Indian Pipes Read Online Free PDF Page A

fiberglass resin from the boatyard. “She wasn’t going to tell us until you got here.”
    Joe lifted his once-tan baseball cap, scratched his head, and settled the cap back again. Printed across the front was DRAINS R US.
    Sarah wrinkled her nose. She had a part-time job at Tribal Headquarters and was still dressed in her working clothes—black slacks and bright blue T-shirt imprinted with a portrait of a chieftain wearing a feathered bonnet.
    “That ain’t no Wampanoag.” Joe pointed his thumb at Sarah’s chest.
    Sarah looked down.
    Lincoln moved his shoulders against the storefront. “It’s not polite to point at a girl’s boobies,” he said.
    “Woman’s,” Sarah corrected automatically.
    “Okay, okay, don’t keep us in suspense.” Donald turned his head so he could look at Sarah’s Indian chief.
    “They voted for the casino?” Joe asked.
    “Nope.” Sarah shook her head.
    “They found Jube Burkhardt’s car,” said Lincoln.
    “Nope.” Sarah smirked.
    “I’m gettin’ me a cuppa coffee.” Joe reached for the handle on the screen door. “This shit is making me thirsty. Anyone else?”
    “Dojan’s back,” Sarah said abruptly, and folded her arms over the Indian’s jutting chin. The feathered headdress lifted with her breathing.
    “No shit!” Joe dropped his hand from the screen door, stepped back, and turned toward her.
    “I thought they buried him in some Indian agency in D.C.,” said Lincoln. “Rumor was he killed some guy.”
    Joe laughed. “Island rumors are as good as gospel.”
    A motorcycle went past the store followed by a second and a third.
    “All
right!”
said Joe. “Some fancy bikes.”
    “We’re gonna have to put up with that for the next week.” Donald indicated the passing motorcycles.
    Sarah put her hands over her ears. The bikes roared by. The first, a bright metallic purplish-blue, was driven by a biker wearing a sleeveless T-shirt with a grinning skull on the back. The two following bikes were black with shiny exhaust pipes that ran almost their entire lengths.
    “Can’t hear yourself think.” Donald shook his head as if to clear the noise out of his ears.
    “You know what those bikes were?” Lincoln’s voice had a touch of awe.
    “Harley-Davidson,” said Joe. “Can’t miss ‘em.”
    “The first was a Harley. The other two were Indian Chiefs. Antiques, probably ‘47 or ‘48.”
    “Yeah?” Joe squinted at the receding bikes. “When’s the rally begin?”
    “Not until this weekend, but a bunch of them arrived early.” Lincoln moved back against the shingles.
    “The rally’s giving a lot of money to Island charities.” Sarah looked around at the other three.
    “I’ll believe it when I see it.” Donald shifted in his seat and crossed his legs. “Where are they staying at?”
    “All over the place,” Lincoln said. “Place I caretake, they already have half a dozen tents set up in the field.”
    “How come Dojan’s back?” Lincoln asked Sarah.
    “Peter Little called him in Washington, had him drop everything to fly here.”
    “What was the hurry?” Joe put his hands in his pockets, bent his knees, thrust his pelvis forward, and rocked back and forth from his toes to his heels.
    Sarah shrugged. “Who knows?”
    “Peter sent for him?” Donald asked.
    “Chief Hawkbill told Peter to call Dojan,” Sarah said.
    “What did what’s-her-name say about all that?” Joe rocked up and down, toes to heels.
    “Patience VanDyke? What could she say? She’s not about to go against the chief.”
    “If I was her, I wouldn’t trust that slime,” Joe said.
    “You mean Peter Little?” asked Lincoln.
    “He’s after her job, believe you me,” Joe said.
    “Well, I wouldn’t trust
her,
neither,” Donald said. “All she cares about is money, money, money.” He rubbed his thumb and third finger together. “ ‘Poor, indigent tribe!’ she says, ‘poor me, all I can afford is this old pickup truck,’ and all the time she’s buying