Free Leonard!

"I wish I could have prevented it. But I didn’t kill those people, and I’m very sorry lives were lost that day."

– Leonard Peltier

"Smells like jasmine," Will Kneebone said.

A shiver shinnied up Ned’s spine and lodged in the hair touching his collar. "You’ve got a sense of smell like a golden retriever, yah know it?"

"Goes with the eagle eyes and panther-like build," the Indian said. "What’s with the letter?"

"The ex-wife. She wants money."

"What’s she doing asking a homeless person?"

"Thanks. I always know where to go when my ego needs massaging, dunno where I’d be without you."

"Dead is where you’d be. Oughta know better than to bed down in a snowbank. You hear about the election?"

"Nah, how much did it lose by?"

"A whole eighteen votes."

Ned lit a Pall Mall, inhaled, then aimed smoke rings at the Indian. "Didn’t think it’d be that close," he said.

Will waved the smoke away and caught Ned’s eye. Those jet black eyes would reel him in like tractor beams if he tried to look away. "Your brother says they’re gonna try again in November. Most schools with an Indian mascot have switched. Too bad the school board hasn’t got the guts to make the change on their own."

"It’ll be a fun day at the Megamall when that thing passes. School’s been open since 1915, always been the Chippewa. Don’t see what’s wrong with it."

Will pushed his hat back. "It’s disrespectful. How’d you like it if they were called the Plunder Lake Polacks?"

Ned shrugged, sipped his beer. The Indian unfolded the Minneapolis Star Tribune, licked his finger, and turned to the editorial page. These days, the Indian wore his black hair Geronimo fashion. When Ned had met him three years ago, during the infamous snowbank incident, he’d sported a whitewall flattop.

"Sheriff ever get on your case about your hair?" Ned said

"I’d file a discrimination suit against the fucker so fast. Besides, me and Sonny are working on something that’ll get him a cell in Stillwater."

"You’re not gonna tell me about it, are you?"

"Nope."

"In that case, whyn’t you toss me the variety section?" Ned said.

"Don’t you ever read anything deeper than the funnies?" the Indian grumped. Awful grouchy mood today. Probably locked horns with the sheriff again. He’d been on either the mid watch or the graveyard shift ever since he’d been hired.

"I want it for the New York Times puzzle."

Will took a swig of pop. "Says here Leonard Peltier is up for clemency again. I don’t know why they don’t let that poor old man out. He’s sick with lockjaw, he’s partially blind, and he’s got diabetes. If they could free Al Capone when he got sick with syphilis--"

"What’s Peltier to you? Thought the Ojibway hated the Sioux?"

"Friend of my grandfather’s. Both were charter members of AIM."

"Chairman Mad Bull, or your other grandfather?"

"Grandfather Kneebone never heard of Leonard, the drunken stumblebum."

"Now that’s disrespectful." Ned liked to play devil’s advocate, just to get a rise out of the Indian. "I don’t see how Clinton can let Peltier go; he executed two FBI agents gangland style."

"Shit. The Feebs were on reservation land. Besides they were at war. Not that I’m admitting he did it. Says he didn’t."

"Crap. He had that agent’s gun."

The Indian’s nose twitched; he looked at Ned as though he’d just farted. "Should’ve left you in that snowbank. Look at the shitty evidence the Feebs had."

"Myrtle Poor Bear says she heard Leonard plan to kill FBI agents who came into the area, says she saw him shoot them."

Will waved away an invisible fly. "The bitch never appeared as a witness, and she retracted her statement before Leonard’s trial in federal court. Leonard was a fall guy, pure and simple. They tried two other guys and they were both found not guilty."

Ned squinted at the clue for the first item of the puzzle. "What’s a nine letter word for teacher?"

Will snared a handful of beer nuts. "Instructor."

"That’s ten. It’s got a ‘g’ in it."

"Shit, I don’t know. Who cares? What you doing with that stupid puzzle anyways, trying to prove you’re smart?"

"I am smart. I always do it with an ink pen."

"Sure you do. You write over the ones that’re wrong."

"Pedagogue, that’s the word."

"Congratulations, you get the purple ribbon."

"Why you in such a bad mood? Sound like Rabbit Angstrom."

Will drained the rest of his pop and knocked on the bar for another. Cornelius arrived before you could say "Crazy Horse."

Will scratched his ear and rolled his neck to get out the kinks. "Who the hell is Rabbit Angstrom?"

"He’s a character in this book I read. Loretta gave it to me to read when she started college. By John Updork or Upchuck, something like that. About this ex-basketball player whose wife accidentally drowned their baby in the bathtub. Almost quit reading it. Couldn’t stand all the self pity. What that guy needed was a swift kick in the pants, either that or a week working construction, where you can’t stop to think or you can’t keep up and when you come home, you’re asleep before the six o’clock news."

Will smiled mischievously. "Can’t believe you read a book,"

he said.

"Read lots of ‘em. What’s eating you anyways?"

"That goddam tub of lard Tibbetts, who else? I collared this kid with a softball-sized quantity of meth. 1.3 grams of the shit, scales, hypodermic needles and a gross of plastic baggies in his car. Found more marijuana in his trunk than they got in one of those Jamaican churches that smoke the stuff in their high masses. Sheriff claims it was an illegal bust."

"Know what, I think it’s somebody local."

"Course he is. It’s the Bradshaw boy works at the bait shop."

Ned wondered which bait shop he meant. There was Karnowski’s Bait Shop, Miller’s Boat Rental and Bait Shop, and Tschida’s Amoco, which also sold bait, plus a bunch of others that didn’t come immediately to mind. Plunder Lake was one of the best walleye fishing lakes in Minnesota, despite the Chippewa’s unlimited fishing rights. Lots of yellow perch, burbot, tullibee, northern pike, too. But instead of asking which bait shop Will meant, he said, "Nah, numbnuts. I mean it’s somebody local who’s dealing grass in White Tail County."

Will sighed, removed his Mountie hat, and ran his fingers through his glistening black hair. "Nobody around here has that kind of street smarts. If I wasn’t married to your sister-in-law, I wouldn’t even talk to you."

Ned had to be careful when Lila Bushnagel was mentioned. After his divorce, he’d dated her on the rebound. Vulnerable and all that. She was just a little girl when he’d gone with Loretta in high school and she’d had a crush on him. Anyways, they’d slept together a few times. If Will found out, he’d have a goddamn shit hemorrhage. "Yeah, well, don’t forget who introduced her to you."

"Hell, you were just showing off your all-American halfback friend."

Ned pretended to read the second question in the crossword, but he was really thinking about the last time he’d been over to the house for dinner–-Will and Lila lived in his and Loretta’s old place. Lila got this look on her kisser like a new wife who’d just spoiled the casserole. Lately he’d been turning down those dinner invites.

"You gonna tell me about your supposed drug kingpin?" the Indian said.

"Has to be some rich bastard. They never have enough money."

Ned was pretty sure he knew. He’d been sitting in the can one night when the door opened and a guy entered the next stall. There’d been so much thumping, bumping, sighing and groaning going on that Ned had a suspicion the bozo had a woman in there. Taking a dump can feel good, but not that good. Anyways, on the way out, he’d looked over the top and there was the venerable Arthur Voigt with a Bunsen burner hose knotted around his upper arm. He’d been so busy he hadn’t seen Ned giving him the fish eye. But all that meant was that Uncle Art was a goddamned hypocrite, not that he was pushing weed. Ned didn’t want his friend Will to bite off more than he could chew. Voigt had too much clout.

"Well, I’ll be watching Karnowski’s, that’s for sure. Maybe I can lasso the kid’s supplier." Will swallowed the last of his grape Nehi, then clamped his deputy’s hat with the polished silver star on his big head, and stood up. "You want me to stop by after my shift and check on you?"

"Let me be, Mom. It’s poker night, and I don’t drink a lot when I play. Besides, I got that wallpapering job to finish tomorrow."

"Still furnishing Uncle Art’s pin money, eh?"

"I’ll win a few hands."

"Sure you will." Will slapped him on the back so hard he almost fell off the stool. "You take care now. That letter from Loretta? You think she wants you back, huh?"

"Don’t know what I think."

Couldn’t understand why Will cared so much, unless it was the thing about being responsible for someone whose life you’ve saved.

"Save a few bucks for peanut butter and crackers," Will said, and shouldered his way out the door, the cold air hitting Ned like a tongue in his ear.

Shivering, he returned to his puzzle. Spotted horse? Pinto. No, there were nine letters again. Appaloosa, that was it. Somebody touched his arm. He kinda knew it was Billi when she dropped her size 44 Double D’s in his lap. "Heard about your dad," she said. "I’m so sorry."

Had to be an icebreaker; the old man had kicked off over a year ago. Sad day that one. Although they’d never gotten along.

And that eulogy the priest gave . . . the most boring boilerplate he’d ever heard. He’d sat there in the pew composing his own. Dad had an unusual sense of humor and way of showing affection. Whisker rubs and pig snorts. Lost his thumb in a pump handle accident as a kid; yet bowled a 180 average with his left hand. Played the tuba in the city band as a young man. And the capper! He’d owned an Indian motorcycle. Traded the hog for his mom’s engagement ring–-the romantic fool. That chopper would be worth a fortune today.

"You look so sad," Billi said.

"Got a letter from Loretta today."

"You still love her, don’t yah?"

He gave her his Bruce Willis smirk. "You’re my girl now, Billi."

"Don’t I wish," she said, and swatted him hard on the butt with the rolled up magazine section of the newspaper.

#

Uncle Art tore the cellophane off a new deck, shuffled, and dealt each of the six players two cards for Hold‘em, the game the pros played at the World Series of Poker in Las Vegas. Over six feet tall, with a big pot belly, long arms, and skinny, bowed legs, Voigt oozed arrogance. Wavy, pomaded hair. A white shirt with paisley suspenders and bow tie. Two-toned, pimp shoes. He’d told them, kibitzing between hands, he’d wanted them ever since he’d seen Cab Calloway wearing them in a movie.

Ned studied the stacks of empty Budweiser and Pabst cases behind Voigt for inspiration, then scraped his chair along the cement floor closer to the table. He had an ulterior motive for being in the game. Voigt’s construction company was building a housing addition in the swampy land just east of Highway 21 and Ned wanted to hit Voigt up for a job.

He leaned over and breathed in Voigt’s ear, the Vitalis fumes clogging his sinuses. "Looking good, Art. You lose some weight?"

"Why, is somebody looking for some?"

That one was about as original as the merchandise at Wal-mart’s, but Ned was desperate, so for once, he managed to avoid the smart-aleck comeback. "I been meaning to ask if you’ve got any room for me on your crew at Sunrise Addition?"

"Don’t talk business while I’m playing cards," Voigt barked. "You know that, Tuttle."

Sheriff Tibbetts, a Broderick Crawford clone, spit snuff in a Folgers can, then opened with a two dollar bet. Ned squeezed his cards, took a peek. He had the nine and ten of spades. When the play came around to him, he called.

The others players were men from Robideaux Paving, which Voigt had inherited from Andre when he’d married the old skinflint’s daughter Lorna. They knew that if they wanted to keep their jobs, they damn well better lose.

"You still wandering around out in the woods, Tuttle?" Voigt said, giving him the needle. "Whatcha doing out there, anyway, looking for the Fort Snelling payroll?" He laughed his horse laugh and nudged the sheriff in the ribs, his cue to join in. Soon the other brown-nosers were braying like jackasses.

"Can’t sleep at night," Ned replied. Unable to help himself, he said, "It’s really peaceful out there. You ought to try it; I hear geezers like you have a tough time gettin’ their forty winks."

The barb struck home. Voigt couldn’t seem to think of a comeback, but his jaws clamped shut over his unlit cigar.

The first three cards of the flop went down. The jack of spades and the queen and king of hearts. Voigt showed teeth like Trigger’s. He must’ve paired up. But Ned had a running straight flush, so he called when Voigt raised the sheriff’s bet. All of the other players threw in their hands.

Voigt took a bite out of one of the green onions he noshed while playing, fixed Ned with a watery blue stare. "What the hell yah got over there, Tuttle?" The man had a baritone to rival John Facena of the "frozen tundra" Packer retrospectives.

Ned tried to keep from shaking. Only had thirty dollars left. One good sign, though--between bites of the green onion, Voigt was humming, a definite tell. He didn’t have any more than a pair of kings. The next community card was dealt: the queen of spades. Ned swallowed hard. Four cards to a straight flush wouldn’t beat a pair of deuces, but he’d never seen anybody who’d been able to resist staying in to see that last card.

The sheriff bet two dollars, Ned called, and Voigt countered with a thirty dollar raise. "Too rich for me," said the sheriff, tossing in his cards. Ned peeled the label on his Pabst. "I’m going to have to owe you, Art," he said. "I’m about tapped."

Voigt’s diamond pinky ring glittered in the weak light coming from the bare overhead bulb. "I don’t know why I let you in the game, Tuttle. Must be for the comic relief."

"I’ll give you my IOU for work at Sunrise at ten dollars an hour; that’s way below the going rate, and you know I’m a good worker."

Voigt’s eyes lit up; he was a lot like that chiseler Andre. "Never let it be known that Art Voigt doesn’t remember where he came from."

Ned called Voigt’s thirty dollar raise, and the final card was dealt. The King of Spades. As sexy as a Jennifer Lopez ankle bracelet.

He tried to keep his breathing level, although he was sure he was hyperventilating. Should he try to sucker Voigt with a low bet? Christ, he’d never even seen a straight flush, not even one with the "bug", which was good on aces, straights and flushes, the only wild card these crusty old farts would stand for. Maybe he should just let Voigt win. In the long run, the job at Sunrise would be worth a hell of a lot more than a lousy poker pot.

Ned bet ten hours of work.

Voigt stood, hummed a tone deaf melody, then said, "By the time I’m through with you, Tuttle, I’ll own you. Watch my hand, Tibbetts. I got to hit the can again." The man had notoriously weak kidneys. Either that or he had another date with the needle.

When Voigt returned, he raised another hundred, and Ned raised him back two. That was when the old goat finally realized he’d been snookered. He called. When Ned flipped up the nine and the ten, Voigt’s jaw dropped like an unwrapped mummy’s, but he quickly regained his composure. "A fucking straight flush. You don’t call a thirty dollar raise on the come. You’re even dumber than I thought." His complexion had turned Turkey wattle red. "Oh, and about that construction job. We don’t hire drunks."

Ned’s knuckles itched for the pleasant sensation of knuckles on bone; he ached to tip the card table, to run amuck like a steroid-crazed grappler on the WWF. Here was a man who shot up in the bathroom calling him a drunk. The fucking hypocrite was on the church board. Ned swallowed the acid he’d regurgitated, raked in the pot, then flipped his cards at Voigt, and got up to leave.

"Where do you think you’re going, Tuttle?" Voigt growled. "What kind of a loser would quit and not give a man a chance to win his money back?"

Ned stuffed the bills in his pockets, ignored him as he climbed the stairs to the main room, unable to drown out the Robideaux flunkies’ laughter.

Back at the bar, Ned ordered a Special Export, took a satisfied swig, burped, and gazed up at the Hamm’s Bear above the Johnny Walker and Cutty Sark decanters on the top shelf. The bear seemed to be saying, "Job well done, my boy." What the hell did he know! Nobody drank Hamm’s anymore.

Drumming his fingers on the bar, Ned grinned at the oblong face in the mirror. Sometimes he saw his reflection there and didn’t immediately recognize himself. Richard Gere gone to seed was how Billi described him. Certainly didn’t know who the hell he was anymore, that was for sure. Such a straight arrow before his marriage hit the rocks; the other hardhats razzing him for brown-nosing the boss. Always the first one on the job, never missing work, even when he was sick with the flu. And now he was this fuck-up who had to beg assholes like Voigt for a crust of bread.

Ned pulled his NASCAR baseball cap down over his eyes. So much shame lately; shame had to be the cruelest emotion, just a breath away from self hatred, and he sure did hate himself for drinking too much, driving his loved ones away.

He moved over a couple of stools to where an Old Dutch display blocked the mirror. Should be happy; he’d finally drawn the unbeatable hand. Now, what would he do with his windfall? He could pay some on his bar bill; he should definitely settle the arrears on the rent for the vacation dacha he lived in. Or he could parlay his winnings on a bet, and really tickle Loretta, when he sent her some serious moola. Ned found the sports pages. The wise thing to do would be to spread his bets, like stock brokers did on the market. Put some of your money in blue chips, some in the foreign market, some in risky technology stocks. The football Gophers were playing at Purdue. Ten point underdogs, hadn’t beaten the Boilermakers in a couple of years. His bookie would fall all over himself trying to broker that bet, but Coach Mason and the Maroon and Gold had almost whipped the Boilermakers last year, losing by only five or six points, if he recollected correctly. The Gophers, plus ten points, was a good bet.

Finishing his expensive beer, Ned could still hear the sarcastic laughter. Art Voigt needed to pay, and Ned knew something about him nobody else did. The man was dumb enough to shoot up in a public rest room. Could he get a Polaroid? Nah, blackmail was for slime balls. Besides the Robideaux foreman had told him he’d been over there once for dinner and had noticed this holster sitting on Voigt’s desk. It was for a derringer you strapped around your leg. The foreman had said that during Voigt’s younger days working on Robideaux’s construction crew he’d been quite the bar brawler.

Still, if Voigt was involved in hooking kids on dope, he should pay. He could call in an anonymous tip from the pay phone at Yeager’s. The cops would catch him with the drug paraphernalia on his person. But what was it Will Kneebone had said about that meth arrest? The sheriff had ruled the collar a bogus bust. Tibbetts played cards with Art Voigt. The two were tight. If he wanted to get even with Voigt, he’d have to tell Will Kneebone what he’d seen in the can.

Ned had never ratted on anyone in his life and he had no evidence that Voigt was doing anything other than shooting up smack.

Some guys from Robideaux Construction had replaced the fish people, which gave Ned another idea. Voigt’s foreman had fired him on the spot that day he’d come to work drunk. Despite the divorce, he’d still had his job. That bulldozer had been his baby, a big powerful toddler with a cry like a bull elephant. When he’d started her up, a thrill had gone through his loins, rivaling the first time he and Loretta had done it out in the treehouse behind her house. In the cat bird seat, he felt powerful, barreling over tree stumps, tossing huge boulders around like goose down pillows. He was Megaman, the Hulk. Nothing could stop him. He still went to visit Baby every so often, just to see if they were treating her right. A bulldozer like that could be worth at least a quarter million for sure, maybe more. Couldn’t hurt to check it out. See if he could fence it with one of the construction outfits he’d worked for in the Dakotas. If nothing else, he’d have Baby to himself. Where could he hide her? A gravel pit? Nah, he’d heard about a similar case where the thief had buried a big Cat. Thing is, somebody still used the gravel pit and had spotted the smokestack sticking out. He’d find a place to hide her.

#

Ned left some bills on the bar, then headed out with the vague intention of hiking partway around the lake. Yeah, Voigt had been right. He was hoping to stumble over some evidence of the pilfered Fort Snelling payroll; been looking for it all of his life. He didn’t know quite what he expected to find. A cutlass sticking up out of the ground. Nah, most likely a depression in the woods where the ground had settled. Sure it was a pipe dream, just like the five bucks he invested in the weekly Powerball, but if a guy stopped dreaming, he might as well curl up in a snowbank and die.

Taking the short cut through the alley behind Snow’s, he noticed yellow patches of light radiating from the Stairway to Limbo, the combination antique, gift, and pawn shop that had recently opened. He’d hocked his Evinrude motor there last week, and the store’s new owner, Peggy Shippe, had recognized him from high school. He remembered her as being the kind of kid they called a Goth these days, those into devil worship and Marilyn Manson. Back then they were just freaks and hippies.

The chimes tinkled as he opened the door, contending with the Rap music blaring from a back room, so loud it hurt his teeth. He stood there assessing the attic-like jumble. A row of outdated televison sets and K-Mart VCR’s on the floor to the left. Tape recorders, cassette players, boom boxes, and pagers on the shelf above. A Packard Bell computer shoved into a corner, cords hopelessly entangled. A Nintendo 64 Atomic Purple game system with Micky Speedway and NFL Blitz occupied its own shelf. Above that she’d arranged junk from the estate sales she frequented: old toys, a row of mournful looking dolls, candleholders, silver tea sets. Straight ahead was her art museum. Various frames without paintings, what looked like Impressionist reproductions. To the right was the tourist section. Magazines, paperbacks, post cards, out of town newspapers, candy.

He pushed aside a beaded curtain and there she was, smoking a jay, so absorbed by her painting that she hadn’t heard the chimes or noticed him standing there. A big girl, 150 lbs at least, with dark brown hair tied in knot, a chopstick holding it in place. Cheeks as round as a pocket gopher’s, little Ojibway eyes as brown as root beer.

Finally, as if he were an unpleasant draft she’d just noticed, she looked up. She took a toke on the joint she’d been smoking and offered it to him. He should his head no. She was barefoot, wearing a man’s chambray shirt speckled with paint and blue jeans with the knees ripped out.

"What do you think?" she said.

The painting was a red gash, what looked like a vagina, varicose veins radiating up the woman’s loins to a bush of pubic hair, and above that, an outie navel lanced by what he thought was a hat pin. Abstract art was supposed to provoke emotion, but this one made him feel like swearing off sex. Couldn’t tell her that, though; she’d torch the building. She’d told him she never kept any of her paintings and once a month or so, she’d make a burn run out in the country. He’d been wondering who’d been setting those fires; he’d thought it was some farmer burning brush; you could see the sooty smoke for miles, funneling up into the sky like an inverted tornado.

The woman was definitely two figs short of a cookie. That day he’d hocked the Evinrude, she’d asked him if he wanted to screw. Not one to turn down sex, he’d obliged her. On the beat-up love seat, next to the tank with the solitary voyeur of a gold fish swimming back and forth.

He went over and turned the audio knob on her boom box all the way to the left. "It frightens me," he said.

"What, rap music?"

"That, too, but I meant the painting."

"Can you be more specific?"

"Jeez, I don’t know. Kind of like when I first time I heard about the Ebola Virus, or maybe that time I seen that Alien movie."

"It’s supposed to," she said, adding a little green to the part that looked like the woman’s intestines.

He reached for his billfold. "How much you want for my Evinrude?" he said.

"Unh. What did I give you for it?"

"A hundred, I think it was."

"I gave you a hundred for that piece of crap! What was I smoking?"

"Same stuff you’re smoking now, I suppose. What is it, hashish?"

"Nope, plain old Panama Red. You come into some money suddenly?"

"Won a hand of poker. But I can’t really afford to buy the motor back. Need to send the ex-wife some dough." He pulled the letter out of his back pocket and handed it to her.

She wiped her hands on a cloth and took it. "What do you want me to do with this?" she said.

"Read it."

Didn’t know why he was showing her the letter. Perhaps because she reminded him of Loretta a little, and he was hoping she’d ask him to go to bed again. Not so much for the sex, but because if he didn’t find somebody to hold on to, the night sickness would tear at him like a rabid jackal and he might find himself curled up in a snowbank again.

She glanced up at him with brown eyes that belonged on a wanted poster. "We’ve been to bed once, you haven’t called me since, and you want me to read your wife’s letter?"

"I meant to come by. You know, once burned, twice shy."

He thought she might toss the thing back in his face, but instead she blew into the opening and removed the pages, frowning like a little kid trying to decipher the basal reader.

"Nice handwriting, such nice purple ink," she said. "Didn’t know you had a kid. How old is he?"

Peg handed him the roach again; this time he took a hit. He couldn’t feel a thing. "Going on eighteen. He’ll be graduating in June. I want to get him something really nice. I already sent her a hundred from my wallpapering job at Mrs. Robideaux’s."

She scratched her nose with stubby little fingers, the fingernails bitten down to the nubs. "So, how much money did you win at poker?"

"Around five hundred. I’m thinking of parlaying it into some more, though."

She returned the letter, picked up the brush, and went back to work on the intestines. "I wouldn’t do that if I were you," she said, adding a touch of electric blue. "If what you told me that night we were together is true, you’re about as lucky as that little guy in the comics with the rain cloud over his head while everybody else is in the sun. Send her the five hundred."

"I suppose you’re right. I was gonna make a football bet. On the Gophers."

She slapped her forehead, smearing blue paint on her frown lines. "The Wretched Rodents. I went to school there; they haven’t had a winning season since God was a boy. Send her the five hundred."

He handed back the roach. "They were eight and four last year. Even if I did win, it would be chump change." Ned hadn’t been serious about Andre’s safe until now; he felt like one of those blowhards in the boys’ locker room bragging about his latest conquest; but he wanted to impress this strange, sexy little woman, and the only way he knew how to do it was to tell her about what he’d seen at Blackbird Cove. "I know where there’s enough money to finance a Central American revolution," he said.

She whirled around, causing the knot to come undone. Her hair was longer than it looked. "You talking about the pirate treasure? I’ve always wanted to–-"

"No, that’s hopeless. I know where there’s a safe stuffed full of cash."

"You’re not an undercover cop, are you?"

"If I were John Law, would I be looking for a bust in a pawn shop in Plunder Lake, Minnesota?"

She thought that one over, chewing on the inside of her cheek. "You don’t know cops. They love to harass pawn shop owners, and I’m not exactly Laura Ingalls Wilder."

"I know you must think I’m some kind of gasbag. No kidding, I really do know where there’s more money than what’s in the Denver mint."

"Why’d you pick me to tell?"

"Cause we slept together the first time we saw each other. Since high school, I mean. I thought you might have gone over to the dark side."

The expression on her face rivaled that of an obsessed Beatle’s fan. "Call me Jimmy Valentine!" she whooped. "I tell you I stole a car once?"

"You’re shitting me."

The jail babe eyes turned a deeper shade of brown. "Honest Indian. I was strolling through the parking lot at Yeager’s and this guy had left his lights on, so, good girl that I am, I thought I’d do him a favor and switch them off. But by the time I got behind the wheel, I got this itch. It was like trying not to scratch the pock marks when you got the measles. Squealed on out of there like Steve McQueen in ‘Bullet’. Sanded her down, slapped on a new coat of paint, and sold it to a fence I know in the Cities. I used to hang in Dinkytown, one of those professional students, you know. I met all sorts of people there. Got a thousand bucks for that car. What’s the caper you’ve got in mind?"

"Actually there are two and they’re related. I want to try for this bulldozer out at a Robideaux Construction site first."

"Robideaux, huh? I wouldn’t do that if I were you. Despite the fact that everybody in this one-goat town thinks he’s Mr. Rogers, that Voigt guy is one bad dude. He’ll cut your nuts off and feed ‘em to the squirrels."

Ned instinctively folded his hands over his groin. "He doesn’t scare me," he said. "I know some guys in the Dakotas who don’t ask a lot of questions when it comes to this sort of thing."

She pushed out her lower lip, like Alfalfa thinking up a scheme. "How would you haul the thing? Don’t they weigh a ton?"

"I know a guy’s got a semi with a flatbed trailer. You can ferry a house on one of them."

"That so?" She tapped a tooth with a stubby finger. "You’d have to park it for a couple of months until it all blows over. I’d sell it in Mexico, if I were you. Let’s talk about the safe. The bulldozer job would most likely’ll take too long."

"The safe has got to wait until Mrs. Robideaux is out of town. I’m gonna do the Caterpillar caper first, just to get even with that slimeball Voigt."

"But the safe would give you some real money right now for your ex." She turned back toward the painting, doing that visualization thing most likely. He could hear the cuckoo clock behind her ticking. "What did Voigt do to you?" she finally said.

"I just hate the bastard, okay?"

She stroked his cheek. "Emotional. I like that. Tell me more about the goddamn safe before I rip your lungs out."

"I found Andre’s safe when I was wallpapering at Mrs. Robideaux’s. The old buzzard didn’t believe in banks."

"He’s been dead forever, hasn’t he?"

"Art Voigt is her son-in-law; he handles her money for her, and I don’t think he knows about the safe. Forget it, though, we’re doing the Caterpillar!"

"Fuck the Caterpillar. One thing, though, about that safe. If we knock it over, won’t you be a logical suspect?"

"That’s where you come in. I need to get myself locked up, so’s I have an alibi, while you break in and crack the safe. It’s a cheap J.C. Penney thing. Tap it with a hammer and she should spring right open. The old lady’ll be gone to Seattle to see her daughter next week. I might even know the combination."

Her breathing grew more rapid, her eyes dilating, and her complexion growing flushed. "You’re really turning me on," she said. "Wanna fuck?"

#

She begged to see his place. He tried to tell her it was a one-room former Mobil station, but she absolutely insisted. When she saw the flying red horse, dangling from a solitary chain, clattering and clanking against the side of the building, as loud as if the roof itself were caving in, he swore she was having an orgasm on the spot. "How much you want for that baby?" she said.

"You mean it’s worth something?"

"It could be. Mobil and Exxon merged, you know, which means this little piece of tin is an antique."

"Doesn’t matter. It’s not mine."

"What have we been talking about for the last hour? You’d steal a bulldozer and rob a poor old lady, but . . . Would your landlord know it was missing?"

"I don’t know. He’s about a hundred."

"I’m taking it. There’s something ironic about Mobil Oil using Pegasus as a corporate logo, don’t you think?"

"Pegasus?"

"Yeah, that’s the flying horse, sprung from the blood of the Gorgon slain by Perseus. He could fly forever and never get tired."

"This is one of those Greek myths I take it?"

"Yup. There’s a dude in the story, too, named Bellerophon. He craved Pegasus and Athena gave him a golden bridle to mesmerize the horse. Of course, there was an object lesson: be careful of what you ask for, you just might get it. Bellerophon becomes a great hero, defeating the unconquerable Chimaera, a lion in front, a serpent in back, a goat in the middle. He takes on the Solymi and the Amazons, coming out on top, you should excuse the pun. Of course, like most guys, this all goes to his head, and he tries to ride Pegasus up to Olympus, but the horse, knowing better than to fuck with Zeus, bucks him off. Thereafter, Bellerophon, hated of the gods, wandered alone, eating his liver and avoiding ordinary joes until he died. Meanwhile, Pegasus found a cozy stall in the barns of Olympus. When Zeus wished to use his thunderbolt, it was Pegasus who brought the thunder to him."

"Jeez, sounds just like that Nimrod joker. Why don’t you just offer the old boy a couple of bucks? I’m sure he’ll jump at it."

"Wouldn’t be any fun."

#

"Whyn’t you tell me you only had a single bed?" she said, after they’d finished. "My back hurts worse than the time I fell down three flights of stairs."

She hadn’t been what he’d expected. He’d thought it was going to be like the first time: slam, bam, thank you ma’am. But, no, this time he’d had to do so much foreplay he’d almost worn himself out before the main event. "A woman has seven turn-ons she’d said."

He got around to all of them before she finally mounted him. Yeah, she had to be on top.

The rest of the night they told each other their life stories. She told him about Phil Daley, her art teacher in high school, about their affair, and how Daley broke it off in fear of losing his job and because he didn’t want to hurt his wife and two kids. He had, however, arranged for a scholarship for her at the "U".

"I seduced his son," she finally said.

"You went to bed with Phil Daley’s boy?"

"Yep. I rent these porno videos and he came in one day. He looks just like his old man, so I knew immediately who he was. You know of course that teenager boys are at the height of their sexual potency. And I’m just coming into my own."

Her skin smelled like musk. She slapped him in the face with her hair, causing his eyes to burn and water, but it hurt so good.

"I want to confess something," he said. "That safe I told you about at Mrs. Robideaux’s. I’m not sure there’s any money in it. There probably isn’t."

"Sounds like a good bet to me."

"No, really. Forget about it; I’m pretty sure Mrs. R. didn’t really need that wallpapering job done."

"You’re such a softy," she said.

"I’ll show you who’s soft," he said.

#

While Ned and Peggy were regaling each other with their life stories, Will Kneebone was parked on a ridge behind some white pines, watching Karnowski’s Bait Shop just below. Had to get this son of a bitch. Crank dealers made marijuana growers look like altar boys. The shit only ran about $200 a batch, with a $4,000 payoff, and cooking a batch of meth resulted in six pounds of toxic waste that the scofflaw dumped in the back yard. They made the stuff out of ether, drain cleaner, anhydrous ammonia and other dangerous shit, including fertilizer. And the shit affected the central nervous system. Will had heard a DEA dick tell about a fellow who’d thought the neighbor’s cow was spying on him who’d cut the cow’s face off with a chain saw.

Once every hour or so, a dilapidated beater would stop at the solo pump and fill up. The Bradshaw kid would saunter out, slap hands with the driver, and shmooze for twenty or thirty minutes. Nothing changed hands that Will could see, other than a possible case of dermatitis.

Along about ten thirty, Cornelius from Snow’s approached on foot, carrying what looked like a bag of burgers under one arm. Dorky plaid cap with ear flaps. A fur-collared coat the Good Will would laugh at. Will wasn’t aware of any family relationship between Corny and the Bradshaw boy, other than that they were of the same species. He started his truck, and eased his way down the gravel incline, navigating in the dark.