Shit.
The guy could be out the back by now. Richie was pretty sure the ironworker had seen enough of him to know who he was. That was better than nothing. Keep the guy jumpy, looking over his shoulder, and get him some other time. There was too much to stand here and think about right now. Richie turned to the girl. He laid the shotgun on the counter and picked up the paper bag sitting there.
“This everything?”
She nodded, holding her hands in front of her, sort of hunched in with her head bent, looking down at the floor.
“Are you Indian?”
The girl shook her head.
“You look Indian. You ought to use something on your hair. You know what I mean? A shampoo with a conditioner in it. Give it some body.”
Man, she sure looked Indian. Thinking it made him think of the Bird. Which got him thinking along another line, staring at this girl. He said to her, “Look at me.”
She raised her head but couldn’t seem to fix her eyes on him, they kept jumping around.
“You sure you’re not Indian?”
She was biting on her lip as she shook her head, not chewing her gum now.
Richie said, “Well, it don’t matter.” He reached behind him, brought out his nickel-plate .38 and shot the girl square in the forehead.
***
Now, that was exciting, when it happened spur of the moment. The way the Bird worked it, that’s what it seemed like, work, like a job. And thought, Jesus Christ, the Bird. Richie turned the van around in Algonac and headed back out into the country. All the excitement, he forgot he had to pick up the Indian.
What it did was settle his mind, made him realize he’d get another crack at the ironworker. If the Bird was at the guy’s house and the guy’s truck was still at the 7-Eleven ...Tell the Bird it was a kick, man, using a shotgun. The Bird would say yeah, but you missed. And he’d tell the Bird not to sweat it, the guy would be coming home soon. Tell the Bird no, there aren’t any witnesses, I done what you told me. Hand him the take from the holdup. Oh, here, I almost forgot. You proud of me? See, I went in there to get some sunglasses, account of I misplaced the ones I had. I been trying to remember . . .
It was quiet out here, starting to get dark. Richie slowed down, aware that he was coming up on the ironworker’s house, but still in his mind thinking about those goddamn sunglasses, the last time he’d worn them— and was startled, Jesus Christ, to see the Bird appear at the side of the road, coming out of the brush with his arm raised. Richie was past him by the time he braked to a hard stop. The Bird came up to the van in a hurry. He got in saying, “Let’s go. Get out of here.”
Richie didn’t say anything quite yet. He waited till they were up the road, in sight of the highway they’d take to Marine City. All the things he was going to tell the Bird were forgotten. What he finally said was, “Shit, I remember where I lost my fucking sunglasses.”
The Bird sat there in his own mind for a while. Finally, all he said was, “This ought to be good.”
9
A STATE POLICE INVESTIGATOR told the Colsons they would be hearing from the FBI. With suspicion of criminal activity across a border it had become a federal case.
Wayne said, “You mean you suspect these two guys are criminals? We’re moving right along, aren’t we?”
After two more days of police from various jurisdictions marching in and out, police cars in the drive, in the yard, police cars creeping by at night flashing high-beam spots on the house, lighting up their bedroom, Wayne stood on the side porch to deliver a speech. He said:
“I got a speeding ticket out at Detroit Metro one time, forty in a twenty-five zone, over there to pick up my wife coming back from visiting her dad, in Florida. It made me think, if you can get stopped for driving too fast at an airport, if the traffic is that light, it doesn’t say much for our economy, does it? But that’s not the point I want to make.
The point is, it’s the only time I’ve ever been stopped in Michigan for a moving violation. Ohio’s a different story. That drive down I–Seventy-five is so goddamn boring you can’t get through it fast enough. But soon as you try, they nail you, there’s Smokey with his goddamn hat on, every bit as serious as you guys. What I’m leading up to, I want you to understand I’ve never been arrested or had any trouble with police. I’ve never swung at a cop, I’ve never talked back to one, even in Ohio, till the other day, over at the real estate office. I said why don’t you go over to Walpole and find out who’s driving an ’86 Cadillac. If you did, you’d have caught the two guys and Lionel Adam would be alive. But what you guys’d rather do is sit around and drink our coffee and ask the same goddamn questions over and over. How many times you gonna ask me if I saw both guys at the Seven-Eleven? How could I if one of them was here? How many times you gonna ask me what the guy was driving after I told you I didn’t see his car? Or did I actually see him shoot the girl? Why is there any question who did it? Who else could have? How many times you gonna go look at that bullet-hole in the chickenhouse? My wife told you she fired the shot and has a sore shoulder to prove it. She told you she wasn’t trying to hit him and you act like you don’t believe it. Not one of you has said nice going or it was a brave thing my wife did.
Had she shot the son of a bitch would you arrest her for it? I don’t see where you guys are doing a goddamn thing besides drink coffee and bump into each other. You sure as hell don’t communicate among your different groups or we wouldn’t be getting the same goddamn questions over and over.”
The State Police investigator told Wayne to take it easy, to look at facts. There was no apparent connection between the Cadillac and Lionel Adam’s murder. Investigating one did not lead to the other. Lionel’s body hadn’t been found in the marsh till three days later.
Wayne had been told that much. Duck hunters had come across the body, shot three times in the chest. “But what day was he killed? Haven’t you found that out yet?”
“When we do we’ll let you know,” the investigator said. “How’s that?”
“Yeah, that’s fine,” Wayne said. “You might also let me know, when you get around to it, why they want to kill us. My wife didn’t do nothing to them. Is it they want to shoot her on account of me? Who are these guys? They’ve been around here a week almost and you can’t find them? Where the hell are you looking?”
Local police and county deputies walked off as Wayne spoke, got in their cars. The State Police investigator waited till he was through, then went out to the woods where evidence technicians were still looking around.
Carmen said, “That was some speech,” and took Wayne in the house. “But what good is yelling at them? It just gets them mad at you.”
“That’s the whole point of what I’m saying. They act like it’s our fault. Did I antagonize the two guys? Did you aim at the one when you shot at him? I would’ve, I know that, and if I hit him I’d be in jail up in Port Huron awaiting trial.”
“They’ve been nice to me,” Carmen said, “but you rub them the wrong way. Why did you go into all that about getting the speeding ticket and driving through Ohio?”
“Because those are times I got pissed off at cops and didn’t say anything, when maybe if I had I would’ve felt better.”
“You feel better now?”
“Not much. Let’s have a beer.”
Carmen said, “That sounds like a good idea.” She said, “You know how when you cross your
“You said it meant I was witty.”
“It does, but sometimes—I’ve never told you— there’s sort of a downward slant to your
“I’ll work on crossing it straighter,” Wayne said, “see if I can improve my personality.”
“You might just try to lighten up,” Carmen said.
Later on, when the FBI special agent called and asked if it would be convenient for them to stop by, Carmen said yes, of course. When she told Wayne they were coming he didn’t say a word and Carmen wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. She had never seen her husband in a fight or a situation where he ever hit anyone, but believed it could happen almost anytime now.
