slouched in the pillowy guest chairs. Russell and I both stared at this for a minute.
“And I made it,” Russell said finally. “I beat the sheriff to the scene. Just.”
The TV screen went black. Rita Crowe hung up the phone and returned to the table. She said to me, “You’re right. Those boys are hammerheads. I’ve seen them at the liquor store on Main.”
“Skinheads, Ma.” Russell was grinning at her. “Or hammer-skins. Not hammerheads.”
Rita Crowe had started another cigarette. She set it down in a Yellowstone Park ashtray. She gathered up the paper plates and plastic forks and Styrofoam cups, put them in a pile, pushed the pile toward Russell.
“We’re not supposed to burn, Ma. It’s too dry. There’s a county ordinance against it.”
“We work for the county, Russell.”
“Right, so—”
She stared him down. Eventually Russell gathered the stack of trash into his hands.
“So,” she said as her son rose to obey, “the question is this: if those are skinheads and they work for Tucker, and our wonderful sheriff is hands off, then why? If the man is looking the other way, what does he get out of it?”
After a pause wherein I awakened to the fact that this question was not rhetorical, I said, “Well, isn’t that easy?”
Both Crowes looked at me, eager but clueless. But they were talking about a dying fly fisherman, for God’s sake, and they were talking about the Roam River, pristine, lovely, trout-choked and un-fished, locked in behind Tucker’s fences. In the face of that, as far as Chubbuck was concerned, what was a little corruption of justice?
I shrugged and said the obvious: “Wouldn’t it be access to fish?”
The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Jess
I fixed one for the road, torched a remnant Swisher, and I drove directly back to Livingston, to the liquor store.
Uncle Tick Judith had become the Jackson Pollack of snoose. Loosed by his grief over Jesse, the grainy brown stains went everywhere, in streaks and splats and dribbles on his shirt front, his chin, his boots, the counter, the newspaper he was reading, even on the Crown Royal gift boxes shelved behind the counter and three feet in back of his spittoon.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sumbitch sorry don’t get me nothin’.”
There went effluent out the corner of his mouth into the stubble on his chin. He sniffed, dragged a sleeve across the general area, adding to that canvas.
“I’m responsible,” he said.
“You’re not.”
“Ize her sumbitch guardian. That girl’s daddy—” a gobby, no-look spurt in the general direction of the spittoon “—is my good friend and he asked me to watch out for her.”
“Jesse was an adult,” I said. “A pretty wild one, too.”
The old bull rider hoisted a plastic half-gallon of Smirnoff’s from beneath the counter. He addressed the register. “That one’s half gone,” I pointed out.
“Thennis half price,” Uncle Judith slurred. “Twenty-nine by half.” I watched the math confuse him while the register beeped.
“Point of information,” I said. “How do you know those skinheads work for Tucker?”
Tick Judith pulled back and stood mutely bowlegged, regarding me as if for the first time. He worked that quid beneath his lip as tears welled into eyes that looked set by a shovel and red-rimmed from an intense stretch of anguish. He didn’t process the skinhead question. Instead he fixed a shattered index finger in my direction.
“Now,
you
…”
“Yeah,” I said. “I brought Sneed around here.”
“So maybe you’re responsible.”
“Yeah. I am. That’s what I mean when I say you’re not.”
If this was harder than twenty-nine by two, Uncle Judith didn’t show it. In fact he bunched his quid up with a grizzled face-pinch, squeezed it hard a couple times, and tried to self-talk around the precipitate. “Sumbitch owned up,” he dribbled. “I am talking to a goddang man.”
He knuckle-punched the register: NO SALE . Then the cap was off the
“And I made it,” Russell said finally. “I beat the sheriff to the scene. Just.”
The TV screen went black. Rita Crowe hung up the phone and returned to the table. She said to me, “You’re right. Those boys are hammerheads. I’ve seen them at the liquor store on Main.”
“Skinheads, Ma.” Russell was grinning at her. “Or hammer-skins. Not hammerheads.”
Rita Crowe had started another cigarette. She set it down in a Yellowstone Park ashtray. She gathered up the paper plates and plastic forks and Styrofoam cups, put them in a pile, pushed the pile toward Russell.
“We’re not supposed to burn, Ma. It’s too dry. There’s a county ordinance against it.”
“We work for the county, Russell.”
“Right, so—”
She stared him down. Eventually Russell gathered the stack of trash into his hands.
“So,” she said as her son rose to obey, “the question is this: if those are skinheads and they work for Tucker, and our wonderful sheriff is hands off, then why? If the man is looking the other way, what does he get out of it?”
After a pause wherein I awakened to the fact that this question was not rhetorical, I said, “Well, isn’t that easy?”
Both Crowes looked at me, eager but clueless. But they were talking about a dying fly fisherman, for God’s sake, and they were talking about the Roam River, pristine, lovely, trout-choked and un-fished, locked in behind Tucker’s fences. In the face of that, as far as Chubbuck was concerned, what was a little corruption of justice?
I shrugged and said the obvious: “Wouldn’t it be access to fish?”
The Best Thing That Ever Happened to Jess
I fixed one for the road, torched a remnant Swisher, and I drove directly back to Livingston, to the liquor store.
Uncle Tick Judith had become the Jackson Pollack of snoose. Loosed by his grief over Jesse, the grainy brown stains went everywhere, in streaks and splats and dribbles on his shirt front, his chin, his boots, the counter, the newspaper he was reading, even on the Crown Royal gift boxes shelved behind the counter and three feet in back of his spittoon.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sumbitch sorry don’t get me nothin’.”
There went effluent out the corner of his mouth into the stubble on his chin. He sniffed, dragged a sleeve across the general area, adding to that canvas.
“I’m responsible,” he said.
“You’re not.”
“Ize her sumbitch guardian. That girl’s daddy—” a gobby, no-look spurt in the general direction of the spittoon “—is my good friend and he asked me to watch out for her.”
“Jesse was an adult,” I said. “A pretty wild one, too.”
The old bull rider hoisted a plastic half-gallon of Smirnoff’s from beneath the counter. He addressed the register. “That one’s half gone,” I pointed out.
“Thennis half price,” Uncle Judith slurred. “Twenty-nine by half.” I watched the math confuse him while the register beeped.
“Point of information,” I said. “How do you know those skinheads work for Tucker?”
Tick Judith pulled back and stood mutely bowlegged, regarding me as if for the first time. He worked that quid beneath his lip as tears welled into eyes that looked set by a shovel and red-rimmed from an intense stretch of anguish. He didn’t process the skinhead question. Instead he fixed a shattered index finger in my direction.
“Now,
you
…”
“Yeah,” I said. “I brought Sneed around here.”
“So maybe you’re responsible.”
“Yeah. I am. That’s what I mean when I say you’re not.”
If this was harder than twenty-nine by two, Uncle Judith didn’t show it. In fact he bunched his quid up with a grizzled face-pinch, squeezed it hard a couple times, and tried to self-talk around the precipitate. “Sumbitch owned up,” he dribbled. “I am talking to a goddang man.”
He knuckle-punched the register: NO SALE . Then the cap was off the
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