The Bird Saviors (33 page)

    Has he been read his rights?

    He has, says Elray. You want us to read them again, Mr. Page?

    Ezra shakes his head. No use in that. I ain't saying a word.

    What are the charges? asks Hiram.

    Oh, just a little case of murder. Apache dips her muscular neck down to scratch her cheek against her leg. Elray tugs at the reins and pulls her head up. I think your nephew here has been hanging out with the wrong crowd, he adds.

    You'll post bail for me, won't you, Uncle?

    Hiram turns away and says, I'll see what I can do. He walks toward the pawnshop entrance, clicking his tongue for Weenie to follow.

    Another vehicle pulls into the lot before he can even get the keys in the door. A blue- and- white van with a small dish antenna mounted on its roof and its sides emblazoned with the call letters and legend of the station, kxdo news— live, local, late- breaking. A junkie- thin techie gets out, wearing a ball cap backward, carrying a video camera. He's followed by a short, dark- haired Asian woman. The woman straightens her outfit and tucks her hair into place as the techie shoulders the camera and focuses on her, the two discussing how to set up the shot.

    Hiram watches them for a moment, says, Good God. It must be my lucky day.

    Both stop talking and turn to him. Pardon me? asks the woman.

    Hiram nods and says in his best godlike baritone, Looks like I won the Lotto this morning.

    The young reporter touches her hair and steps forward, holding a microphone out as if offering Hiram said prize. She asks if he's the owner.

    Hiram smiles and answers, Guilty as charged.

    Do you have any comment on the graffiti?

    The bony cameraman shoulders his video equipment and trains the lens on Hiram, who does his best to wear a poker face, as if looking at a pair of deuces. Ezra's arrest distracted him from the words scrawled across the bars and windows of his pawnshop. He regards his ex- convenience- store- cum- pawnshop now with momentary shock, seeing a mess of freshly spray- painted accusations: Child Molester, Kidnapper, P
ervertidor.

    The red paint drips and dribbles bloody punctuation at the ends of letters, like horror- movie credits. It starts at the lower left- hand corner of the building, on the brick base, then splays across the iron window gates and makes dashes on the glass behind.

    Hiram's face struggles to suppress any disgust or dismay, anger or outrage. He smooths his white hair at his temples and jingles the keys in his pockets. At his feet is a pulpy mess of French fries spilled from a white Wendy's bag. Weenie sniffs at it. Hiram steps aside and scrapes the mess from his cowboy boots. Looks like someone's been using my parking lot as a dump site, haven't they?

    Hiram walks to the door and unlocks it, feeling the presence of the reporter and her sidekick behind him, Weenie at his heels. Does he have any idea why his shop would be targeted? Is it the work of street gangs? Who might be the "pervert" or "child molester" in his shop?

    Hiram pauses before he steps inside. I have no idea what this is all about. He smiles into the camera. I'm just a tax- paying citizen whose shop has been vandalized.

    The young Asian reporter starts to speak and he cuts her off. I'm sorry, you'll excuse me if I don't have more time to chat. He furrows his brow and frowns. It appears I'll have to research the whereabouts of a paint- removal specialist.

    Inside the dark shop, Hiram's brain throbs from a sudden, sharp headache. Weenie's claws tap on the tile floor as she waddles to her doggy bed behind the counter. Hiram feels faint and short of breath, limps to the back office and, with trembling hands, removes a liter of Coca- Cola from the small refrigerator. He has to crouch to retrieve the bottle from the bottom shelf of the fridge, which is tucked between a pair of file cabinets below the counter.

    He rises quickly, feeling a rush of blood to his brain. All goes black and dizzy. Hiram grips the counter and steadies himself until his vision comes back. The veins in his temple thud as he fixes himself a stiff drink of bourbon and Coke. The cool, syrupy taste warms his throat, coats it with an alcoholic afterburn. He watches through the window bars as outside the reporter speaks into her microphone, the cameraman recording, a crowd of onlookers gawking behind her, kids jumping and waving.

    After Hiram manages to steady his breath, he comes to stand behind the gun counter. He tries to calculate just how deep this trouble is and to imagine how he's going to wreak his vengeance on Cousin Dipshit.

    But who did this? Jack would never be that bold. He got someone else to do it for him? Perhaps. How would he entice others to do his dirty work? Does Preacher John Cole know anything about this little caper gone wrong?

    When Gracie arrives a quarter hour before opening, Hiram Page is already on his fourth drink. She gives him a wary look as he stands there sipping from his plastic cup, as he calls out to her in an unnaturally loud and cheery voice, Well, don't you look ravishing this morning!

    She frowns and asks about the reporters, the graffiti. Someone's trying to get back at you, Mr. Page.

The many disgruntleds, he says. Any idea who it is?

    She goes about her business without a reply, putting her purse in the back office, where she keeps it during work hours, checking her makeup, arranging things by the checkout counter. Hiram weaves and burps, standing behind her. He tries to focus. The world is getting a bit fuzzy around the edges.

    
Pervert
? he says. Well, I suppose I'm no angel, but that's going a bit far. Like Mae West said, I generally avoid temptation unless I can't resist it.

    Gracie asks would it be possible for her to leave early? Will Ezra be here today? She promised her daughter she would take her to the hospital. She's having an ultrasound to find out what her baby is. Hiram starts to make a joke about what the baby is today might be something different than what it will be tomorrow, but he holds his tongue.

    It appears that my nephew has run afoul of the law, he says. In fact they had him in handcuffs when I pulled in this morning.

    Gracie clicks her tongue. I don't know about that boy. I don't like the way he looks at Elena.

    Yes, well, he's family. We have to look out for our own, don't we?

    Hiram goes on to tell Gracie yes, she can leave early, even offering her an hour earlier than she asked, saying that way she won't have to be rushing around to get there on time. He's being extra nice. Gracie will remember this later, push comes to shove.

    Any idea who might have done this artwork? he asks again.

    Gracie shakes her head. Looks like somebody put
el mal de
ojo
on you.

Late in the afternoon Hiram Page finds himself alone in the shop, feeding Weenie a doggy treat, when the biggest Indian he has ever seen enters carrying a bowling- ball bag. He's unsmiling and mean- ass- looking, wearing his long black hair in a ponytail, a death' s- head belt buckle, and black cowboy boots with metal toe ornaments the shape of longhorns. Hiram's hands start sweating as soon as he sees him.

    Afternoon, friend. What can I do you for?

    George Armstrong Crowfoot hefts the bag in the air, then sets it on the counter. I've got something you might be interested in.

    Hiram gives Weenie a final rub and shoos her to the red- plaid pillow of her doggy bed.

    Sorry, but I can't help you there. I've got a dozen already and it appears the bowling craze may have—

    As he's talking Crowfoot unzips the bag and pulls out the withered human head.

    Friend of mine told me this was the head of Black Jack Ketchum, famous outlaw hanged in New Mexico years ago. I don't buy it, but I figured pawnshops like oddities.

    Hiram regards the head for a moment, even leans in close to get a better look without touching it.

    I've seen that head before. A Mr. Rodriguez offered it to me.

    When was that?

    I don't recall.

You seen him lately?

    Nope. Hiram gives Crowfoot an all- business smile. As I said before, I think I'll pass.

    Crowfoot raises it in the air. You sure? You could place it on a pike. Wow the onlookers.

    Sorry, pal. I said I'll pass.

    Crowfoot shrugs and places the head back on the counter. Tell you what. I'll give you a minute to reconsider. I even have a price in mind. One thousand dollars.

    Hiram scoffs. A thousand for that? Do I look stupid?

    Crowfoot allows that perhaps they could barter. He says he'd like to look at the handguns.

    Hiram squints at him and says, Easier said than done.

    How so? You wouldn't be refusing my business, now, would you?

    If you plan on purchasing a firearm, we'll have to do a background check first. Fill out some paperwork.

    Humor me, says Crowfoot. He points at a Beretta beneath the glass counter. I like the look of that one.

    The afternoon sunlight gushes through the jaundiced shop windows and fills the room with a golden glow. Hiram moves slowly to the gun counter and places the Beretta atop the display case.

    Looks like you had a visit from the spray- can patrol last night, says Crowfoot.

    Pardon me?

    We got a joke name for you, says Crowfoot. He Who Sells Crap to Suckers. But now that's changed. Now you're the man who tells others to steal children for him. You're the man who owes me money.

    I'm at a loss here. What's your name again?

    You're a smart guy. Always quoting this and that. You know what this is about.

    This what?

    This visit. I came up with that figure of one thousand dollars because it's what you owe me.

    For what?

    For services rendered. My part in a cattle delivery I was never paid.

    I tell you what, Hiram says, I won't call the authorities if you walk out the door while I'm still in a good mood.

    Call them. Be my guest.

    It's my shop. I have the right to refuse—

    We can talk about how you tried to con some halfwit name of Jack Brown into kidnapping a little girl, daughter of a woman who spurned you. Out Red Creek Road. That's the story I hear. They might be interested to know a few of those details. 'Less you bought off so many of them the whole corral is in your pocket.

    Well, that all sounds rather dastardly. It's the first I've heard of it.

    Crowfoot twirls the Beretta and says, A lying man always denies the truth.

    You think you know everything, don't you?

    I know enough.

    You must know who did this little mural on my storefront, then, don't you?

    Crowfoot stares without blinking. You want to pin some vandalism on me? That's funny.

    You're the one making threats here.

    No threats. Crowfoot scratches his neck with the barrel of the gun. His high cheekbones and full lips give his face a fearless expression. He seems prepared to wait. I'm here on what you might call a last- chance mission, he adds. Thought you might appreciate knowing what you're dealing with.

    You thought wrong.

    I was the one stomped by a steer and left to my own devices. Now I'm back.

    I've had enough of this. Hand me the gun and take a hike.

    Be my guest. Crowfoot places the Beretta on the counter, then reaches behind his back and pulls out a similar pistol. I got my own anyways. He fishes in his pocket and brings out a small clip, slides it into the pistol. And I just happen to have a loaded clip right here.

    Hiram stands still. I asked you to leave, he repeats.

    I asked for the thousand you owe me.

    In what could be his last moments among the realm of the living, Hiram Page experiences a twinge of guilt and remorse, a sense that things have taken a wrong turn, he's miscalculated the variables. He puts his hands on the counter, an attitude of submission.

    Looks like you've got me. But we've all got something. I've got two wives and three children, another one on the way. You want to spend years in prison, writing "I'm sorry" letters to those orphans?

    His rich Gregory Peck voice quavers as he speaks. The world is turning too fast. There's no time to think. He stares at Crowfoot, who holds the loaded gun with the barrel pointed toward the ceiling, until finally he drops his gaze.

    I'm locking up, he says. You do what you're going to do. Me, I got kids to feed.

    Here, says Crowfoot. He offers the pistol in his wide hand, fingers splayed, palm up. If you think that's the difference between us, you can have it. You could shoot me right here. Say I was robbing you.

    I could, says Hiram. He can feel his hands shaking, his palms slick with sweat.

    But you won't. You're chicken.

    Don't tempt me.

    I want that grand, adds Crowfoot. It's what I'm owed.

    Hiram goes to his cash register, turns a key, the drawer pops open. He counts out ten twenties and places them on the counter in front of Crowfoot. That's two hundred, he says. All I have on hand at the moment. And then we're even.

    Crowfoot picks up the money and flings it in Page's face. What do you think I am, stupid? You owe me a grand. I know where you live. Little Pueblo, right? You got little pissant guards protecting those pretty wives? I bet they're lonesome in the daytime.