Homicide My Own - Anne Argula [32]
Sweet boy, he didn’t have a clue. He thought it was something I could fight. “It’s got a name, Odd, it’s called menopause, and the tough and the weak stand about the same chances against it, and, frankly, they ain’t good.”
“I know about menopause.”
“Men don’t know shit, why should they?”
“Well, that’s pretty obvious. Every man has a woman, or wants one.”
“So what do you know about menopause?”
“I know you stop having periods, you get hot flashes…”
He knew more than I gave him credit for. Hell, he knew more than I did when it hit me.
“Phantom sweats,” I said, “so bad you want to rip off your clothes and run through the rain.”
“You can do that, who’s going to stop you?”
“Tell me what else you know?””
“That you get used to it, that it passes, and if you were sexy before you can be sexy after. Look at Tina Turner!”
Could he have any idea how often I have looked at Tina Turner, wondering if at the end of the show she slips between silk sheets with a stud muffin half her age and fucks his brains out, or is it all performance, and her reality is that off the stage she sits weary and alone with a cup of tea praying he doesn’t walk by and say something like, “Honey, you in the mood tonight?”
“No, look at me,” I said. “My hair is brittle, I’m tired all the time, I’m getting fat, I’m going bitchy…”
“You always were bitchy.”
“Fuck you.”
“See?”
“This is real life, Tina Turner is a dream, a man’s dream.”
“I had a dream about you once,” he said.
“I’m gonna slap you upside the head.”
He laughed. “I did, really.”
“What went on in this dream?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Don’t make me stop this car.”
At least we were smiling, laughing a little. That’s the only way to feel any better, ain’t?
“There’s got to be stuff you can take,” he said, “some medicine.”
“Oh, sure, there’s stuff you can take. There’s estrogen.”
“There you go.”
“But that boosts your odds for breast cancer. You can mix it with progestin, which really increases your chances. Or you can take testosterone.”
“The male hormone?”
“That’ll have you doing it again, like a mink. Only problem is, you’ll grow a beard, fart a lot, and beat the shit out of any guy who accidentally bumps into you.”
“The beard thing could be a turn-off.”
I was glad to see the little double-wide Tribal Police Headquarters loom into sight. We pulled up in front and went inside. Instead of Robert there was another young man behind the counter who looked a lot like Robert. He looked at us like he should know us but didn’t.
“Can I help you?” he said.
“Chief in?”
“Chief!” he yelled to the back office. “Man and a woman, here.”
“Send them back, Robert.”
So it was another young man who looked like Robert and was also named Robert. Some island. We walked back to his little office. He was expecting to see us in uniform. He leaned forward on his chair, elbows to the desk, and looked us over, as though an unfamiliar pair like us could be trouble.
“You saw the Coyotes,” he said.
“How’d you know, smoke signals?” I asked, and, of course, that was strike three on me.
“It’s a small island.”
“Not so small I’d want to back-hoe it into the water,” I said, which is exactly what I would like to see someone else do. I was on a roll, and Odd had the good sense to throw himself in front of it.
“Do you mind?” he asked the chief. “We had time to kill and we can’t resist a mystery.”
Speak for yourself, Odd. I can’t resist chocolate. A mystery can wither and fade away while I dunk for Godivas.
“It’s a free country…except for the rez, where you answer to me. Which mystery is it you can’t resist?”
“There’s another?” I said.
“Old man Drinkwater is convinced Jeannie lives in your form,” he said, looking at Odd.
“Has he convinced you?” Odd asked.
“No. I’m a Christian.”
“Then we’re back down to only one mystery. Who killed two kids on a rainy night so long past? Could it be Karl Gutshall?”
“You saw Karl?”
“We shook his chain,” I said.
“Well put. The poor guy’s been in a