Reichs, Kathy - Fatal Voyage

Two men worked the bar, pulling taps, scooping ice, and pouring liquor from bottles in front of a dingy mirror. Each had pasty skin and lank brown hair tied in a ponytail and secured with a bandanna.

Neither looked Injun, and neither shopped at Armani. One wore a T-shirt plugging Johnson's Brown Ale, the other a group called Bitchin' Tits.

On a platform in back, across from a pool table and pinball machines, members of a band adjusted equipment, directed by a woman in black leather pants and Cruella makeup. Every few seconds we'd hear the amplified tap of her finger, then a count from one to four. Her sound tests barely overrode the TV play-by-play and the clicks and dings of the pinball machines.

Nevertheless, the band looked like it had enough acoustic power to reach Buenos Aires. I suggested we order.

Ryan scanned the room and made a hand gesture. A woman, maybe forty or so, with overmoussed hair and an out-of-season tan, appeared at our table. A plastic badge gave her name as Tammi. With an i.

“Whatillitbe?” Tammi poised pencil over pad.

“May I have a menu?” I asked.

Tammi sighed, retrieved two menus from the bar, and slapped them on the table. Then she looked at me with forbidding patience.

Click. Click. Click. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

My decision did not take long. Injun Joe offered nine types of chili, four burgers, a hot dog, and mountain meat loaf.

I requested the Climbingbear Burger and a Diet Coke.

“I've heard you make killer chili here.” Ryan showed Tammi a lot of teeth.

“Best in the west.” Tammi showed Ryan even more.

Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

“It must be hard to wait on so many people at the same time. I don't know how you do it.”

“Personal charm.” Tammi tilted her chin and threw out one hip.

“How's the Walkingstick Chili?”

“Hot. Like me.”

I fought a gag impulse.

“I'll go for it. And a bottle of Carolina Pale.”

“Coming atcha, cowboy.”

Click. Click. Click. Click. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

I waited until Tammi was out of earshot, which, given the din, was about two steps.

“Nice choice.”

“One should mingle with the locals.”

“You were pretty critical of the locals this morning.”

“One must keep a finger on the pulse of the common man.”

“And woman.” Tap. Tap. “Cowboy.”

Tammi returned with a beer, a Diet Coke, and a million miles of teeth. I smiled her back to the kitchen.

“Anything new since this morning?” I asked when she'd gone.

“Seems Haskell Simington may not be such a hot pick. Turns out he's worth zillions, so a two mill policy on his wife isn't that unusual. Besides being worth megabucks, the guy named their kids as beneficiaries.”

“That's it?”

Ryan waited out another sound check.

“The structures group reported that three quarters of the plane has been trucked down the mountain. They're reassembling in a hangar near Asheville.”

Tap. Tap. Tap. One. Screeeeeeech. Two. Three. Four.

Ryan's eyes drifted to a TV behind my head.

“That's it?”

“That's it. Why the orange paw prints?”

“It's a Clemson home game.”

He looked a question at me.

“Never mind.”

Tammi was back after three downs.

“I gave you extra cheese,” she purred, bending low to give Ryan a spectacular view of cleavage.

“I love cheese.” Ryan gave her another blinding smile, and Tammi held position.

Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

I glared at Tammi's breasts, and she removed them from my line of vision.

“Will that be all?”

“Ketchup.” I picked up a French fry.

“Any talk about my visit to headquarters this morning?”

When I lifted my burger a cheese umbilicus clung to the plate.

“Special Agent McMahon said you looked good in jeans.”

“I didn't see McMahon there.” The bun was raining soggy clumps onto the cheese connector.

“He saw you. At least from the back.”

“What's the FBI position on my dismissal?”

“I can't speak for the entire Bureau, but I know McMahon isn't fond of your state's second in command.”

“I don't know for certain that Davenport is behind the complaint.”

“Whether he is or not, McMahon has no time for him. He called Davenport a brainless buttwipe.” Ryan spooned chili into his mouth, followed it with beer. “We Irish are poets at heart.”

“That brainless buttwipe can probably have you invited back to Canada.”

“How was your afternoon?”

“I went to the reservation.”

“Did you see Tonto?”

“How did I know you would ask that?”

I reached into my bag and produced the moccasins.

“I wanted you to have something from my native land.”

“To atone for the way you've been treating me lately?”

“I've been treating you as a colleague.”

“A colleague who'd like to suck your toes.”

My stomach did that little flippy thing.

“Open the package.”

He did.

“These are kickin'.”

Resting an ankle on one knee, Ryan replaced a deck shoe with a moccasin. A big-haired deb at the bar stopped peeling the label from her Coors to watch him.

“Made by Sitting Bull himself?”

“Sitting Bull was Sioux. These were probably made by Wang Chou Lee.”

He reversed, and did the other foot. The deb jabbed an elbow at her companion.

“You may not want to wear them here.”

“Certainly I do. They were a gift from a colleague.”

He wrapped the deck shoes in the moccasin bag and went back to his chili.

“Meet any interesting aboriginals?”

I wanted to say no. “Actually, I did.”

He looked up with eyes blue enough to blend in with a village full of Finns.

“Or, I might have.”

I told him about the Volvo incident.

“Jesus, Brennan. How do—”

“I know. How do I get myself into these situations. Do you think I should worry about it?” I was hoping he would say no.

Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.

Tap. Tap. One. Two. Three. Four.

Chili.

Beer.

Fragments of conversations.

“The deconstructionists tell us that nothing is real, but I've discovered one or two truisms in life. The first is, when attacked by a Volvo, take it seriously.”

“I'm not sure the guy meant to run me down. Maybe he didn't see me.”

“Did you think so at the time?”

“That's how it felt.”

“Second truism: Volvo first impressions are generally correct.”

We'd finished eating and Ryan was in the men's room when I noticed Lucy Crowe enter and make her way toward the bar. She was in uniform and looked armed and deadly.

I waved but Crowe didn't notice. I stood and waved again, and a voice bellowed, “You're blocking the game. Park it or haul it.”

Ignoring the suggestion, I flapped both arms. Crowe saw me, nodded, and held up an index finger. As I sat, the bartender handed her a glass, then leaned forward to whisper something.

“Hey, sweet cheeks!” A redneck scorned is never pretty. I continued to ignore, he continued to taunt.

“Hey, you with the windmill act.” The redneck was ratcheting up when he spotted the sheriff moving in my direction. Realizing his error, he swigged his beer and reengaged with the game.

Ryan and Crowe reached the booth simultaneously. Noticing Ryan's feet, the sheriff looked at me.

“He's Canadian.”

Ryan let it pass and resumed his seat.

Crowe set her 7UP on the table and joined us.

“Dr. Brennan has a story she wants to share,” said Ryan, pulling out his cigarettes.