body and shaggy blond hair and the altar-boy blue eyes. Bartenders had carded me until I was nearly thirty.
"You don't need Diet."
"Precautionary measure."
"More people should think like you."
I smiled. "I hope not."
She treated me to a Diet Pepsi and then she walked over to a battered door and opened it up.
"This is where the reservation cop has her office," she said.
"They didn't spare any expense, did they?"
"Used to be a storeroom. At least I have a window. And the Chief did buy me this computer."
I had a sense of her as a little girl just then, one completely charmed by a new toy. She was lovelier than ever in that moment, all quick excitement and gleaming eyes.
"By the way, you know Clarence at the radio up front?" she asked me.
"Uh-huh."
"He's the Chief's nephew."
"Oh."
"But it's not what you think. The Chief is pretty nice to Indians. He was raised here and he went to 'Nam with two of my uncles and they got along fine. In fact, the whole generational thing is pretty weird."
"The whole generational thing?"
"Yeah, it's like bigotry skipped a generation or something. The hippie generation got along fine with each other – the whites and the reservation Indians, I mean. But then my generation came along and we don't get along so well. Now it's like it used to be – the way Clarence is, I mean." She grinned her charming grin. "You want the tour?"
"I'd love the tour."
"Well, that's a wall and that's a light socket and—"
I laughed.
She went over and opened up the window.
The night came rushing in, a tide of fading heat and starlight and fireflies and the faint laughter of children and the booming radios of teenagers as they drove up and down the main street.
Her office contained a small wooden desk atop of which sat a sassy new computer. There was a chair that matched the desk and a chair that didn't match the desk. That was the one I sat down in. I faced two battered filing cabinets.
She came over and sat down and turned on her computer. "Have you figured out why I wanted you to come over here tonight?" she asked.
"I've got a pretty good guess."
"Sandra Moore."
"The one who was killed and had her nose mutilated?" I said.
"Right. I want to find out who killed her."
"I guess that's your job," I said quietly.
"I don't mean just because I'm a cop."
"Oh?"
"No. A lot of people in this town think my husband did it."
And for the first time I made the connection I should have made much earlier. A small town; Native Americans. How many people named Rhodes could there be? The bruiser had called the Indian he'd been whumping on "Rhodes".
And the fetching woman sitting across from me was named Rhodes. So that meant—
Never let it be said that the obvious ever slips past me. "Does your husband deal blackjack in the casino?"
"Yes. Why?"
"He had some trouble tonight."
"What kind of trouble?"
I saw the quick panic in her eyes and was sorry I'd said anything. "He's all right now," I reassured her. "A couple of unfriendly guys from Cedar Rapids worked him over some."
"Do you know why?"
"No. They said he was ‘nosing around in their business.’ I'm not sure what they were talking about. I wanted to speak to your husband but he went right back to work."
She sighed, stared out the window for half a minute or so. "I guess I shouldn't call him my husband." She turned back to me. All the luster was gone from her eyes. "We haven't lived together for three or four years. Ever since my second miscarriage." She glanced down at her small brown hands. "That was the funny thing. Women are the ones who are supposed to take miscarriages so hard. And I did. I even ended up seeing a shrink over in Iowa City. But David . . . he really took it hard. That's when he started drinking and running around—" She stopped. And suddenly the grin was back and so was at least some of the luster in her eyes. "But now I'm using you as a shrink, aren't I?"
"I don't mind."
"I'll bet you don't. You seem like a very decent guy,
"You don't need Diet."
"Precautionary measure."
"More people should think like you."
I smiled. "I hope not."
She treated me to a Diet Pepsi and then she walked over to a battered door and opened it up.
"This is where the reservation cop has her office," she said.
"They didn't spare any expense, did they?"
"Used to be a storeroom. At least I have a window. And the Chief did buy me this computer."
I had a sense of her as a little girl just then, one completely charmed by a new toy. She was lovelier than ever in that moment, all quick excitement and gleaming eyes.
"By the way, you know Clarence at the radio up front?" she asked me.
"Uh-huh."
"He's the Chief's nephew."
"Oh."
"But it's not what you think. The Chief is pretty nice to Indians. He was raised here and he went to 'Nam with two of my uncles and they got along fine. In fact, the whole generational thing is pretty weird."
"The whole generational thing?"
"Yeah, it's like bigotry skipped a generation or something. The hippie generation got along fine with each other – the whites and the reservation Indians, I mean. But then my generation came along and we don't get along so well. Now it's like it used to be – the way Clarence is, I mean." She grinned her charming grin. "You want the tour?"
"I'd love the tour."
"Well, that's a wall and that's a light socket and—"
I laughed.
She went over and opened up the window.
The night came rushing in, a tide of fading heat and starlight and fireflies and the faint laughter of children and the booming radios of teenagers as they drove up and down the main street.
Her office contained a small wooden desk atop of which sat a sassy new computer. There was a chair that matched the desk and a chair that didn't match the desk. That was the one I sat down in. I faced two battered filing cabinets.
She came over and sat down and turned on her computer. "Have you figured out why I wanted you to come over here tonight?" she asked.
"I've got a pretty good guess."
"Sandra Moore."
"The one who was killed and had her nose mutilated?" I said.
"Right. I want to find out who killed her."
"I guess that's your job," I said quietly.
"I don't mean just because I'm a cop."
"Oh?"
"No. A lot of people in this town think my husband did it."
And for the first time I made the connection I should have made much earlier. A small town; Native Americans. How many people named Rhodes could there be? The bruiser had called the Indian he'd been whumping on "Rhodes".
And the fetching woman sitting across from me was named Rhodes. So that meant—
Never let it be said that the obvious ever slips past me. "Does your husband deal blackjack in the casino?"
"Yes. Why?"
"He had some trouble tonight."
"What kind of trouble?"
I saw the quick panic in her eyes and was sorry I'd said anything. "He's all right now," I reassured her. "A couple of unfriendly guys from Cedar Rapids worked him over some."
"Do you know why?"
"No. They said he was ‘nosing around in their business.’ I'm not sure what they were talking about. I wanted to speak to your husband but he went right back to work."
She sighed, stared out the window for half a minute or so. "I guess I shouldn't call him my husband." She turned back to me. All the luster was gone from her eyes. "We haven't lived together for three or four years. Ever since my second miscarriage." She glanced down at her small brown hands. "That was the funny thing. Women are the ones who are supposed to take miscarriages so hard. And I did. I even ended up seeing a shrink over in Iowa City. But David . . . he really took it hard. That's when he started drinking and running around—" She stopped. And suddenly the grin was back and so was at least some of the luster in her eyes. "But now I'm using you as a shrink, aren't I?"
"I don't mind."
"I'll bet you don't. You seem like a very decent guy,
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