C Box - Three Weeks to Say Goodbye

I used to take refuge in the theory that my mother secretly cheered for me to get away. Now that I have, I’m not so sure I was right about her secret wishes. Instead, I think she saw me as her surrogate for rebellion against her husband and her life in general. Not to say she was mean-she wasn’t. But she was born with a dark cloud over her head that got darker as she aged. I’ve reconciled myself to that.

The only place we lasted more than two years was on the HS Bar between Townsend and Helena. The owner, whom I only met once, was a millionaire investor who lived in Connecticut. He was blustery, fast-talking, and abrasive. He showed up on the ranch in cowboy clothes that were inspired by Bonanza and looked more like a costume than real clothing. I didn’t like him-he called me “Jake” instead of Jack-but due to his poor health, a bitter divorce, and problems with the SEC, we didn’t see or hear much from him. Therefore, my dad said he was the best owner he’d ever worked for, and he got along with him. They saw “eye to eye,” my dad said, meaning the owner never spoke to him. During those years, I took the bus into Helena High. I was a Bengal. On the way to town we picked up Cody Hoyt in East Helena, which was on the wrong side of the tracks. Cody and I became great friends. Later, we met Brian Eastman and the three of us clicked, probably because none of us really belonged to any other established group. Brian’s father was a Presbyterian minister in Helena.

We hunted, fished, hiked, and chased girls together. Even early on, it was obvious Brian was destined for great things. All of the girls loved Brian. He was their best friend and confidant. Cody and I met girls through Brian because none of them ever seemed good enough for him. At least, that’s what we thought at the time.

After high school, Brian and I went off to college. Brian to the University of Denver on a scholarship. I went to Montana State in Bozeman on financial aid and student loans that would hang over my head for ten years. When I took my twenty-year-old pickup to Bozeman, I knew I would never return to the HS Bar or what ever ranch my parents were managing. Cody stayed around Helena and worked both construction and on ranches, pulling a six-month stint on the HS Bar working for my dad. He told me later that working for my dad convinced him to enroll in the police academy so he’d never have to work for such a mean old son of a bitch for the rest of his life.

I waited until Melissa and I were engaged before introducing her to my parents so as not to scare her off. My dad took a long look at her, turned to my mom, said, “She’s too good for him.” Melissa’s parents, who lived in Billings at the time and were not yet divorced, felt the same way. With those hot winds of confidence filling our sails, we drove to Las Vegas with Brian and Cody in Brian’s car, littering the highways with empty beer cans all the way to Nevada. While nursing screaming hangovers, my friends served as best men and witness to the wedding that took place at Chapel of the Dunes in Glitter Gulch.

I got my degree in journalism, which turned out to be practically worthless, and started as a reporter at the Billings Gazette. Mainly, I worked as an assistant in graphics making a dollar over minimum wage. We lived in a trailer out by MetraPark, within sight and smell of the livestock they brought in for auctions, sharing the place with two dogs who just showed up and stayed. Melissa landed better than I did, and went from assistant in reservations at a local hotel to assistant general manager to general manager within two years. When an opening came up at the Billings Convention and Visitor’s Bureau, she convinced me to apply and used her connections to talk me up. Her reputation was so good the CVB board assumed her husband might be worthwhile, so they hired me. After a few years, I did stints in Bozeman and Casper, Wyoming, learning the travel industry. I started to feel like my father, moving about from place to place.

Brian stayed in Denver after graduation and was a highly successful real-estate developer who had quickly become prominent and high-profile within the community. He was also on the board of the Denver CVB, and suggested to Linda Van Gear, Vice President of Tourism, to hire me.

So we moved to the big city.

Cody bounced around in law enforcement from place to place as well, from small town to small town in Wyoming and Montana, then to Loveland, Colorado. His name began to pop up in the Denver Post and Rocky Mountain News in newspaper articles in connection with several high-profile crimes, including the kidnapping, rape, and murder of a college coed by an illegal Mexican immigrant. The article in the News referred to him as a “relentless investigator.” He married and divorced twice. He eventually signed on with the Denver Police Department, and had recently been promoted to detective first class in the Criminal Investigations Division. Cody was the lead investigator who had arrested Aubrey Coates, the man known in the newspapers as the “Monster of Desolation Canyon.”

We chose Denver like so many others. I meet very few people in Denver who are from Denver, or from Colorado. There is little sense of shared history or culture. Relationships and connections are as deep as the piddling South Platte River that trickles through the city.

“YOU COULD PROBABLY SWEAR out some kind of vandalism complaint and I’m sure they know it,” Cody Hoyt said later that night. “It isn’t whether you’ve got reason to press charges, it’s whether you’ve got the guts to take them on and piss them off.”

Cody came right over, as did Brian. Larry of LARRY’S 24/7 EMERGENCY PLUMBING was still upstairs.

Cody still wore the same sweats he’d had on earlier that day, and he hadn’t shaved. He smelled of beer, cigarette smoke, and sweat, and he said he’d spent the evening watching the game at a cop bar near police headquarters on Cherokee Street after dropping off the drill earlier. As he grew older, Cody was looking more and more like his father, a notorious drinker and Vietnam War vet with a bulbous nose and kettle-sized potbelly who did odd jobs throughout the county from a ramshackle panel van. The semiautomatic pistol he had clipped to the waistband of his sweatpants gave me pause and created an air of seriousness and purpose our living room had been lacking, I thought.

Brian, on the other hand, wore chinos, tasseled loafers with no socks, and an untucked pale blue dress shirt. His hair was receding and had been reduced to a tight swoosh high on his forehead. He had penetrating hazel eyes. He’d lost even more weight from when I’d seen him last and was beginning to resemble a hanger for his fine clothes.

Melissa had asked if they wanted anything before settling down in a chair. Cody asked for a beer. Brian wanted ice water with “a little slice of lemon.”

“I’m sure it was Luis,” I said. “He was in the bathroom a long time. I’m not sure Garrett didn’t put him up to it, though.”

“Disgusting,” Brian said. “ Animals. ”

“The ‘Sur-13’ tattoo you described,” Cody said, “that’s for Sureños 13-the local chapter of a nationwide gang. You see the gang graffiti all over the south side and downtown. We know all about them-they deal most of the meth in Colorado. I’ll check out this Luis dude with the gang task force, see if they know him.”

“Why would Luis be with Garrett,” I asked, “and vice versa? Stevie is a white kid, too.”

Cody said, “We’re seeing it more and more. Rich white kids slumming with the Mexican gangsters. They want some of that power and cool to rub off on them. It’s just like white rappers, trying to be something they’re not. The Mexican gangs are the kings of Denver, just like every other city in the West and Southwest.”