“A beer would be nice,” Kawika said. Jimmy Jack ordered Diet Coke.
“Ralph drank,” said Jimmy Jack. “Right at this table. Agent Carlson, he said you shouldn’t trust a man who drinks.”
“Agent Carlson?” Kawika asked. “I don’t know who that is.”
“One of the FBI guys who investigated Ralph.”
“Oh. I met a different FBI guy who worked on the case.”
“Indians, we didn’t always have the right to drink,” Jimmy Jack said, veering off again. “Not in bars. You know that?”
“No, I never heard that.”
“It’s true. My daddy, he was the first one legal in our family, when he turned twenty-one. Thanks to Eisenhower. God bless ’im. Ike gave us the right to drink in bars. Only fair, don’t you think?”
“Of course.”
“Know who got the law passed? National Association of Guys Who Own Bars. White man sold us whiskey illegally for years. Bar guys figured, time to get in on it.”
“Huh. I never knew any of that.”
The drinks arrived, and they ordered lunch. “You’re not buyin’ mine,” said Jimmy Jack. “Just so you know.”
“Okay,” said Kawika. “That’s fine. But tell me about Ralph Fortunato.”
“Tell you what?”
“Anything that might help. As I said on the phone, I’m investigating his murder.”
“Murder, you call it.”
“What else would you call it? It wasn’t suicide, I guarantee you.”
“Okay, it wasn’t suicide.”
“It was homicide. Murder.”
“Whatever you say. You’re the detective.”
“Well, what would you say? Maybe I’m not understanding you.”
“Hell, I’m no lawyer,” replied Jimmy Jack. “Let me put it this way. Ralph’s dead, right? Someone did it. But if it weren’t for the law, Ralph never would’ve made it out of this valley alive. No one here would’ve called it murder.”
“Well, that’s why I called you,” said Kawika, seeing an opening. “I’m trying to learn about Ralph’s life here, what he did, what happened.”
“And that’s what I ain’t gonna tell ya. People mess in Ralph’s life, they end up dead. I aim to go on livin’ a bit. Ain’t never got involved in Ralph’s shit. Far as I’m concerned, the whole thing’s a white man’s problem.”
“Wait a minute,” Kawika objected. “It’s true some people in Hawaii ended up dead after Ralph got killed. I almost ended up dead myself. But here?”
“See,” said Jimmy Jack, “that shows you ain’t done your homework. With what you don’t know, you’re dangerous.”
Kawika was stunned. Yes, he hadn’t done enough homework, he realized now. He’d never had a chance to follow up with Frank Kimaio, to progress beyond Fortunato 101, to dig into that category Tanaka had written on the whiteboard, “Mainland guys.” Neither he nor his colleagues had used the internet for research on Fawn Ridge matters. But after all, nothing had suggested the need for homework of the sort Jimmy Jack was now suggesting. Fortunato had plenty of Hawaiian enemies, and he’d been murdered in Hawai‘i with a distinctly Hawaiian weapon, in a carefully staged Hawaiian killing, perhaps an intended Hawaiian sacrifice.
“Wait—” Kawika began.
“No, I ain’t waitin’. You’re snoopin’ around in Ralph’s life. You want to know about Ralph, ask the marshal. You want to know about restorin’ land—weed control, native species, that sort of stuff—ask me. That’s what I do: land restoration. That’s what I know about, what I talk about. Oh, and here’s our food.”
Kawika considered his options. He decided he wanted to know about land restoration. By the end of lunch he knew a lot, mostly about invasive species. He’d learned the pioneers nearly ruined the land by breaking the sod, and that folks now relied too much on pesticides and too little, Jimmy Jack believed, on biological controls such as beetles and goats. Kawika even took notes, because he finished his food before Jimmy had taken three bites, and it felt awkward just sitting there. Besides, with notes he could always tell Carolyn, who’d probably be fascinated: lessons in comparative land restoration.
After lunch Kawika walked along the Methow River to The Virginian. His interview with Jimmy Jack reminded him of his interview with Bingo Palapala. Kawika had suspected Bingo of wrongdoing and essentially accused him; no surprise Bingo reacted defensively. But Kawika hadn’t suggested he suspected Jimmy of anything. So why would Jimmy deflect all discussion of Fortunato—yet discourse happily about noxious weeds? Had anyone actually died here because of Fortunato? Or was Jimmy just inventing an excuse for not talking?
Kawika had almost reached The Virginian when a car horn sounded behind him. He turned and saw Patience driving up in her rental car, smiling happily.
“Hop in,” she called as she pulled over. “I’ll save you the last hundred feet.”
His day brightened. Here in Winthrop at least he wasn’t leading a double life, just a life with her. Carolyn and Hawai‘i seemed far away. He kissed Patience when he climbed in the car, and again—several times—when they arrived at The Virginian.
“I found a great place to stay,” she said, quite pleased. “The Freestone Inn, up the valley in Mazama. Wait till you see it. It’s so romantic. Seriously, Kawika. We’ll be happier there. And I’ve already booked us a suite. We can split the cost.”
“Okay,” he said, although remaining in Winthrop would’ve been more convenient.
“Goody,” she replied, clapping her hands. “You won’t regret it, I promise. And I bet the Freestone has a better internet connection too. I can do some online sleuthing—very safely, I promise—while you go sleuth around in the sagebrush.”
“Maybe you should sleuth around the local cemetery,” Kawika said. “It seems people may have died here because of Fortunato.”
“The local cemetery,” she said. “Let me guess. In this fake cowboy town, it’s called Boot Hill.”
“Boot up and find out,” he said.
61Winthrop
Kawika and Patience drove back down the valley to Winthrop for breakfast. The Freestone Inn would have been simpler, but dinner there the night before had unnerved Kawika a bit. The food was excellent, but he couldn’t understand the menu’s culinary terminology without help from Patience, and the prices surprised him even though he came from Hawai‘i. Patience paid the bill, which made things worse. She’d ordered a nice wine, and Kawika
