Percival Everett - Half an Inch of Water - Stories

“I would ask you if everything’s okay,” she said and left it at that, just filled my mug with coffee and walked away.

When she came back, I asked her how long she’d worked there.

“Twenty years,” she said.

“That’s a long time,” I said.

“You bet your sweet ass that’s a long time. Now every week feels like twenty years.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You ever have any Arapaho men work in the kitchen?”

“A couple. A Sioux guy worked the kitchen last year.”

I showed her the photograph. “You ever see him?”

She studied the image. She gave it a good, very long look. “Nope, never seen him.”

“That picture was taken about thirty years ago,” I said.

She turned her head to the side like a dog and said, “There is something familiar about him.”

“So, maybe he worked here?” I asked.

“What’s his name?”

“Davy Cloud.”

She shook her head, but said, “He does look familiar. But all Indians look alike to me.”

“Well, okay then.”

“No, he hasn’t worked here since I’ve been here. I know that much.”

“Thank you.”

“Sure thing.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Shoot,” she said.

“Is this chicken soup?”

She glanced quickly back at the window. “That’s what I’m told. It’s bad, right?”

“Tastes like soap.”

“It tastes exactly like Palmolive dish soap. Exactly like it.” She smiled at me as if we were sharing some important knowledge.

“Why didn’t you mention this when I ordered it?”

She shrugged.

I put the photo back in my breast pocket.

I walked into two other restaurants, for no reason except that I had time to kill and didn’t know what else to do, showed the photo, and got strange looks. When it was getting late I wandered into a run-down tavern with pool tables and a jukebox and ordered a beer. I said hello to the woman who was working the bar. A couple of bikers shot a game behind me. I thought, what the hell, and pulled out the photograph.

“Excuse me, miss, but have you ever seen this man?” I asked the bartender.

“What are you?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Are you a cop?” At the word cop I heard the pool game stop briefly. “You some kind of private eye?”

“No, I’m an engineer.”

That didn’t help clear things up at all, so I decided to change my story. I told the next person that Davy Cloud had come into an inheritance. The heavyset blond young man with two sleeves of tattoos showed great interest.

“Is there a finder’s fee?”

“No, I’m afraid not.”

“Then why are you looking?” he asked.

“Friend of the family.”

“Fuck that.” He went back to playing pool.

“Let me see that picture,” a woman said.

I did.

“I know that guy.”

“You do?” She was about twenty and wouldn’t even have been born when the picture was taken.

“Yeah, that’s that Indian actor. What his name?” She bumped her forehead with her fist a couple of times. “Damn it. Sherry, come over here.”

Sherry did, along with three leathery bikers. They all looked at the picture together.

The first woman said, “What’s that guy’s name? He was in that movie with Hal Kilmer.”

“Val Kilmer,” Sherry corrected her. She thought, gently pounding her own forehead with her palm. “Graham Greene. He was in that Dances with Wolves. ”

“Val Kilmer wasn’t in that,” a biker said.

“The movie was Thunderheart, ” Sherry said. “I know my movies. Yeah, that’s Graham Greene.”

I looked at the picture. I’d seen both of the movies and he did look a little like Graham Greene. In fact, he looked a lot like Graham Greene. Then I felt like an asshole for thinking that maybe the two men looked alike, as if it was because they were both Indians.

One of the bikers stared at me. He had a cliché red bandanna tied over his hair. “You know this guy?” he said, more an accusation than a question.

“Trying to find him for a friend.”

“Why?”

“Some inheritance thing,” the first guy I’d talked to said as he was taking his shot at the table.

“How much?” the biker asked.

“I don’t know. The guy in the picture is about eighty years old now.”

“Eighty? What the fuck does an eighty-year-old need with an inheritance?” The biker let loose a high-pitched laugh and his friends laughed with him.

I shrugged and took the photo back from Sherry.

“Thanks,” I said.

“You’re welcome,” the biker said, not sincerely.

“That’s Graham Greene,” Sherry called to me when I was at the door. “I’m telling you that’s Graham Greene.”

After a night in a motel I returned to the library the next morning and looked at images of Graham Greene. The man in my photograph did look a lot like Graham Greene, but also different. Regardless, I didn’t know where to look next. I decided to try the sheriff’s office.

The inside of the office was as nondescript as the outside and in fact so was the sheriff. He was a new sheriff, though he was over fifty. I could tell because his clothes were so neat and crisp. His dispatcher was out sick and so he was manning the desk, he told me. I showed him the photograph.

“Looks like that actor,” he said.

“I know.”

“What’s his name?”

“Graham Greene.”

“No, that’s not it. He was on that Chuck Norris television show.” He scratched his head as he looked out the window. “Floyd something. Westerman. Floyd Westerman.”

“This man’s name is Davy Cloud. He’s Arapaho and he’s about eighty now.”

“Why do you want him?

“I promised his hundred-year-old mother I’d find him.”

“You’re shittin’ me.”

“I wish I were.” I tapped the picture. “I can’t find out anything about him. I was thinking maybe he has a driver’s license.”

“And you thought you could just wander into the police station and have somebody look that up on a computer, right?”

I blew out a breath, feeling pretty stupid.

“Well, let’s take a look,” he said. He laughed.

“Really?”

“Why not?” The sheriff used the computer on the counter. “What’s the name?”

“Davy Cloud.”

“David Cloud,” he said.

“Davy,” I repeated. “It was made clear to me that the name is Davy, not David.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he said. “No Clouds at all.”

“Okay, thanks, Sheriff.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Beats me.” I looked at him for a second. “What would you do?”

“You got a birthdate for Davy Cloud?”

“Day, month, but no year.”

The sheriff snorted out a laugh. “Then I’d give up.”

“You would?”

“I would.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

I liked the sheriff’s advice. It made complete sense to me and I would probably follow it because there was nothing more I knew to do. I could not drag my carcass all over Wyoming looking for someone who was probably really a carcass. But before admitting defeat I decided to go ask around on the reservation one more time. I felt guilty because my search was really half-assed. That was due to my complete incompetence and also a sheer lack of any fundamentally important information. All I had was an old photograph, and for all I knew the man in it was an actor.

I parked in front of the little store at the flashing light. It was just starting to snow. I walked inside and grabbed a cup of coffee and walked up to the register. The same heavyset woman stood behind the counter.

“Remember me?” I asked.

“You were in here asking about Roberta Cloud.”