Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [25]
Earlier I warned him that he could have been the number one suspect. It never occurred to me, until that moment, at the Coyote house, that he might have been the victim. I watched him for any signs of recognition. I didn’t see any. The dog had certainly taken to him, rubbing up against his leg as Odd roughed up his ear, and he was an old dog, but he was not that old.
“Odd? What are we supposed to say to these people?”
“I was hoping you’d know. You’re senior.”
Before I could smack him upside the head, Drinkwater came out with a couple almost as old as he. They were rail thin, the woman from wear, the man from disease. A hose connected his nostrils to a tank of oxygen he moved with a hand truck. This was an island of infirms, I thought. They looked at us from the porch and we looked at them from the yard until our host waved us feebly to join them on the porch, where there was enough seating to accommodate a small pow-wow: a rusty metal glider, several plastic molded chairs, chaise lounges made from rubber tubing, a few overturned milk crates, and a bench seat from an old pickup, the terrycloth seat covers still on it. This was the most comfortable spot and was offered to Odd and me. You had to lower yourself to one knee to get on it, then stretch your legs out in front.
I don’t know what old Drinkwater had told them, I don’t know what he knew or what went on between him and Odd while I was hosing myself down in the ladies’ room. We sat on the porch and said nothing for some moments, watching the vapor rise from the back of the black dog as the newly emerged sun hit it.
The old dog broke the ice by bringing a soggy tennis ball and dropping it at Odd’s feet. He threw it over the porch railing and the dog leaped after it.
“Now you’re in for it,” said Mr. Coyote.
“They’re from Spokane,” said our guide.
“We used to go there, to dance,” said Mr. Coyote.
I had decided, for once, I was going to keep my mouth shut.
“We’re policemen there,” said Odd, then corrected himself, “…police persons.” I wanted to smack him again. “We got here last night, on police business. and it looks like we’ll be going back tomorrow.” All three of the Indians nodded their heads solemnly. Odd threw the ball again for the dog. “Last night, at the tribal police headquarters, I got interested in your case, James’ case…his murder.” They nodded again, in the same way, as though both comments drafted the same water. “Do you mind talking about it?”
James’ parents took a moment and without looking at each other said, “No,” simultaneously, and our old guide said something in their own language, which in the world is probably spoken by about a hundred and twenty-two people. Whatever he said, it made a hell of an impression on them. I couldn’t take it. I had to ask.
“I told them this young man used to live here,” said Drinkwater, “before he was the person he is now. I knew him back then.”
“Why didn’t you say it in English?” My stomach was hurting, like maybe I’d had a bad clam, even though I’d had nothing to eat since frybread, if you don’t count those two nervous bites of pie a la mode.
“It makes more sense in Shalish,” he said.
I got it. I knew a little Polish, not enough to explain this, but I knew it would make even less sense in Polish. My mother’s people kept their eyes on the potato, their brogues on the ground. It was the Irish half of me playing havoc with my grasp on reality.
Odd asked the old couple to tell us about their son, dead these more than thirty years now. The father, whose name was David, said his son’s name was James Coyote. He died when he was seventeen, a senior in the local high school. He was the second oldest of four brothers. Two of his brothers are