CHAPTER 9
Manny draped his coat
over his arm as he enjoyed walking in downtown Rapid City. Old
Town’s touch of the West reminded him of the area’s roots. Bronze
frontiersmen stood mute, guarding the corners, symbols of the hardy
souls who had first settled here. Or rather, had driven the Lakota
off their rightful land, away from their sacred Black Hills to the
desolate reservations they occupied today.
Since coming back to
Pine Ridge, Manny fought the cynicism. Hadn’t the bureau been good
to him, hiring a Native American? Except for the reservation
assignments, the bureau treated him as an equal with White agents.
He kept telling himself that all Pine Ridge meant to him was a
childhood full of painful memories, yet with each passing day he
wished there were something he could do to change things there. He
fought the feelings, convinced that they would subside once he
returned to Virginia after this assignment.
Manny smiled at each
person he passed. Each one would look him in the eye and throw out
a genuine “Good morning” or “Good day” or “How’s it going?” as if
they were actually interested how life was treating this stranger
from another place. They couldn’t tell he was a temporarily
displaced FBI agent from the East. All they knew was that they had
spoken to an Indian man in passing. Indian-White tensions of the
early 1970s had indeed eased, and he looked forward to the next
person who wished him a good day so he could return the
gesture.
The Black Hills air
was crisp and clean, and he picked up the pace, walking without
being winded thanks to his stepped-up road regime every night. He
thanked Jenny Craig for his diet, and he thanked those young agents
who took time from their workout at the bureau gym to help and
encourage him. And oddly, he thanked Niles the Pile for sending him
out here, even though he’d have to hustle to solve this homicide in
time for the next class. By the time Manny walked the mile to the
Prairie Edge, it was late afternoon, and the heat of the day faded
into a cool puff of air that followed him into the
store.
A bell tinkled above
the door. He stopped just inside and listened to the mellow music
that surrounded the room. He closed his eyes, and cherished the
falsetto of the flute, the bass drum in the background setting the
beat of the song. How many powwows had he attended where such music
was sandwiched between the Shawl and the Jingle dancers? How many
had he missed being away so long? Maybe that’s why he liked polka,
with its distinctive beats reminiscent of his native
music.
He opened his eyes,
and drew in a deep breath. Sage and sweetgrass burned somewhere in
the room. It was another thing he missed: the fragrance of sacred,
burning grasses.
A rawhide war shield
hung from one wall, and Manny stepped closer to examine it. A
traditional geometric pattern was beaded in the colors of the
sacred winds: black, red, yellow, and white. Each row of beads was
perfectly aligned, too perfect to be an original. The price of two
thousand dollars was steep for a replica. But an original Sioux war
shield would have cost ten times that amount.
He turned to another
wall where a brain-tanned deerskin shirt hung. The pale,
milk-supple hide had been beaded on every inch. Like the war
shield, it detailed intricacies that original artifacts never
possessed. Beaded rattles and drums and knife sheaths hung beneath
the shirt, awaiting buyers wealthy enough to afford them. “If
something moved, an Oglala woman would bead it” was a saying he had
heard often growing up.
In an adjacent room
were gifts that tourists, not purists, would buy. Knives and
mass-produced beaded purses and pouches sat in glass display cases.
Their quality was shoddy compared to the art made by native hands,
which the price difference reflected. People unfamiliar with the
culture would parade these things in front of their friends to show
they had something genuinely Sioux and say they supported Indians
by buying them, perhaps taking off the “made in Hong Kong” stickers
before showing their friends.
In the back room,
bins of beads waited for artisans to purchase them. Trade beads,
they were called in the days when the White man traded the pieces
of glass made in Europe for valuable fur to sell in the cities. Two
old women stood hunched over the bins. One squinted through reading
glasses missing one bow, while the other fingered a small leather
coin purse as she dug for enough to cover the price of their
beads.
Manny returned to the
main room and spoke with a young woman behind the counter wearing
an elk-hide vest adorned with imperfect rows of beads. It was
ancient, beaded perhaps a hundred years ago by a Lakota woman on a
winter night. When the clerk spoke, a distinct Brulé accent greeted
him, thicker and more inclined to draw out the nasal vowels than
the Oglala dialect.
“I’m looking for the
manager.”
“Ms. Horkley is
upstairs.” As she spoke, she cut strips from a piece of suede with
a razor blade. She saw him watching her. “For moccasins,” she said.
“We can buy commercially made moccasin strings, but these are
authentic. Besides, they last longer.”
He thanked her and
walked upstairs. The books for sale were arranged with Western
settler history separated from Indian history separated from books
about the Dakotas. The room had the air of a well-organized, albeit
small, research library. A plump lady who could have passed for
Manny’s grandmother squatted beside CDs marked
“Language.”
“Ms. Horkley?” Manny
opened his ID and badge wallet.
She gasped as she
pushed her gray hair behind her ears. “Don’t tell me I have to go
to the police station and identify that Mr. Bell
again?”
Manny shook his head.
“I’m just here to ask you some questions about the
break-in.”
“The thefts could
have been a disaster for us.” She set the CDs on a table, and used
the side of the bookcase for support to stand. She turned to a desk
and took three Oreos from a pack, and offered Manny a cookie. He
hadn’t eaten this afternoon, and he accepted two cookies. “We deal
in replications by a select group of artists, mostly local and
mostly Lakota, though sometimes we acquire some Cheyenne and Crow
pieces. All those are replaceable. But not the artifacts that were
stolen. They were all original Oglala and Sicangu.”
“Detective Soske said
you remembered seeing Ricky Bell in here before.”
“He showed me a whole
page of pictures, and I spotted Mr. Bell right off. He browsed the
store the day before the break-in. I understand he worked for the
Red Cloud Development Corporation, which is a
coincidence.”
“How
so?”
Ms. Horkley once
again turned to the Oreo pack to give her strength to continue.
“Jason Red Cloud was the best customer we had for authentic Lakota
antiquities. I was delighted that he was able to purchase them,
being Oglala himself.”
“Did he buy things
often?”
“Heavens, yes.” She
smiled. “Mr. Red Cloud bought something every month.”
“Every
month?”
“Yes. Except last
month there was an unfortunate problem.”
Manny waited until
she’d swallowed her cookie before continuing. “Mr. Red Cloud came
in to buy a star quilt. At least he intended buying it. Very old.
Rumored to have been made for High Back Bone.”
“Who?”
“Hump.”
Manny flushed with
embarrassment. He should know old Lakota leaders as well as this
White woman did. “Jason paid with a corporate check, as he always
did. Even for the best of customers like Mr. Red Cloud, we do a
bank verification for any amount over a thousand dollars, you
understand.”
“Fully. But there was
a problem?”
“Yes.” Ms. Horkley
sat on the edge of the desk. She brushed cookie crumbs off her
dress into her hand. “When I checked with the bank, there were
insufficient funds to cover the purchase. Mr. Red Cloud became very
angry. He said he’d be back when he got it straightened out with
his banker and stormed out. But he never came back to pick up the
quilt.”
“Did his checks ever
bounce before?”
“Never. The bank
always honored them. This was the first time the bank declined it.
I thought they’d made an error. But when I called the bank
president personally, he said there was no mistake. He said there
just wasn’t enough money in the Red Cloud Development account to
cover the purchase.”
“Tell me,” Manny
said, recalling the photo of the quilt when it was returned, “did
you usually fold in the edges of quilts like that?”
“Heavens, no.” She
took a small step back as if Manny had called her a profane name.
“We always store our quilts like those.” She pointed over the
balcony to four quilts in the art section of the store; each hung
on individual wooden presentation rods. “That’s the proper way to
store antique quilts.”
He thanked Ms.
Horkley and had started toward the door when she stopped him. “What
do you think will happen to Mr. Bell?”
“He’ll be prosecuted
under state statute. With his prior arrest record, he’ll go back to
the penitentiary.”
“That’s such a
shame,” she said, eating the last of the Oreos. “They don’t feed
them very well in jail, do they?”
“I thought I’d never
find you.” Passing cars nearly drowned out Sonja Myer’s voice. She
locked an arm in Manny’s.
“Don’t tell me. That
nice Lieutenant Looks Twice?”
“He’s been so
helpful. Now all I have to get is your help with my story and I’ll
be all set.”
Sonja moved closer
and her fragrance once again overwhelmed him. Her face was inches
from his. “I’m not jerking you around, I just don’t really have
anything new,” Manny lied.
“Then we’ll just go
someplace where we can talk. Where I can enjoy intelligent
conversation for a change.”
Manny could not think
of a single reason not to go somewhere with this beautiful woman.
Except, like any other beautiful woman coming on to an
over-the-hill man, she had other motives. He’d go with her, as much
out of amusement as curiosity about what she knew.
She led him past
small shops, past other bronze statues he was only vaguely aware
of, and sat at an outside table in front of a small
bistro.
“Would you like to
hear the specials again?” The enthusiastic young waiter had
postgrad written all over his handsome face.
“Please. I didn’t
catch all that.”
The waiter started
reciting the specials again, then he stopped midsentence and put
his pencil back behind his ear. “I thought I recognized you. Can I
get an autograph?”
Manny was once again
speechless. “Sure.” He reached for the waiter’s pen and pad, but
the man jerked his hand back and turned to Sonja. “I’ve been a fan
of yours ever since you came here from Denver.”
Sonja signed the
waiter’s pad, and Manny looked after the kid as he disappeared into
the bistro.
“A closed mouth
gathers no feet.”
“What?”
Manny forced a smile.
“I thought he was talking to me.”
Sonja laughed and
rested her hand on his arm. “I get that a lot around
here.”
“Did you work in the
media in Denver?”
“Part-time
television. Or I should say my other job was part time: Denver
Broncos cheerleader.”
Manny nodded as if he
knew what she was talking about. He couldn’t recall the last time
he saw a football game, but if the cheerleaders looked like Sonja,
he thought he’d become a fan.
The waiter brought
their order and lingered, looking at Sonja a little longer than
Manny felt was appropriate. After the waiter left, she scooted her
chair close to his. Her leg touched his lightly, and Manny tried
reading anything else into it besides the story she was
after.
“I’m really
struggling to have new information by deadline.” She dabbed mustard
from the corners of her mouth with a checkered napkin. “Anything,
however slight, that might fool my editor into thinking I’ve been
doing my job.”
Manny put his
sandwich down and sipped his latte. He decided he hated lattes.
Give me the last dregs of the coffeepot
anytime. “I can tell you public information, that Jason was
strapped financially and his project funding had been matched by
the Oglala Sioux Tribe. Thirty million dollars that the tribe stood
to lose if the resort failed.”
“And was it
failing?”
“No
comment.”
“Did he reinvest the
money the tribe fronted him?”
“No
comment.”
“You’re not giving me
much to go on.” She leaned closer to him and her breasts brushed
against his forearm. “Is that man you just interviewed at the
police department a suspect?” She flipped through a reporter’s
notebook. “Is Ricky Bell?”
“Who told you
that?”
She batted her eyes.
“There are always desk sergeants willing to listen to the requests
of their citizens.”
“Sergeants or
lieutenants?”
She ignored him and
smiled. “I assume the ‘no comment’ is your way of telling me I’m
right, that Red Cloud’s resort was failing, and that this Ricky
Bell was connected somehow. Like maybe your suspect in Red Cloud’s
murder.”
Manny composed
himself. He sat up and slid his chair away from her so he could
look at her across the table. “Ms. Myers …”
“Sonja.”
“Ms. Myers. I really
wish I had more information for you. The fact is, the investigation
is moving along as expected but there’s nothing more I can say.
When I do have more, I’ll call you.”
She batted her eyes
at him. “No need. I’ll be calling on you again soon.”