Death on the Greasy Grass (30 page)

Degas turned a chair around and sat backward, draping his arms over the chairback. “Harlan was an opportunist. He got wind of our business through Itchy. The damned fool spilled his guts to Harlan for the price of a quarter gram of crank.”

“How much did Harlan demand to keep his mouth shut?”

Degas nodded to Cubby. “They're not leaving this room alive, anyway. Tell them, fat boy.”

“Don't call me that.”

Degas laughed. “Okay, fat boy. Just tell them what Harlan wanted.”

Cubby turned his back on Degas and faced Manny. “Itchy was tweaking bad one night. Needed his shit, and he had no money. But he did have information that he'd trade for some crank. He told me all about how Harlan had us figured out.”

“Let me guess—Harlan's demands to keep his mouth shut got pricier. Like most blackmailers.”

“That's when fat boy here screwed up.”

“I did not screw . . .”

“What do you call flat-out refusing Harlan's demands?”

Cubby looked away, and Degas continued. “When fat boy here told Harlan to shove his demands, Harlan threatened to go to the law. Cubby never was much for thinking, guess that's why his woman runs the ranch.”

Cubby's face reddened, and Degas laughed. “The amount of money we were pulling in, we could have easily met Harlan's demands. But after fat boy refused to pay more, we couldn't risk Harlan going to the law.”

“And you.” Manny nodded to Wilson. “When did you decide to run drugs for these two?”

Wilson strained in his chair to look at Manny with his one good eye. “What the hell you talking about?”

“Stumper crossed the times shipments came onto Crow Agency with the times you were up there. He figures you were transporting the shit for them.”

Wilson strained against the cuffs, trying to stand from the chair. “You asshole . . .”

Degas shoved the chair back onto the floor. “Easy, Boss. Can't blame Mr. Agent Man for suspecting you.”

Cubby smiled at Wilson. “You were the perfect fool. Sometimes we stuck the shipment in your pickup and someone picked it up at Crow Agency. Sometimes we needed it there quicker, and you flew it for us.”

Wilson glared at Cubby. “I brought no drugs to Crow Agency . . .”

Cubby laughed. “Sure you did. Every time you headed out of here, Harvey would carry your bags for you. Remember?”

Wilson shook his head.

“And every time you landed on Crow Agency, Jamie Hawk grabbed your bags. Bet you thought Harvey and Jamie were kissing your ass being your bags bearers.”

“And the drugs were in there,” Wilson breathed. “I flew them for you.”

Degas stood and looked out the window. Manny followed his gaze to the backup lights on the truck backing from the bunkhouse. He turned back to Manny. “Not much longer.”

“Did you ransack Harlan's auction barn?”

Degas nodded. “I found a notepad, made a rubbing. Harlan had written down everything he knew about our operation, I'm assuming in case anything happened to him. It's what I would have done. I looked everyplace in his office, including his safe, and found the only thing missing was the journal. I figured his notes were inside it.”

“That's when you went hunting Sam?”

Degas's hand shot to the bandage on his jaw. He rubbed it. “Harlan's safe was open when I got into his office. So I asked myself, who would Harlan trust with the combination? Cubby had told me Harlan and Sam were inseparable if Harlan had beer. But the little bastard got to the safe first.”

Manny stretched his legs and Cubby pointed his gun at him. Manny dropped back on the couch. “There never was anything in the journal to worry the Star Dancers and Eagle Bulls?”

Degas shook his head. “Not that I'd kill anyone over.”

“And Sam?” Wilson said, his speech becoming more difficult to understand as his face became more swollen. “He knew about you?”

“Had to have.” Degas glanced out the window again and walked to the coat tree. He snatched his jacket and turned back to Wilson. “That day I saw Sam coming out of Harlan's shop with a bunch of papers and old books in his hand, I just thought they were junk. But I realized one had to be the missing journal.”

Degas chin-pointed to Wilson. “And Sam would have given you the notes, and you'd have gone to the law.”

“And reveal the contents of the journal?” Wilson said. “We were willing to pay big bucks not to let that come up for auction.”

“Ain't you the pious one, not wanting the public to find out about your great-grandfather murdered his friend. You wouldn't have wanted another murder on your hands.”

Manny looked sideways at Wilson. “What's he talking about?”

Wilson looked away.

Degas stuck one arm through his jacket as he held the gun on Manny with his other one. “You mean the great man didn't tell you? About his good buddy Sampson Star Dancer, tunnel rat, Marine to the bone, sworn to protect one another. Tit for tat in 'Nam, wasn't that right?”

Wilson kept silent, and Degas squatted in front of him. He grabbed Wilson's face and turned it toward Manny. “Sam had a mouth when he was drunk, huh Cubby?”

Cubby nodded. “Big-time. He'd cuss his own mother when he had a head on. He told me about a trifle incident in Vietnam one night. Seems like Lieutenant Eagle Bull played second fiddle to some butter bar. Dangerous though he was to his men, I'm not so sure he deserved to have one Lance Corporal Sam Star Dancer toss a fragmentation grenade into the crapper one night, giving Wilson the command of the company.”

Wilson strained against his cuffs, and Degas stepped back. “Sam wouldn't tell anyone . . .”

“He would for a twelve-pack,” Cubby said.

“But the ranch,” Manny said. “You had everything—the finest ranch in the state, a beautiful wife who's a celebrity.”

Cubby laughed nervously as he paced in front of the couch. “The ranch is Chenoa's. She just gives me an allowance, which is why I decided to supplement my income. As for her beauty”—he jerked his gun toward Wilson—“she saves the romance for men like him.”

“And what does Chenoa have to do with this little cottage industry you've been conducting?”

“Enough.”

Manny followed Degas's gaze as he watched Pete and RePete's taillights disappear down the gravel. He turned to Manny sitting on the edge of the couch. “Now it's time you tell me who knows about us. And especially about Harlan's murder.”

Manny remained silent.

“That scrawny BIA cop there at Crow Agency know everything?”

Manny shrugged.

Degas turned his gun on Wilson and cocked the hammer. “Unless you want the future senator ventilated, answer me.”

“You'll kill him anyway.”

Degas shook his head. “I don't think so. Way I figure it, my boss here wants that senator seat so bad he'll just want this to go away.” He brought the barrel of his gun down on Wilson's head, the high front sight cutting a deep furrow across his forehead. Blood flowed from the gash, making his salt-and-pepper hair appear rust colored.

“Don't hurt him anymore.” Manny stalled. “I made a call to our Rapid City office before lifting off from Crow Agency. They should be rolling up with a Hostage Rescue Team any moment.”

“That so?”

Wilson forced a nod.

“Maybe we better get out of here . . .”

Degas backhanded Cubby. He fell back against the wall, and his .45 covered Degas for the briefest moment before dropping beside his leg.

“Wilson's lying, fat boy. I've been in stir enough times to know when a man's lying. I can't tell if Mr. Agent Man is lying, though it's doubtful the Rapid City Field Office has enough for a Hostage Rescue Team. They might come from Denver, but even if they did, these turds will be worm food by the time a team arrives.”

Degas faced Manny, a smile crossing his lips. “You got one last chance to save Wilson before I cap him. Now who else knows about our operation?”

C
HAPTER
40

“I hate being lied to.” Degas raised his gun to Wilson's chest, fingers tightening around the revolver grips. And when he smiled at Wilson, Manny knew Degas intended killing him. Manny judged the distance across the room, judged how many shots Degas could get off before Manny could cross that distance. He had drawn his legs under him, his hand grabbing the arm of the couch, when Degas swung the gun toward him.

A blur passed the corner of Manny's eye, the glint of steel reflecting from the chandelier in the center of the room. Sam Star Dancer sprang on Degas. Sam clutched a KA-BAR knife in one hand, and for a moment Manny envisioned Sam clearing tunnels of NVA and VC with such a weapon.

Degas caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He jerked back. Sam's knife missed his throat, slicing his shoulder. His gun discharged, missing Manny by a foot, the sound deafening. Manny rolled onto the floor, sticky from the blood coming from the knife wound in Degas's shoulder.

Cubby swung his gun at Sam and fired twice, missing. Manny sprang for the gun, knocking it from Cubby's hand. It slid under the couch. Manny lunged for it. Cubby leaped on Manny, his arm encircling his neck, cutting off Manny's air, tightening. But Manny had wrestled too many years in high school, and taken too many Custody Control classes with the bureau, not to recognize his immediate danger.

Cubby stood behind him, thick arm lifting Manny off his feet, and he turned his face into the crook of Cubby's arm, his airway freed for the moment, sucking air. Manny grabbed Cubby's arm and held it while he dropped to one knee. Cubby flew over Manny and into Wilson chained to the chair, knocking him over. Wilson struggled against the handcuffs as another shot erupted as Sam dove behind the couch.

Manny stood, rubbing his neck, regaining his airway just as Cubby lunged. Manny sidestepped the larger man and hit him on the side of the head as he passed. Cubby dropped to the floor, struggled to get his wobbly legs under him, but fell back, lifeless.

Degas shot four times into the couch where Sam had leaped. His revolver clicked on empty cylinders and he swung it open, fumbling in his pocket for fresh rounds.

“Get out of here,” Wilson yelled from the floor. “Sam's hit bad. Degas won't hurt me until he finds out what you know.”

Manny bent to Wilson as Degas shut his revolver cylinder.

“Go!”

Manny sprang for the door. A bullet kicked up wood splinters next to his face, a piece of mahogany lodging just under one eye, another round whizzing just over his head. He ran zigzagging from the house. Degas fired again before Manny reached the temporary safety of the darkness just past the yard light.

He squatted, breathing hard. He watched the house as he picked the splinters from his face, his eyes adjusting to the darkness. He checked himself for injuries: Degas had missed, but Cubby's choke hold had badly bruised his neck and it was beginning to stiffen.

Manny fished his cell from his pocket and checked for bars: none. The closest bar was in Hot Springs with the ranch hands. Except Harvey. Manny knew he would have heard the shouting and the shooting, unless the man was so dead drunk he couldn't hear it, and Manny recalled how the bunkhouse had been described: a hundred years old, built like a fortress, with little sound reaching inside.

Manny low-crawled, watching the house, expecting Degas to come running out. Or come slipping out unseen through a side door.

Manny sat with his back against the side of the bunkhouse, breathing deep. Behind the door, Harvey lay passed out. And although the big man had no use for the law, he must have loyalty to Wilson. Unless Harvey was working with Degas and had known all along what was in the luggage each time he carried Wilson's bags to the plane. Harvey might be more of a threat than Degas.

Manny tried the knob and the door swung open to a dark room. He duckwalked inside and eased it closed. He felt along the wall and his hand fell on the light switch. He paused. Degas would suspect Manny had gone to the bunkhouse for help. He didn't need to confirm it for the man.

Manny crouched in the darkness, the yard light filtering through blinds running the length of the building letting in just enough light that Manny could make out the room. A potbellied stove sat in one corner, while the cookstove and fridge stood guard over a long plank table. A row of bunks, two high, ran along one wall, enough for twenty men. Except they were all gone drinking for the night.

Manny skirted the outside wall, feeling for a phone jack, just as another shot came from the house. Degas had just finished off Sam, Manny was certain, and he bet Wilson's life that Degas would keep his boss alive. At least until he learned from Manny who knew about their meth ring.

When Manny neared the end of the row of bunks, light reflected off a chrome cross lying on the floor. Harvey's cross. Manny crouched beside the bunk where the man lay covered. He listened intently. No snoring, no movement, came from under the covers.

Manny stood and approached the bunk. If Harvey awoke now, he'd be a handful, and he might not give Manny time to explain why he'd crawled into his house at night. Harvey would surely take great pleasure in squashing one federal lawman. If he woke up.

But Harvey wouldn't be waking up anytime soon. Manny pulled the covers back and stared into his lifeless eyes, rolled back in a head turned at an odd angle, as if his neck had been contorted and stretched before Degas broke it. Manny felt for a pulse that would never be there again. Harvey's face was contorted, bruised and broken, and Manny speculated that had been a result of Reuben's roadside talk. Harvey surely wouldn't be pressing charges now.

Footsteps outside. Gravel kicked against the door. Manny ducked under the cot beneath Harvey. Manny pulled the blanket over the edge of the bed. The heavy door swung open. It hit against the wall, and for a moment Degas stood silhouetted against the yard light, blood covering one shoulder, leading the way into the bunkhouse with his long-barreled revolver. “Yoo-hoo, Mr. Agent Man. Come out and play,” he said, holding his jaw that Willie had broken. “We need to talk. Just for a little while.”

Manny held his breath, feeling his heart quickening, feeling with his hand if there was enough room to shuffle out the other side of the cot.

“You'll be glad to know I took care of that little cockroach Sampson.” Degas shuffled along the row of bunks, looking under each. “Wilson, now he's a different matter. I'm pissed at him for setting me up, and I might work on him a little more, but for now he's taking a nap. But you're a different story altogether. You come out so I don't have to work looking for you and I'll kill you quick.”

Manny unbuckled his belt and rolled it in his hand, the only thing he might use if Degas got close enough.

“Maybe me and old Harvey can use some light.” When Degas turned and walked to the light switch, Manny scurried from under the bunk, belt wrapped around his hand, buckle dangling nearly to the floor, stepping toward Degas.

Degas hit the light switch. Manny swung the belt at Degas's gun hand. He yelled and dropped the gun. Manny swung the belt again. The buckle hit Degas on the shoulder Sam had sliced. He yelled in pain, and again Manny drew back. But this time Degas caught the belt and jerked it from Manny's grasp.

Before Degas could savor his victory and attack him, Manny dove for Degas's legs, catching him on the knees. They fell to the floor in a tangled mess, and Degas swung at Manny's head. Manny pulled back, the buckle glancing off his head, slicing his temple, and he wrapped his legs around Degas's belly. If they stayed on the ground, Manny had a chance. Upright, Degas was too powerful, too agile, even with a knife wound to his shoulder to handicap him.

Degas rolled on top of Manny and drove an elbow into his face. Manny deflected the blow, yet it landed on his cheek, the swelling immediate. Degas reared back for another elbow when two quick gunshots came from the ranch house, stopping Degas midswing. Manny drove his knee into Degas's side and rolled away, leaping for Degas's revolver. He felt the large grip, sticky with blood, and he rolled onto his back.

Degas froze when he saw the gun pointing at his chest. He bent over, panting. “Guess you got me, Mr. Agent Man. Now what you going to do with me?”

Manny chanced a look around the room for a phone, spotting one by the cook's cabinet. Degas picked up on it.

“You won't be able to summon the cavalry in time.”

“In time for what?”

Degas smiled. “Those shots. I told Cubby to kill Wilson if he managed to get loose. Fat boy will join us in just a minute.” Degas stepped toward the door.

“Stop right there!”

Degas turned and smiled. “I'm leaving now, and you won't shoot me. It's not in your nature to shoot an unarmed man, no matter what a bastard I am. You just can't hurt me.”

“But I can.” Reuben's fist shot out, catching Degas on the side of the head. His legs buckled, but he sprang up, rushing Reuben. He hit Degas again. Even twenty feet away, Manny heard the snapping of bone, and Degas slumped to the floor.

Degas rolled over, brushing blood from his eyes, and leaped for Reuben's legs. Reuben kicked Degas full in the groin and the man dropped, groaning and holding his testicles. As if that'd help.

“At this point,” Reuben said, sitting on the edge of a bunk, “you'd toss your handcuffs to your partner to cuff the bad guy. If you had a partner. And if you managed to keep your cuffs through all this.”

Manny grabbed his cuffs from his belt holder. “Want me to . . .”

Reuben held out his hand and Manny tossed them to him. “I've had enough practice with these things. I'd suggest you go to the house and capture Cubby.”

Manny started out the door when he turned around. “What the hell took you so long?”

Reuben ignored Degas's moans as he wrenched one arm behind him and snapped a cuff on, prying the other from his groin. Reuben dragged him to the Franklin stove and cuffed Degas to one of the heavy cast iron legs. “If you only knew how long it took me to convince Crazy George I only wanted to borrow his car this time. Then we had to find jumper cables and hook it on his tractor. Then round some gas up . . . Well, you get the idea. Better get to the house.”

Manny grabbed Degas's revolver and opened the cylinder: four rounds left.

“Just so you know,” Reuben said, and Manny paused in the doorway, “Clara called. Willie came out of the coma. The docs say two weeks in physical therapy and he'll be a pain-in-the-ass tribal cop once again.”

“How'd she call you?” Manny closed the cylinder so that the next round up was live.

Reuben held up a cell phone.

“Pink? Doesn't seem your style.”

“It's not. It's Philbilly's.”

“Thought you were going to drop it off.”

Reuben shrugged. “I'm kinda getting used to this technology stuff.”

Manny approached the house from the side away from the yard light, squatting under low windowsills. He heard shuffling inside. Something dragged across the floor. His hand poised above the doorknob, his sweaty hand on Degas's gun. He rubbed his hand on his pants, and breathed one last time before he gathered his legs under him and burst through the door. He ran up the landing to the living room, gun leading the way.

Cubby Iron Cloud lay on carpeting soaked with his own blood, one wound to the side of his neck, another to his chest. Wilson lay on the floor, one free hand holding Cubby's auto. He brought up the gun, and quickly dropped it when he recognized Manny. He nodded to the chair with one arm splintered. “Nicest Queen Anne I ever had. Hated to bust it up.”

Manny motioned to Cubby. “You?”

Wilson nodded. “Cubby thought Sam was dead. But when the scrappy little guy came up over that couch, Cubby shot him twice more. I went ape-shit. Managed to bust this one arm up and get a hand free. You'll find two big slugs in Cubby.”

Manny checked Cubby's pulse, but he'd already gone the way of Harvey.

“Don't just sit there feeling dead people. Get your cuff keys and get me off this chair.” Wilson jerked on the cuffs. “I got to help Sam.”