out here looking for, thanks to you? Us, that's who! Two old people who couldn't stop him from wringin' our necks if you gave us a ten-minute head start and an M-sixteen!"
"Pops, I didn't know he was gonna follow me! The plan was, he was supposed to wait in L.A. for me to come back with the money."
"So why didn't he?"
"Well. I guess because…" He didn't—or wouldn't—finish the thought.
"Because he didn't know that was the plan," Big Joe guessed.
"No sir. See, he kept insisting on comin' along, I couldn't talk 'im out of it! But I knew if I brought 'im with me, and you guys refused to give me the money, well… somebody was gonna get hurt."
Joe stopped pacing. He pointed a giant finger at Bad Dog's face, glaring at him the way a Hatfield would glare at a McCoy, and said, "Somebody's gonna get hurt, all right. You were damn sure right about that!"
"Joe," I said, "take it easy, now."
"In fact, somebody's gonna get hurt right now, right this minute, unless they get the hell out of my sight by the time I count to three! One, two—"
"Joe!"
Bad Dog didn't bother saying good-bye. I felt a rush of wind behind me, heard the screen door of our cabin slam shut, and he was gone.
Had Joe decided to chase after him, I would've been glad to let him go, but he didn't. He just stood where he was and waited for his anger to dissipate, checking his no doubt accelerated pulse rate as he did so.
"Joe," I said calmly, almost demurely. "I wish you hadn't done that."
He scowled at me, unrepentant. "Yeah? Why?"
I smiled. "Because we still don't know why someone left a dead white man in our bathroom yesterday. Do we?"
My husband's chin fell to his chest, and his head began to turn from side to side in a dance of pure despair.
"Aw—"
"I know, baby. Jeez Looweez ," I said.
5
We had to hear him say "I don't know" a hundred times before we were sure, but later that afternoon Big Joe and I came to be convinced that Bad Dog really didn't have the slightest idea why a corpse had turned up inside our trailer home on the same fateful day as he. His story was just too unwavering to be fake; Dog could always tell a lie well, but only if he didn't have to repeat it more than once or twice. Apparently, he'd discovered the late Geoffry Lamar Bettis in our bathroom just as he'd always insisted, and had never laid eyes on the poor man beforehand. Furthermore, it seemed, he had no idea what connection there could possibly be between Bettis and Dozer Meadows, short of the fact that Meadows had ostensibly come to the Grand Canyon hoping to commit a murder, and Bettis had already become the victim of one. We asked Dog if he thought his friend "the Doze" was deranged enough to have killed an innocent white man in his stead, just for the kick of watching Dog's parents freak out over finding a strange cadaver in their bathroom, but Dog said no, he didn't think so. The Doze, he said, was generally that sadistic only on Sunday afternoons, when such bloodletting had a direct effect upon the National Football League's AFC Western Division standings.
Big Joe and I were relieved to have reached the common conclusion that our son was not a murderer, of course, but that isn't to say that either one of us was satisfied that he had told us everything he knew. We both knew better than that. Because getting the truth out of Dog—even for me—is a lot like drawing water from an old, rusty pump: you never get more than a thimbleful at one time. And sometimes, the more you pump, the less you get. Joe and I shared a strong suspicion that there were parts of the whole truth that Bad Dog was still not telling, but after some discussion, we agreed that it probably had little or nothing to do with the actual circumstances of Bettis's death, so we decided not to worry about it. Experience had taught us that we'd find out what it was soon enough, in any case. All we had to do was watch the boy and wait.
It was a tactic I had more patience for than Joe, as you might
"Pops, I didn't know he was gonna follow me! The plan was, he was supposed to wait in L.A. for me to come back with the money."
"So why didn't he?"
"Well. I guess because…" He didn't—or wouldn't—finish the thought.
"Because he didn't know that was the plan," Big Joe guessed.
"No sir. See, he kept insisting on comin' along, I couldn't talk 'im out of it! But I knew if I brought 'im with me, and you guys refused to give me the money, well… somebody was gonna get hurt."
Joe stopped pacing. He pointed a giant finger at Bad Dog's face, glaring at him the way a Hatfield would glare at a McCoy, and said, "Somebody's gonna get hurt, all right. You were damn sure right about that!"
"Joe," I said, "take it easy, now."
"In fact, somebody's gonna get hurt right now, right this minute, unless they get the hell out of my sight by the time I count to three! One, two—"
"Joe!"
Bad Dog didn't bother saying good-bye. I felt a rush of wind behind me, heard the screen door of our cabin slam shut, and he was gone.
Had Joe decided to chase after him, I would've been glad to let him go, but he didn't. He just stood where he was and waited for his anger to dissipate, checking his no doubt accelerated pulse rate as he did so.
"Joe," I said calmly, almost demurely. "I wish you hadn't done that."
He scowled at me, unrepentant. "Yeah? Why?"
I smiled. "Because we still don't know why someone left a dead white man in our bathroom yesterday. Do we?"
My husband's chin fell to his chest, and his head began to turn from side to side in a dance of pure despair.
"Aw—"
"I know, baby. Jeez Looweez ," I said.
5
We had to hear him say "I don't know" a hundred times before we were sure, but later that afternoon Big Joe and I came to be convinced that Bad Dog really didn't have the slightest idea why a corpse had turned up inside our trailer home on the same fateful day as he. His story was just too unwavering to be fake; Dog could always tell a lie well, but only if he didn't have to repeat it more than once or twice. Apparently, he'd discovered the late Geoffry Lamar Bettis in our bathroom just as he'd always insisted, and had never laid eyes on the poor man beforehand. Furthermore, it seemed, he had no idea what connection there could possibly be between Bettis and Dozer Meadows, short of the fact that Meadows had ostensibly come to the Grand Canyon hoping to commit a murder, and Bettis had already become the victim of one. We asked Dog if he thought his friend "the Doze" was deranged enough to have killed an innocent white man in his stead, just for the kick of watching Dog's parents freak out over finding a strange cadaver in their bathroom, but Dog said no, he didn't think so. The Doze, he said, was generally that sadistic only on Sunday afternoons, when such bloodletting had a direct effect upon the National Football League's AFC Western Division standings.
Big Joe and I were relieved to have reached the common conclusion that our son was not a murderer, of course, but that isn't to say that either one of us was satisfied that he had told us everything he knew. We both knew better than that. Because getting the truth out of Dog—even for me—is a lot like drawing water from an old, rusty pump: you never get more than a thimbleful at one time. And sometimes, the more you pump, the less you get. Joe and I shared a strong suspicion that there were parts of the whole truth that Bad Dog was still not telling, but after some discussion, we agreed that it probably had little or nothing to do with the actual circumstances of Bettis's death, so we decided not to worry about it. Experience had taught us that we'd find out what it was soon enough, in any case. All we had to do was watch the boy and wait.
It was a tactic I had more patience for than Joe, as you might
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