Lori Armstrong - Mercy Kill

“Can’t we talk here?” I’d already waited overnight for this chat, and Geneva had a million things for me to do today.

“Nope. I’ve got a meeting at elk crossing.”

After three tries, the passenger’s-side door on his truck finally shut, and we were tooling down County Road 2A, headed toward the reservation.

“I almost didn’t come,” he offered conversationally.

“Why?”

“Mebbe because you don’t call me to meet just so we can shoot the breeze. You only call when you want something.”

Was that a note of… hurt in Rollie’s tone? Nah. And I refused to be put on the defensive. “The phone line runs both ways, old man. You can call me, too.”

“I hate talking on the damn phone.”

“I know. But I’m rusty on using smoke signals to get your attention.”

“Smarty.”

I smiled.

“So what’s on your mind, Mercy girl?”

“First, if I want to ask you a couple of questions, will I owe you another favor?”

Rollie grabbed a smashed pack of smokes from the bench seat. He punched the lighter knob and shook out a crumpled cigarette. Cancer ritual complete, he faced me. “It depends.”

Cryptic. “On what?”

“Coupla things. But they’ll keep until the proper time.”

Was Rollie waiting to call in those “favors” if I became sheriff? I’d blindly agreed to do whatever he asked me the first time I’d needed his help. Evidently I hadn’t learned my lesson, because I was about to do it again.

“Ask away,” he said.

“What do you know about Barry Sarohutu, his brother Victor Bad Wound, and the group they run?”

“Run is exactly the right word, hey. You oughta run as far away from them as you can.”

Rollie? Scared of someone on the rez? That was new. “Do you run from them?”

“Wish I could. I know enough about ’em to make sure I stay on their good side.” He blew a smoke ring. “Why you askin’?”

“Their group has been coming into Clementine’s. Everyone’s freaked out about it.”

“They should be. No one wants Sarohutu and his guys around, but telling them to take their business elsewhere ain’t smart.”

“Why not?”

“Fear of their unique ways of retaliation. People call them the Lakota Yakuza.”

I laughed.

“Ain’t no laughing matter. Them guys’ll carve you up if you so much as look at them wrong.”

My smile dried. “Is that what happened to Cherelle Dupris?”

His gaze turned sharp. “You’ve seen her around Clementine’s?”

“Not personally. But I’ve heard she was in, and I want to talk to her.”

“She ain’t gonna talk to you without Victor Bad Wound’s permission.”

“You sure?”

Rollie ground out his smoke. “Lemme tell you a story about Cherelle. About six years ago, Sarohutu returned to the rez to ‘establish’ himself after he’d run away to L.A. fifteen years before. He noticed Cherelle-hard not to, she was a beautiful girl. She competed in Junior Indian Princess pageants, and everyone believed she’d be Miss Indian South Dakota, maybe even Miss Indian America.”

This was not going to be a happy Indian parable.

“She fell under Saro’s spell. But Victor had his eye on Cherelle long before his half brother returned to the rez. His jealousy became an obsession, and he snatched her. Victor knew Saro would dump Cherelle if she wasn’t the hottest chick on the rez, so Victor marred her. Rumor is her face isn’t the only place he sliced her. Another rumor is Victor kept her tied up for three weeks, allowing the slice on her face to become infected so it wouldn’t heal right. Victor thought he was being clever, giving her a ‘bad wound’ so everyone knew she belonged to him, not Saro.”

What a sick fucking bastard.

“When Victor released Cherelle, she ran to Saro and told him what’d happened. She believed Saro would want her no matter how she looked, and she demanded Saro punish Victor for what he’d done.” Rollie paused. “Saro beat her severely. When she recovered, he swore to keep her ugly face around as a reminder to everyone on the rez never to come between him and his brother. Saro announced the mark on her face meant she was Victor’s property. Then Saro warned if she ever tried to leave Victor, he’d kill off her family members. One by one.”

Sounded like an idle threat, yet I knew it wasn’t. It reminded me of J-Hawk’s wife. God, lots of psychopaths walked free, in every culture and in every walk of life.

“Cherelle didn’t believe him. She went to Rapid City to stay with her cousin. Two days later, her unci was the victim of a hit and run. After the funeral, Cherelle moved in with Victor and cut herself off from her family. She’s their errand girl, their go-between, their whore for hire. She’s whatever they want her to be.”

I was sickened by the story. I didn’t doubt the truth of it, but I wanted to know how Rollie had come across the information. Or if it was common knowledge on the Eagle River Reservation.

Took him a long time to answer. “The basics are common knowledge. But Cherelle is Verline’s cousin. Verline was thirteen when that happened.” He fingered his necklace. “Verline begged me to do something about Saro and Victor. No doubt what they done ain’t right. Mebbe if I’da been twenty years younger I’da taken them on. But I’m an old man. Ain’t proud of using that as an excuse, but it is what it is.”

No point in building up Rollie’s ego; he’d see through my insincerity and take offense. I changed the subject. “How is Verline?”

“Mean.” He sighed. “She’s pregnant again.”

Holy Viagra. Verline, Rollie’s live-in, was barely nineteen and younger than any of his six kids from his various relationships. I suspected Verline was younger than Rollie’s oldest grandkid. She’d given birth to their son seven months ago.

“You’d think by your age you’da figured out what causes that situation.”

“Smarty.” Rollie slowed behind a Lexus parked at elk crossing, which was a sign by a gravel pullout that warned of wildlife at large. He threw it into Park. “Be right back.”

In the side mirror, I watched Rollie approach the vehicle and pass a small box through the window opening. The driver handed over folded cash. Rollie unfolded it and counted it. He nodded, tucked it in his shirt pocket, and sauntered back to the truck as the Lexus roared away.

Don’t ask, Mercy.

But I had to poke Rollie a little, to see if he’d share the information I wanted. He’d do it to avoid answering my question about what he was selling on the side. “So if I had drugs to unload in this area, who would I get in touch with from Saro’s group to see if they were interested in buying?”

Rollie’s face remained placid as he whipped a U-turn. “Don’t think our sheriff candidate oughta be dealin’ drugs for extra cash.”

“Not me personally, but hypothetically speaking.”

“And you’re askin’ me, hypothetically speaking, about illegal shit like this because…?”

“You da man on the rez, Rollie. Nothin’ gets past you.”

“You use that damn sugar mouth on a man just like your mama did,” he grumbled.

But I saw his half smile through his half-assed protest. “For instance, say someone has prescription drugs. Say you’re traveling through, new in the area with no plans to stay long term. You’ve got top-quality product. How do you know who to contact to unload it?”

Rollie grunted. “First off, you gotta expect if you’re unloading drugs that you’ve already been in contact with someone who directed you through the proper channels. Ain’t no one gonna show up here and walk up to Victor or Saro, especially not on the rez, and say, ‘Hey, man, I’ve heard you own this territory, and I’m hauling some premium product.’ Other associates along the supply chain would’ve already vouched for you, understand?”