Sherman Alexie - Indian Killer

WILSON WALKED INTO BIG Heart’s Soda and Juice Bar. There was a small crowd of forty or fifty Indians. They all stared at Wilson as he sat at the bar, where Mick had a glass of milk waiting for him.

“Slow night?” Wilson asked Mick.

“With Indians,” said Mick, “it’s never slow.”

Wilson sipped at his milk and looked around the bar. It felt changed. He studied the patrons as they studied him.

“Hey, Casper,” said Reggie, the Spokane. Ty stood behind him. “How Indian are you tonight?”

“Indian enough,” said Wilson. “Where’s Harley?”

“He’s missing in action,” said Reggie. “Tell me again, how Indian are you?”

“Indian enough.”

“Sure you are. How much Indian blood you got anyways? Maybe a thimble’s worth?”

“The blood don’t matter. It’s the heart that matters.”

Ty and Reggie laughed.

“What’s so funny?” asked Wilson.

“You know,” Reggie said. “I was reading a movie magazine last week and found out that Farrah Fawcett is one-eighth Choctaw Indian. Isn’t that funny?”

“I didn’t know that,” said Wilson.

“Yeah,” said Reggie. “That means she’s got more Indian blood than you do. If you get to be an Indian, then Farrah gets to be Indian, too.”

“If she wants to be.”

“You really think that’s how it works, don’t you?” Reggie asked Wilson. Reggie was heating up. “You think you can be Indian just by saying it, enit?”

Wilson shrugged his shoulders.

“June 25, 1876,” Reggie said.

“The Battle of Little Bighorn,” said Wilson.

“No white people survived that, did they?”

“Nope, just a Cavalry horse named Comanche.”

“Every horse is an Indian horse.”

Wilson nodded.

“We might let you be an Indian for an hour if you buy us a drink.”

Wilson bought the two Indians their drinks.

“Hey,” asked Wilson, with little subtlety. “You guys been following that Indian Killer case?”

“What about it?” asked Reggie.

“They found another body,” said Wilson.

Reggie looked at Ty, then back to Wilson.

“How do you know that?” Reggie asked Wilson.

“Well, I don’t like to talk about it, but I’m an ex-cop.”

“We know you’re an ex-cop,” said Reggie. “And you’re a writer, too. Now, tell us something we don’t know. You think we’re so stupid. I was a goddamn history major. I’ve studied books you wouldn’t know how to read. Jeez, you come in here always asking questions about how we live, what we eat, about our childhoods. Taking notes in your head. We know it. What do you do when you leave here? Dig up graves?”

Wilson was wide-eyed.

“Don’t be so surprised, Casper. You white guys always think you’re fooling us poor, dumb Injuns.”

“Well, uh, I, ah,” stuttered Wilson, trying to regain his composure. “I was down at the station. They found the body downtown. They think the Indian Killer did it.”

“Every time they find a white guy, how come they think the Indian Killer did it?”

Reggie stared hard at Wilson. Ty took a step back. Wilson could feel the tension in the room. He could see Reggie’s blue eyes darken with anger. As casually as possible, Wilson reached inside his coat, and kept his hand there. Wilson had known Reggie for a while, had sat with him, and had tolerated the insults. Wilson had thought it all in good fun, but now he wondered if he had been mistaken.

“You know an Indian guy named John Smith?” asked Wilson with just the slightest tremor in his voice.

Reggie shook his head. Ty made no response.

“I know him,” said a woman.

All three men turned to look at Fawn, who had been watching the confrontation, along with everybody else in Big Heart’s.

“Don’t talk to him, Fawn,” said Reggie. “He’s full of shit.”

Fawn ignored Reggie.

“I danced with John the other night,” Fawn said to Wilson. “He was kind of weird. Good-looking. But off, you know?”

Wilson took the photograph out of his pocket and showed it to Fawn. Reggie stepped closer to Wilson.

“Yeah, that’s him,” said Fawn. “See what I mean? Good-looking. But goofy.”

“You think he’s dangerous?” Wilson asked.

“John? No way. Reggie’s the dangerous one. Reggie and his dipshit sidekicks beat up John. Enit, Reggie?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Reggie said. “He’s a cop.”

“An ex-cop,” corrected Ty. Reggie silenced him with a rude hand gesture. Reggie took another step closer to Wilson, who reached further into his jacket. Reggie noticed and reached inside his jacket.

Nobody moved or said a word. Wilson looked around the room. The Indians stared at him with suspicion, bemusement, anger, and outright disgust. Wilson knew he had crossed some invisible boundary. His presence in the bar had been tolerated only because he had agreed to the terms of an unwritten treaty. Now he had broken the rules and smashed the treaty into pieces. Wilson could hear the alarms ringing in his head. He was not surprised that they sounded like drums. With his hand inside his jacket, he edged toward the door.

“You ain’t being so friendly now, Casper,” said Reggie, cutting off Wilson’s path to the door. Wilson glanced at Ty, who took a few steps backward. Good, thought Wilson, he was not going to get involved. Yet Wilson still felt like an idiot. He knew he had taken everything for granted. He was all alone in a hostile place.

“You think you’re so smart,” said Reggie. “You come in here acting all Indian, thinking you fit in, thinking you belong. I got news for you, Casper. We only let you hang around because it was fun to pitch you shit. You just ate all of that shit up and swallowed it down. You just took our shit and bought us drinks. We’ve been playing you hard, Casper. You don’t belong here, man, you never did.”

“Reggie,” said Wilson, searching for a way out. “I’m trying to decide if you’ve got a gun in your jacket. Maybe a blade instead. Or maybe you’re bluffing. Maybe it’s just your wallet. Or your comb. And I bet you’re wondering what I have my hand on, aren’t you? Do I have a knife, a pistol? I’m an ex-cop. I got to have a piece, right? Now, I was never Billy the Kid when I was working, and I’ve gotten older and slower, but I’m willing to bet that I’m fast enough to beat you. What do you think?”

With his hand inside his jacket, Reggie smiled at the mystery writer. Wilson was old and fat. He limped. He was going bald. Reggie smiled. Very slowly, he pulled his empty hand out of his jacket and showed it to Wilson.

“How, white man,” said Reggie in a sternly cinematic Indian voice, which caused the whole bar to break into laughter. One small battle was over. Suddenly the victor because he had shamed Wilson, Reggie triumphantly stepped out of Wilson’s way. With his hand still inside the jacket, Wilson edged toward the exit. He saw the smiling faces of the Indians as he backed out of the bar. Fawn was shaking her head. As the door closed behind him, Wilson heard the entire bar erupt into laughter.

JOHN RAN UNTIL HE COULD barely breathe. He ran down the alleys into the dark beneath the Alaskan Way Viaduct. He thought he might find safety there among the other Indians. But John could not find any Indians. He walked by the loading dock near Pioneer Square and found no Indians. From beneath the Viaduct, he peered north up toward the Union Gospel Mission and saw no Indians waiting to enter. No Indians in Occidental Park. No Indians among the homeless sleeping in cardboard houses down near the ferry docks. All the Indians had left the city and deserted John. He reeled with shock and fell to the ground. He pounded the pavement with his fists. He set his forehead against the damp cement and tried to quiet the noise in his head.