Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

“Hurt him,” Reggie signed to Harley.

Harley nodded and twisted the white man’s arm. Howls of pain that Harley could not hear. Howls of pain that Reggie recorded and would listen to later.

“Now,” Reggie said. “What the fuck is my name?”

“Please. Please stop. I don’t know. I don’t know.”

“My name is Ira Hayes,” Reggie said.

“Okay, okay,” said the white man. “Your name is Ira Hayes.”

“Yeah, you know I was one of those guys who raised the flag at Iwo Jima?”

“Iwo what?”

Reggie kicked the white man.

“Iwo Jima, asshole. An island in the Pacific. During World War Two. One of the bloodiest military exercises of all time. Thousands and thousands died. But I survived, man. I climbed to the top of Iwo Jima and helped plant that flag. I was a hero. And now I’m dead. You know how I died?”

“No.”

Reggie kicked the white man again.

“You know how I died?”

“How?”

“Exposure. I fucking froze to death in a snowbank.”

The white man looked up at Reggie, who then slapped him hard across the face. Reggie held the recorder close to the sobbing man.

“Why’d you let me freeze?” Reggie asked.

“I…I didn’t.”

Reggie slapped him again.

“Why’d you let me freeze?”

The white man shook his head. Reggie grabbed him by the hair.

“What’s my name?”

“Ira Hayes.”

Another slap.

“Wrong. What’s my name?”

“Ira Hayes, Ira Hayes.” The white man pleading now. Reggie slapped him twice.

“What’s my name?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do it,” Reggie said to Ty, and he twisted the white man’s arm until something popped. The white man screamed into the tape recorder.

“Somebody’s going to hear us,” Ty said to Reggie, who then took a handkerchief out of his back pocket and shoved it into the white man’s mouth.

“What’s my name?” Reggie asked the white man, who could not respond intelligibly. Reggie slapped him.

“Shit, when you going to learn,” Reggie spoke directly into the tape recorder. “My name is Black Kettle. And I’m alive right?”

The white man nodded agreement.

“Wrong,” Reggie said and kicked him. “I’m dead.”

The white man wept.

“Because you white bastards murdered me. You killed me on the Washita River in Oklahoma. You and that fucker Custer, remember?”

No response.

“Yeah, we were flying a U.S. flag above our village, remember? We saw you coming, your Seventh Cavalry, and my wife and I rode out to meet you, to ask for peace. And you shot us before we even spoke. Do you remember?

“And do you remember my camp on Sand Creek in Colorado four years earlier? Do you remember when you and Colonel John Chivington rode on our camp? Once again, we were flying a U.S. flag, and a white flag. We had no weapons, none, not one rifle. We were mostly women, children, and old people. And you rode in on us and killed three hundred. Do you remember? What’s my name?”

The white man wearily shook his head.

“It’s Black Kettle, you fucker,” said Reggie and punched the white man in the face, knocking him unconscious.

“Oh, shit,” Reggie said into the tape recorder. “He’s out.”

“That’s enough,” signed Harley. “Let’s get out of here.”

Ty agreed.

“Listen,” signed Reggie. “It’s over when I say it’s over.”

Reggie shook the white man until he came to.

“What’s your name?” Reggie asked him and he grunted something through his gag.

“No, that ain’t it,” said Reggie. “Your name is Truck Schultz.”

The white man was skinny, with an unkempt goatee. He was extremely near-sighted but had lost his glasses somewhere during the struggle with Reggie, Ty, and Harley.

“Aren’t you a white-trash asshole named Truck Schultz?” Reggie asked. “What do you think? You like that name?”

The white man shook his head.

“Really? You don’t like that name? You are positive that’s not your name? You sure?”

The white man nodded.

“Damn, you white guys look alike.” He signed to Ty and Harley. “Don’t they look alike?”

Ty and Harley nodded. Reggie kneeled down beside the white man.

“You ain’t Truck Schultz, huh?” said Reggie. “Well, you look like one of those professor types. Are you a professor? I mean, with that fucking goatee, you look like a professor. Are you sure you’re not? Speak into the mike, man.”

The white man grunted and nodded his head.

“I’m really sorry,” Reggie whispered. “I guess I confused you with someone else. Can you ever forgive me?”

The white man nodded.

“Really? That’s so kind of you,” said Reggie. “I mean, we’re all human, right? And we make mistakes, don’t we? I mean, we were looking for a white-trash asshole named Truck Schultz, and it looks like we got ourselves a whole different white-trash asshole, right?”

The white man vigorously nodded his head.

“Well, then,” said Reggie. “Let’s say we make a deal. How about I promise to let you go if you promise to keep all this between us. Does that sound okay?”

“Hm-huh, hmn-huh,” the white man agreed through the handkerchief in his mouth.

“You promise?” Reggie asked as he dropped the tape recorder into a pocket. He then placed his hands on either side of the white man’s face, leaned in close as if he was going to kiss him, and forced his thumbs into the white man’s eyes. The white man screamed as Reggie dug into his eyes, searching for whatever existed behind them. The white man fainted from shock and pain. Stunned, Harley and Ty let go of the white man’s arms and stepped back. The white man flopped facedown into the grass and did not move.

“What did you do?” Ty asked.

“I took his eyes,” Reggie said, genuinely surprised by Ty’s question.

Harley looked down at the white man’s body, then at Ty and Reggie, and ran away. Ty soon followed, and Reggie kicked the white man once more before chasing after his friends.

WILSON WAS EXCITED ABOUT his reading, and worried that news of the Indian Killer would make the bookstore cancel. But Ray Simmons, the readings coordinator, who somehow found the time and energy to schedule over three hundred readings a year, had assured Wilson that it was going to happen. The Elliott Bay Book Company was a beautiful store in the heart of Pioneer Square, just a few blocks from the Alaskan Way Viaduct and the waters of Elliott Bay itself.

There was another side to the coin, though. Because of the proximity of the water, and because the Elliott Bay’s basement was actually below sea level, rats had often been seen darting through the store. Wilson had never laid eyes on the rats but had heard rumors that they were often mistaken for small dogs. It was said that Elliott Bay’s owners had once bought a small battalion of cats to take care of the rats. One night, after closing, they had released the cats into the store. When the store had opened early the next morning, the cats had disappeared. It was a wonderful rumor and, if true, more proof that Elliott Bay was a great bookstore. Wilson certainly would have hated it if rats lived in his building. Yet he believed the rats, or the rumors of rats, belonged at Elliott Bay, and gave the place mystery as well as beauty.

Wilson decided to take a taxi to the bookstore for his reading. It would save time and energy, he told himself, an excuse for arriving in as formal a manner as he could afford. Wilson, waiting outside his building when the cab pulled up, immediately recognized the driver, Eric. As an ex-cop, Wilson knew a lot of cab drivers, all kinds of emergency room doctors, and many bar owners.