Craig Johnson - As the crow flies

She splayed a hand and pulled a wave of the damp, raven-colored hair past her shoulder. “I already made all your calls. You’re spending the night at the tribal chief’s house, and I’m going to drop you off.” She leaned back in her chair, stretched out her arms, and left her fingertips on the edge of her desk like a kid testing her reach. “But right now I thought I’d buy you dinner.”

The Charging Horse Casino is a strange-looking building tucked away along the main road of the Northern Cheyenne Reservation, and if it weren’t the largest gaming facility on the high plains and covered in neon, you might miss it.

A thickset man a little older than me with a salt and pepper ponytail and a weathered face met us and opened the door of the casino. “Hello, Chief.”

Lolo Long didn’t respond but continued in.

I nodded to the man, who gave me the slightest smile, and then continued on to catch up with her. “Somebody you know?”

“Ex-police chief.”

“Oh.”

Most of the building was taken up by the five-hundred-seat bingo hall in the back, but the three-a-week sessions didn’t start till tomorrow night, so the place was pretty much empty except for the professionals who were scattered around the slots and poker machines. We were seated in front of one of the diamond-shaped windows in the farthest corner of the restaurant, where we could watch the late light flare with a horizontal glow just before dying out.

“Is this your usual seat?”

She looked around. “They try to keep me away from the patrons.”

I nodded and sat there, waiting; it was her party, so I figured I’d let her swing at the pinata, which gave me plenty of time to study the sickle-shaped scar that started under her right cheekbone, circled around the orbit of her eye, and disappeared into her dark eyebrow.

The waitress, a middle-aged Cheyenne woman, quietly approached with water and menus. We ordered, and the waitress came back with a pitcher of iced tea. I nodded, and she filled up two glasses, then left, giving Lolo Long time for the window and herself.

She turned back to me. “So, how did I do today?”

I felt like I’d just hit a pothole. “Excuse me?”

“On the job-how did I do?” Her eyes went to the surface of the table. “Look, I know you’ve been doing this stuff for a long time. A long time. I thought you might have some opinions.”

“It’s really not any of my business, but I think maybe you should give the badge back.”

It took a moment for her to work up a response. “I know I didn’t do everything exactly right today.”

“Well, you didn’t do much right today.” I glanced around to make sure that no one was in earshot and continued. “With all due respect, Specialist, I don’t know what your specialty was, but it wasn’t law enforcement.”

She didn’t move.

I felt bad about saying it, but she’d introduced the subject and I was beginning to think that it might be my only opportunity. I tried to soften my voice. “I’m sorry to be the one, but I have to tell you this before you get yourself or somebody else killed.”

The muscles bunched in her throat. “Well, what did I do wrong?”

I glanced around in an attempt to get a handle on the subject. “Let’s just use the altercation with Last Bull as an example: with any kind of decent public defender, he’ll walk.”

“He had a shotgun.”

“An empty one that he did not brandish toward us in any way. If you’d been paying attention rather than trying to gain admittance to a residence where you had no warrant-”

“I know him; he’s a drunk and dangerous.”

“Which makes it even worse. You approached the house with your sidearm drawn. I don’t care how dangerous he is or isn’t-you offered him up a written invitation to resist. He is a potential suspect-the operative word there is potential — and should be treated with at least a tiny bit of respect.” She started to interrupt again, but I wouldn’t let her. “What if you’re wrong? What if he’s a guy who just lost a loved one and his child and that’s all? What then?”

She was angry. “I’ll do something like apologize.”

“That would be interesting since I haven’t seen anything approximating an apology for anything since I’ve met you today.”

She folded her arms, then unfolded them and started to take a drink of her tea or maybe throw it in my face. “Apologies are a sign of weakness.”

I sat there looking at her, making sure I’d heard what I’d thought I’d heard as the waitress arrived with our food-she stood a little to the side to avoid the bloodshed.

I went ahead and finished my statement. “Apologies are a sign of having some semblance of an idea of what’s going on around you and not being a cocksure idiot.” I should’ve stopped there, but the rest needed to be said. “Excuse me for saying so, but you don’t have the training or, from what I can see, the temperament for the job.”

Her eyes stayed steady with mine. She took a deep breath and then stood by the table. The only sounds were the air-conditioning and the noisome jangling of the slot machines.

Again she reminded me of Vic, but without the top-notch training that the Philadelphia Police Academy had provided, or the five years of street duty, or the field commendations that the Terror had hung on her bathroom wall. It was possible that Lolo Long could become a capable officer, but she would never last that long. She would end up dead on a frontage road or bleeding her life away on a patch of threadbare indoor/outdoor carpeting.

Without another word, she turned and stalked out, taking the time only to flip one of the waiting plates from the waitress’s hand. It cascaded in a graceful arc over the startled woman’s shoulder and crashed onto the tile floor with a clatter, bits of broken china and chipotle steak going everywhere.

I dropped my head and sighed. I knew I’d been going too far, but I hadn’t considered how “too far” I’d gone and, considering the recent conversation, I figured the waitress wasn’t likely to get an apology.

The poor woman was still standing there with the other plate in her hand, so I took it from her. “I’m assuming that mine is the one on the floor, so I’ll take the fried chicken.” I held my other hand out to her. “Walt Longmire.”

She nodded and shook my fingers. “I know.” She looked through the window as Chief Long lunged the Yukon out of the parking lot. “She used to be such a nice girl before.”

Setting the plate on the table, I gestured toward the mess. “Do you need some help cleaning that up?”

“No.” She smiled. “I can get it-you eat.”

It was at this point, according to Officer Long, that I betrayed a weakness. “I’m sorry.”

The woman braided her weakness with mine. “I’m sorry, too.”

I sat and began eating the chicken with my fingers; other than the waitress, I was the only one there. I pulled a few more napkins from the dispenser as she returned with a dustpan, broom, a spray bottle, and paper towels. “My name is Loraine Two Two.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Loraine.”

She made quick work of the mess. “I heard it was Audrey Plain Feather who fell off a cliff and died today.”

I gave the chicken a momentary rest. “That moccasin telegraph never sleeps, does it?”

“I worked with her over at Human Services.” She smiled but then it faded. “They said the child, Adrian, was with her when she fell.”

I took a breath and thought about my nonofficial connection to the case. “He’s over at the hospital, but I think he’s going to be fine.”

Loraine stood but averted her eyes from mine. “It’s a troubled family.”

I nodded, still holding a leg in my hands. “That’s what I hear.”