James Burke: Bitterroot

"I'm looking forward to it," I said, and winked at him.

But he didn't ruffle. His lantern jaw seemed to be hooked forward, his eyes holding on mine. Then he jogged down the stairs, his arms cocked at his sides, his football cleats clattering on the concrete, his whipcord body jiggling.

He stopped at the bottom of the stands and counted out several dollar bills to an Indian hot-dog vendor and pointed up at us. The vendor, who was overweight and wore a large white box on a strap around his neck, began laboring up the stairs toward us.

"I can't believe I just listened to that conversation," Cleo said.

The vendor stopped at the end of the row and handed us two fat hog dogs wrapped in napkins, dripping with chili and melted cheese. Wyatt Dixon was watching us from the top of a bucking chute. I stood up so he could see me clearly and pointed to the hot dog in my left hand and made an "A-okay" sign of approval with my thumb and forefinger.

"I can't believe you just did that," Cleo said.

"Grin at the bad guys and never let them know what you're thinking. It drives them crazy," I said.

"What if they're already crazy?" she said.

I called the sheriff in Missoula early next morning, then drove in to meet him at his office. When I entered the office, he was standing at his window, looking out at the street, dressed in a blue, long-sleeve shirt, charcoal-black striped trousers, and a wide leather belt. I realized he was even a bigger man than I'd thought. His arms were propped against the sides of the window, and his back and head blocked out the view of the street entirely.

"I checked on that gal, Dixon 's sister, what's-her-name, Katie Jo Winset. Evidently she was a professional snitch. She died of a heart attack while being taken from the woman's prison to a trial in Houston," he said. "Why would her brother want to put it on you?"

"She killed her own child. I got her to plead out. Part of the deal was she had to snitch off some bikers who were muleing dope up from Piedras Negras. If I remember right, one of the mules took Wyatt Dixon down with him. I just didn't remember Dixon 's name."

"If Dixon cared about his sister, he should be grateful to you. In Texas she could have gotten the needle," the sheriff said.

When I didn't reply, he said, "She might have skated if she hadn't pled out?"

"I wanted her to fire me and go to trial. She killed two of her other children and buried them in Mexico. Truth be known, I wanted her to hang herself," I said.

The sheriff sat down behind his desk. He wore a black string necktie and there were scars on the backs of his hands. He saw me looking at them.

"I used to drive a log truck. I had a boomer chain snap down on me once," he said. "Mr. Holland, I can't say I'm glad to see you here. I've got enough problems without you people bringing your own up from Texas. This biker, Lamar Ellison, the one your friend Dr. Voss remodeled up at Lincoln? He's been in Deer Lodge and Quentin, both. Your friend's mistake is he didn't kill Lamar when he had the chance."

"Lamar's going to be back around?"

"Don't expect to see him soon at First Assembly."

"Do y'all have a narcotics officer working inside his gang? An Indian girl with blond streaks in her hair?" I said.

"You got some nerve, don't you?"

"I thought I'd ask. Thanks for your time," I said.

"Don't thank me. I wish you'd go home."

I left his office and walked out of the courthouse toward my truck. It was windy, and the sky was blue, and above the university I could see an enormous smooth-sided mountain, with a white "M" on it and pine trees in the saddles and lupine growing in grass that was just turning green.

I heard heavy steps behind me, then a big hand reached out and encircled my upper arm.

"I get short with people. It's just my nature," the sheriff said. "This is a good town, by God. But there's people here with fingers in lots of pies. Dr. Voss hangs with some of those Earth First fanatics and he's gonna get hisself hurt. The same can happen to you, son."

"I appreciate it, Sheriff."

"No, you're a hardhead. Talk with a man name of Xavier Girard. At least if you get broadsided by a train, you can't say I didn't warn you."

"The novelist? His wife's an actress?"

"Maybe it's different where you come from, but most people's public roles hereabouts are pure bullshit. That don't exclude me," he replied.

The SHERIFF told me that by noon I could probably find Xavier Girard, unless the Apocalypse was in progress, at a low-rent bar down by the old train depot. The last I had read of his escapades was about two years ago in People magazine. A photo showed him being escorted out of a Santa Barbara nightclub by two uniformed policemen, the tangled pieces of a broken chair draped over his head and shoulders, a maniacal grin on his bloodied face.

The cutline, as I recall it, had stated something like: "Famed Crime Novelist Takes on Crowd That Boos His Poetry Reading."

I walked into the bar, a long, high-ceilinged place with brick walls, and saw him eating at a table by himself in back. His girth and beard and thick, unbrushed hair and big head made me think of a cinnamon bear. His hands even looked like paws. The bar was full of derelicts, Indians, a few college kids, and a group who looked like they had just bought their Western fashions in the shopping malls of Santa Fe. Xavier Girard watched me approach him as he upended a mug of beer.

"Mr. Girard, my name's Billy Bob Holland. I'm an attorney from Deaf Smith, Texas. The sheriff said I should talk to you," I said.

"Oh yeah? About what?" he said.

"About Tobin Voss." I pulled out a chair from the table and sat down.

He picked up his paper napkin and looked at it and dropped it. "Why don't you just plunk yourself down without being invited?" he said.

"I need some help, sir. If I've intruded, I'll leave."

"You that private detective my film agent hired?"

"Pardon?"

"Got some ID?"

"Are you serious?" I asked.

He thought about it and let his eyes rove over my face.

"I guess that Southern-fried accent didn't come out of Laurel Canyon," he said. "Tobin Voss is on the right side, but he's busting up the wrong people. Over-the-hill meth heads aren't the problem in Montana." Then he raised his voice and looked in the direction of the group dressed in stylized western clothes. " California douche bags buying up the state with their credit cards are a different matter."

"You know a guy named Wyatt Dixon?" I asked.

"No. Who is he?"

"An ex-con from Texas. He seems to be buds with this militia leader, Carl Hinkel."

"If Hinkel had his way, the rest of us would be bars of soap."

"You know this Earth First group?" I said.

"The first line of defense against the dickheads- those are Los Angeles dickheads I'm talking about," he said, his voice rising again, his eyes resting on the tourists, "who want to drill for oil in wilderness areas and denude the national forest."

"I see."

"You're not convinced?" he said.

"It's been good meeting you, Mr. Girard. I read a couple of your books. I admire your talent."

He seemed to look at me with a different light in his eyes.

He said, "Holly and I are having some people over tonight. It's a publication party. A collection of essays done by local writers on the Blackfoot. Bring Tobin Voss or whoever you like."

"That's kind of you. Tell me, Mr. Girard, why would a fellow's film agent want to send a private detective after him?"

"Man claims I set fire to his convertible outside the Polo Lounge. But don't put any credence in that. The poor guy's unbalanced. He's trying to set up 900 toll numbers for Charlie Manson and the Menendez brothers."

"This is your agent?"