. I love him and I want to help him but I don't want to die for him."

I leaned over and gave her a quick but tender kiss on the cheek. "God, I'm glad to hear that."

"The battered-wife stuff getting you down?"

"Yeah, kinda."

"It is pretty pathetic, isn't it, sticking with a guy who beats you up and degrades you all the time."

"At least you've put some limits on what you'll do."

"Dying is one thing I won't do."

"You ready?"

She nodded.

"Let's go," I said.

The air was cool now and I enjoyed it, along with the smell of water and mud from the creek, and the sounds of the night birds in the trees.

The front steps were wood and they were wobbly.

When we got to the door, Cindy called out: "David, we'd like to talk to you."

She knocked twice, sharply.

"I can't get you that money unless we talk first, David. I'm sorry but it's just got to be that way."

If he was watching us, he saw two people standing on his front porch with guns in their hands. We probably didn't look all that friendly.

The windows were open. Through the screen of the nearest window, a male voice said, "Get rid of him."

"I want him here, David."

"He's an asshole."

"He's helping me."

A snort. "You sleeping with him yet?"

She couldn't hide her pain. "You bastard. You know better than that."

"I need that fucking money."

The booze occasionally got thicker than anger on his tongue.

"Then open the door and we'll talk. All right?"

Night sounds. I looked back across the shanty town of a settlement that inclined downward to a dusty valley. Not much more than a century ago, these people would have been roaming the plains, at one with the birds and the rivers and the steep limestone cliffs.

The door opened up.

He had a gun, too. You could see it in his fist in the moonlight.

It was comic, actually, the three of us standing there with our weapons.

He unlatched the screen door.

We went in.

The trailer smelled of cigarettes, whiskey, heat, dirty dishes and sleep.

He turned on a table lamp, cast in the shape of a bikini'd young lady. I almost wished he hadn't. The furniture was worn and filthy. Pizza cartons with the scabrous remains of various toppings cluttered the coffee table. A pair of dirty socks hung off the arm of the couch.

"God, David, you really should clean this place up."

He smirked. "You wonder why I left you, Cindy? Because of that. Bitch bitch bitch. This place don't bother me, it shouldn't bother you."

He wore jeans but no shirt. He'd tucked his .45 back into his belt. I imagine he thought he looked pretty menacing. All he looked like were half the convicts I'd been forced to deal with in my life. Sad punks, most of them, boy-men who never reached the mental age of twenty-one. Back in 1933 the Barrow Gang — Bonnie and Clyde, if you prefer — hid out in the Iowa town of Dexter. Adults would have kept their whereabouts secret, but Bonnie and Clyde couldn't control themselves at all. Went right on robbing and shooting until they finally brought the law down, a posse of lawmen and angry citizens alike, who surrounded the gang and then killed half of them. Bonnie and Clyde escaped but were killed in another shootout a few months later. Thugs are romantic figures only when they're up on the movie screen.

He sat in a wobbly recliner. We sat on the couch.

She said, "I want you to tell me what kind of trouble you're in."

He didn't say anything. Just glared at her.

I thought of the arm the Border collie had brought me. I said nothing.

"Things got crazy," he said, suddenly.

"What things?"

"What I found out about some of the good people of Cedar Rapids." His face was angry now and he leaned forward. "They put on such a good face for everybody. Such good respectable people."

"David, please, I can't follow any of this."

"No? You can't? Well, too bad, bitch!" He jumped to his feet, swiping downwards with one hand to snag a half-filled quart of Jim Beam.

I just wanted out. And I couldn't believe she didn't want
out, too. Some people aren't worth the effort and good old David here was clearly one of them.

He walked back toward the kitchen area and then turned abruptly again and hurled the bottle of Jim Beam into the wall.

He'd wanted a nice dramatic smash of glass exploding against wall. But the bottle didn't break. The open mouth sprayed whiskey everywhere, sure, but then it slid quite undramatically to the floor.

And then he started to cry.

Just like that. No warning.

Standing there all macho with his .45 tucked in his belt and no shirt or shoes. And he started sobbing. Brought his hands to his head and clamped them tight, as if his head were going to fly apart in ugly pieces.

She went to him and I didn't blame her. Not the way he sounded. All those years of grief — I doubted he'd cried much in his life before this — overwhelming him now. He sounded scared and tormented and angry and not a little bit pathetic.

I still didn't like him at all, but neither did I hate him quite so much, either.

She held him. In that moment I imagine she was all the women a man ever needed in his life — mother, sister, friend, lover, protector.

She held him and he sobbed all the more. She finally led him back to his chair.

I went over and picked up the Jim Beam bottle, which still had some liquor in it. In the cupboard above the sink I found a Kraft's jelly glass that felt sticky but looked reasonably clean. I filled half of it with bourbon and carried it over to him.

I figured we'd probably have one of those little moments. You know, where the jerk comes to his senses and realizes that it's a pretty all-right world after all.

But when I held the glass out to him all he did was yank it out of my hand and say, "I want your white-boy ass out of here, man."

Cindy looked up at me with lovely, tortured eyes. "He doesn't mean it."

"Sure he does. He's a prick."

"Please . . ."

"I'll show you who's a prick, white boy."

He started up out of the chair at me and while I was not exactly your macho type, the notion of putting my fist in his face — even if he later pounded the hell out of me — sounded pretty good, but Cindy stayed in her adult mode and got between us.

David sat back in the chair. Took some whiskey. He was shaking so badly, his teeth chattered against the rim of the glass. I had the sense that he might accidentally bite off a chunk and cut himself. I'd seen it happen when people were in psychotic states.

He decided to will me out of existence. From then on, he didn't once look in my direction or acknowledge me in any way.

"You're the only one I can count on, babe."

Cindy had gone from bitch to babe in just a few short minutes. A promotion of sorts.

"I really need the money. You could have gotten it by now if you had really wanted to."

She shook her head. "Not until you tell me what's going on."

He went crazy again, pushing his face into hers, shouting with such force that he sprayed spittle everywhere. "Quit asking me questions!"

Then, abruptly, he froze, was quiet, listening.

He had good ears. Much better than mine.

Heard them coming and jumped to his feet. Ran back to his bedroom and grabbed his shirt and cowboy boots.

"David, what's wrong?" she said.

He held his hand up for silence.

We listened.

After a few seconds, I heard it. A heavy car rolling down the narrow street. Tires crunching gravel. Coming toward this trailer.

"David!"

She went to grab for him but he was too fast. He was out the screen door before she could even say his name again.

Nothing dramatic. No big goodbye speeches. He was just gone.

She went after him but I gently took her arm. "You'll never catch him."

"I have to help him." She was starting to cry.

"You can't help him. Not now."

Outside, the car pulled up to the trailer. The lights stayed on.

She glanced out the window. "It's my boss. Chief Gibbs."

"Yes," I said. "I kind of figured it would be."

Y
ou might easily mistake Police Chief Richard Gibbs for a small town druggist or the crabbiest teacher in junior high. He had squinty eyes, stooped shoulders, thin lips that always looked just about to be displeased, and gnarly arthritic hands. In his khaki uniform, with his sleek bald head, he might have been a Scoutmaster searching for some aggravating troops.

Until he saw Cindy, that is. And then he changed. A light, a kind and wise light, shone in the brown eyes. And he slid his arm around her with genuine tenderness. "How you doin', hon?"

She tried a smile. "Been better, I suppose."

"All right if we go inside?" said one of the two uniformed men on the trailer's front steps.

"That's what we got the search warrant for, wasn't it?" Gibbs said.

"Well, uh, yeah, I guess so."

"Then go the hell in."

They went the hell in.

Lights came on in the dirty windows.

The small trailer rocked and tilted under the assault of their weight.

Gibbs glared at me. "Who is this guy?"

"A friend of mine."

He glared at me a little more. "Oh yeah, that federal guy. Personally, they always gave me a pain in the ass."

I laughed. "Gee, and I imagine they were just thrilled about working with you, too."

He smiled. "I was about the crankiest bastard they ever saw. Worked a couple of kidnappings with those stuck-up
sonsofbitches and gave them hell every chance I got."