The Sky Fisherman (28 page)

"Maybe they can work on the rez," Juniper said. "There's talk of building a new mill out there."

Jake raised his eyebrows. "Who says?"

"A little bird. Ayyyy." She smiled. "I know some people on the tribal planning council. My uncle Sylvester. And Billyum mentioned it, too."

Jake seemed to think it over. "There's always talk of developing industry on the reservation. Still, you need a lot of start-up money."

"That's true." She took one of the beef jerky sticks from the jar on the counter and started to dig in her purse for change, but Jake shook his head. She nibbled the jerky. "But we've got the trees. You know those long-term timber leases are up next year. And if we make plywood from our own trees, we don't pay federal taxes."

"Lot more money for the tribe," Jake said. "Especially if the federal government gives you a start-up grant."

"Like I say, they've been talking about it. Around that little tribal sawmill, there's lots of room to build a modern plywood plant."

"Tribe's got to vote on it," Jake said. "Think they'll commit the long-term dollars?"

She nodded. "Things are changing. The mood is for more independence. It's different now than when I left for Albuquerque." She took another nibble of the jerky, then dropped it into the wastebacket. "Too salty. Some white guys must make this."

"If that plant gets built on the reservation under tribal supervision, a lot of boys lose their seniority."

"At least they'll be working," she said.

Jake nodded. "Who knows what's going to happen? We'll just have to wait for the guys in suits to open their briefcases."

"L
ET'S SHUT IT DOWN
a little early tonight," Jake said around eight-thirty. "Could you make out the night deposit? I'm so tired I can't keep anything straight, but I don't want to leave all this money lying around, especially the donations."

We carried the three big jars into the office adjoining the back room, and I began counting the money while Jake started wheeling in the bikes. I finished the first deposit for Tyler's family—over six hundred dollars in checks and cash. Jake was singing one of his goofy songs as he rolled in the bikes, just trying to keep himself awake, I think. But he grew quiet and I heard a second voice.

"Everything out there's crooked as a corkscrew, Jake."

"Let's get the bikes in," Jake said. "Then I'll lock the door."

I quit working on the adding machine because I recognized the voice and wanted to listen. Sniffy sounded very upset.

For a few minutes I didn't hear anything but Jake wheeling in the bikes, then the door locking. Jake and Sniffy went into the back room.

"The fire couldn't have started the way they claimed..."

Sniffy was speaking and I moved across the office to hear better.

"If a spark from a welding torch hit that sawdust under the big saws, no way a fire'd take off like that. The water that cools those saw blades keeps that dust wet."

"The saws were shut down two days," Jake said. "It must have dried some."

"Not that fast." Sniffy paused. "I'm telling you things have gotten fishy. I've been walking clock, keeping notes."

"Don't go off the deep end," Jake said. "Maybe you're dreaming things up a little."

Sniffy became more agitated and his voice rose. "Did you know the big diesel generator was out of commission, missing a piston? That's no dream."

Jake grunted, seeming surprised. "So one of the sprinkler systems was completely shut down. How long?"

"Three weeks. The millwrights fussed around but couldn't fix it. Put that back in action, we might have saved the mill."

"Maybe you need to talk with someone else," Jake said.

"Like the insurance people?" Sniffy laughed, and it was bitter. "I'm not a rat. But I got my notes saved for a rainy day."

"All right then," Jake said. "The piston. You got anything else?"

"Glue," he said.

Jake didn't say anything.

"See, I know exactly how many batches I cook. But when I checked the records and saw what they were billing the tribe to make up their plywood, it was cockeyed. I'd cook up fifteen pots. They'd get billed for twenty. And they were billed for extra plywood, too. Somebody was skimming sweet."

"Glue and plywood must add up," Jake said.

"You better believe it. We're a big operation, and it takes a lot of plywood to rebuild the reservation. You could retire fat."

I heard the chair squeak as Sniffy moved. Opening the office door wide enough to squeeze through, I stepped into the shadows cast by the water skis.

"See, I been storing records at the glue house, but I couldn't leave them after the fire. That's about the only place left, and I was afraid one of the investigators might stumble across them." He paused. "I don't know what the hell to do."

Jake switched off the store lights, catching me unexpected. The office light shone through the open door. Hurrying back to my chair, I pretended to be mulling over the night deposit. When Jake stepped in to switch off the light, he seemed surprised, as if he'd forgotten I was back there at all. He studied the money, the empty jars, the checks on the desk. "How's it coming?"

"Slow." I rubbed my eyes. "These numbers just keep swimming."

"I didn't hear the adding machine." He looked around as if expecting someone else. "You're tired. Maybe I should finish. Go on home."

Just then Sniffy poked his head in, mouth open in surprise. "Jesus, Jake. The damn kid's back here working? What the hell!"

Jake rested his hand on Sniffy's shoulder, trying to calm him. "Mr. St. John is pretty upset, Culver. The fire and all. You understand?"

"Sure," I said, nodding.

Letting go of Sniffy's shoulder, he gripped mine. "Anything you heard tonight stays here. No matter what."

Sniffy was sweating more than anyone I'd seen who wasn't working outside. His mouth kept opening and closing like a fish's.

"That's a promise," I said.

Jake spread his hands. "The boy's my sidekick, Sniffy. My own flesh and blood. He's good as gospel."

"I got to take your word, don't I, Jake?"

My uncle perched on the edge of the desk, leaning forward. "Let's hear it all, Sniffy. What else you got?"

Sniffy seemed like he was going to collapse, and I scooted my chair under him. He sat and leaned back, closing his eyes. "Man oh man, what a pickle." His eyes opened. "Half the fire hoses were disconnected. Well, maybe not half, but a lot. I couldn't tell if it was plain sloppiness or someone doing it on purpose, but that first sprinkler system never had much chance either."

"Can't tell much now," Jake said. "That plant's all burned down. Machinery's blackened, walls collapsed."

Sniffy nodded. "This afternoon, soon as the ruin cooled some, one of the millwrights snuck out and put a truck piston in that diesel generator to make it look legit. Packed it solid with grease so the inspectors would miss it. I couldn't have told the difference myself if I didn't already know."

"You can't blame them for covering their ass," Jake said. "The insurance guys will try to welch every way possible. 'You were fully insured but not covered' is how they like to put it." He paused. "The question is how things got so broke down and why they weren't fixed sooner. Summer delays?"

Sniffy didn't say anything.

"What do you think. Italian lightning? Somebody torched it?"

"The plant was obsolete compared to the new places in the South and Canada. Way overinsured. And the Indians are going to control more of their timber, put the squeeze on."

"A match solves a lot of problems," Jake said so quiet I could hardly hear him. "But can you prove anything?"

Sniffy shook his head. "Slow down the payoff. That's about it."

Jake studied the cars dragging the gut outside the window. A Studebaker Starliner and a Corvette pulled into the parking lot, and kids
started teasing each other through their open windows. A blond girl's face appeared blue in the blinking light of the neon fish. Sniffy shook his head. "I'm not going crazy, am I? Getting paranoid." He held out his hands. "See the shakes. Hell, I was in the war. Bombardier. After flying over Germany, we'd come back to England all shot up. Those Red Cross women would give us a shot of brandy. My hand was like a rock."

Jake took a bottle of Wild Turkey and a glass from out of the bottom desk drawer. I didn't know he kept one there and made a note. "You got big troubles," he said.

Sniffy took the glass in both hands and drank. "Thanks, Jake." He studied his hands. "Maybe another one would help."

Jake poured and Sniffy drank another. "Buy you one?" Sniffy asked.

"Why not? I feel like a priest." Jake poured himself a drink. "Might as well drink like one."

"You understand I can't prove anything."

Jake sipped his drink.

Sniffy's eyes darted around the room until they fixed on one of the donation jars for Tyler's family. He blinked. "If somebody torched that mill and those guys got killed falling through the skylight, is that murder?"

Jake rubbed his jaw. "It's something pretty damn bad, but not murder."

"That's how I figure." His eyes shifted to the floor. "You understand, I'm just trying out ideas."

"Two friends talking," Jake said. "Lots of guys tested out theories here today."

Sniffy's eyes settled on the painting of Kalim and the basketball team, then widened in recognition. "Man oh man. That Indian kid—he knew too much about the plant."

Jake had started to take another drink, but stopped. "What kid?"

Pointing at the picture, Sniffy said, "Him. You and the boy found him downriver."

"What did he know?"

"He and a couple rowdy white guys hung around. The white guys did hauling and cleaning. They were real wiseasses. Sometimes, when Kalim showed up, they went off and drank beer. Those three were always up to no good. Stealing loads of studs, stacks of plywood, anything they could get in their pickup. Hell, they even used my truck once when I was mixing glue. I'd been in there four hours and came out to find the engine warm, the gas tank down. Bastards had run to Central and sold a load of something. After that I kept the keys in my pocket.

"When I called them on it, the two white guys laughed and took off,
but not Kalim. He'd been looking at a notebook I'd left on the dash. His two buddies probably couldn't read, but he could. 'What's this?' he asked, waving the notebook in my face. 'All these figures about glue and plywood.'

"I tried calming him down, but he was half drunk and totally pissed. 'Somebody's always ripping us off,' he yelled. 'I'm going to see my old uncle Sylvester.'"

"I wonder if he did," Jake said, and I got to thinking about our meeting Sylvester on the river. Maybe he knew then something was going on.

"You could hear him yelling about Indians being cheated all over the plant," Sniffy said. "Other things, too. His two buddies had been painting up some old equipment, switching serial numbers. They planned on selling that junk to the tribe, even though it was obsolete." Sniffy tapped his forehead with the glass. "See, the way I figure, if the plywood mill got more timber leases, they'd keep ripping off the tribe one way. If the tribe built its own mill and got overcharged for obsolete equipment, they'd screw them another. Double payday."

"And you think Kalim figured all that out?"

Sniffy finished his drink and put the glass down. "Big braggers, those two white guys. Real loudmouths. And Kalim saw my notes. Hell, if I can figure things out, they've got to be crooked as a corkscrew." He looked at the glass, but Jake didn't fill it again. "The kid blows up and threatens to spill his guts. Two days later, he's staring at fishes."

"It's a hell of a story," Jake said. "Who were the white guys? Old ball players?"

"I'm no squealer. Don't get me wrong." Sniffy held his mouth tight.

"What do you plan to do?"

He wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty forehead. "Here's what I'd like to do—leave this town and go someplace warm. Maybe Arizona to help the wife's arthritis. It's pitiful how she hobbles in the winter." He leaned forward, almost whispering. "I get these wild ideas like selling the notes. Why not? Someone might be interested."

"Careful now," Jake said. "Don't catch your tit in the wringer."

Sniffy stood. "That's what I'd
like
to do. But I'm no fink. Maybe things will go all right with this investigation—smooth as a saw blade through white pine. But if it hits some big knots, I don't want to get cut up by flying metal." He paused. "Keep some papers for me, Jake. That way, if anything happens, you can clear my name."

Jake hesitated a minute, then stood and put his arm around Sniffy. "Whatever you say, buddy. But I think you're going off the deep end on this."

Sniffy pulled away. "Two men are dead. Three if I'm right about the Indian kid. Deep end, hell. I can't even see the shore."

After agreeing to bring the papers the next day, Sniffy drove away, the taillights of his pickup dimming. Jake relocked the door and leaned against the Pepsi machine. "You heard it here first."

"What are we going to do?" I asked.

Jake rapped the machine with his knuckles, then tapped the side of his head. "Too much glue. Too few brain cells."

I was astonished. "You think he's making it up? Sounded pretty convincing to me."

"Sure. He believes it himself. He sees something here, something different there, and tries to connect the dots. But maybe nobody else sees the pattern quite like he does."

"What if he's right? You said yourself the sprinkler systems should have stopped the fire. Sniffy explained why they didn't."

Jake seemed to be thinking it over. "If the fire investigators decide it's arson, then maybe his story will gain some credibility. Otherwise he's by himself in front of a grand jury, ticking away like a time bomb. Remember, this is the guy who sees flying saucers."

"What about Kalim?"

Jake spread his hands. "Maybe his buddies shot him. Or a jealous girlfriend. Once you start speculating about killing an Indian kid over glue and plywood, you'll split this town in half. It's damn hard enough already to keep the pieces together. Somebody's always squawking about getting ripped off."