Merciless

Junior blew out a short burst of air. “I realized that Mac is a bitch. She zeroes in on another girl’s weakness and goes for the throat. After I met Arlette, I told Mac to back off and leave me ’n’ Arlette alone, which is probably why Arlette thought we had a thing goin’ on. We didn’t. I hung out with her. We were friends.”

“Why? I mean, it started out as a prank. And you’re what? At least five years older than her? What was Arlette’s appeal?”

“Gimme a break. I wasn’t banging her or nothin’. Arlette knew a lot of history and Indian legends. The cool stuff that we didn’t learn in school. I didn’t tell no one about it, ’cause none of my friends would believe I cared about that kinda junk. Our meetings were on the down low, know what I mean? Her uncle woulda freaked if he heard we were hanging out.”

“Like your dad freaked when he found out?”

“Yeah. Like, I thought the old man was gonna have a stroke.”

Rollie. That lyin’ SOB. I don’t know what the hell kind of game he was playing with me. It was almost as if he wanted me to consider his son a suspect. “When was the last time you saw Arlette?”

“A little over a week ago. She told me she thought we were soul mates or some stupid thing like that. But we were friends,” he reiterated. “That’s it.”

“Did your friendship with Arlette contribute to your dad booting you out of his house?”

Junior muttered about Verline having a big mouth. “That had nothin’ to do with it.”

Since this wasn’t an official FBI interview, I could be more blunt in directing the conversation. “Why did Rollie kick you out, Junior?”

His attempt at a withering stare was almost laughable. But after a minute of silence, I knew I had to play my card first.

“Lemme guess when this all went down. When Rollie found out you were working for Saro?”

“Who says I am working for him?”

“Are you?”

Junior shifted his stance, making his answer obvious.

“Come on, Junior. Don’t try to bullshit me now. How long have you been Saro’s”-lackey-“associate?”

“Two months. And my old man can’t blame me for doin’ exactly what he told me to do: get a job. He’d been a real dickhead about it, too, but he wouldn’t hire me to work for him, even when I’m his kid.”

Unemployment on the Eagle River Reservation was around 70 percent, so jobs were damn scarce. I realized the appeal for young guys like Junior, working for Saro. It gave them something to do, money in their pocket, and a place to belong.

Too bad Saro was a crazy murderous bastard who used and discarded these young men just because he could.

“Do you wanna know what he did? He pointed a gun in my face and told me to get out of his house and his life and never come around again. Verline tried… to stand up for me. But Rollie told her if she sided with me, he’d kick her ass out, too. She don’t have anyplace else to go.” He clenched his hands into fists at his sides. “Sometimes I fucking hate him.”

I waited until he’d calmed himself. “I appreciate you tracking me down and explaining your side of the situation. But you will need to come in and repeat this on record.”

He took a step back. “No way. You think I did it. That I killed Arlette. You get me there as a trick, and then you’ll throw my red ass in jail.”

“Which is why you need to tell my colleagues exactly what you told me. It’d be best if you came in on your own instead of us trying to track you down.”

“I can’t. Don’t you understand? If Saro catches me showing up to talk to the FBI, he’ll never trust me again.”

“Hate to break it to you, but Saro doesn’t trust you now.”

“So you say,” he spat. “Typical bullshit FBI move. Man. I thought I could trust you.”

“Why? Because I’m friends with your dad? Wrong. My priority is to figure out who killed Arlette. And right now you’re pretty high on the suspect list.” I got right in his face. “Prove me wrong, Junior Rondeaux. Show up to talk to us.”

“I can’t.” Then he ducked and disappeared into the darkness before I could grab him.

Shit.

My first lead, and I’d let it slip through my fingers.

I returned inside, my foul mood palpable.

Some bimbo-around my age, wearing an extra hundred pounds and a polyester shirt straight out of the ’70s-had parked her fat ass on my bar stool. Looked like she’d even helped herself to my beer. She yakked at a guy who had the expression of a trapped rabbit.

I tapped her on the shoulder.

“What?” She deigned to half turn my way.

“You’re in my seat.”

“Don’t got your name on it.”

Where was John-John? He’d point out that’d always been my seat at the bar. “I just stepped outside for a minute.”

“Tough shit. You leave, and the space ain’t yours no more.”

I tapped her shoulder again. I’m nothing if not persistent.

“What the hell do you want now?” she snarled.

“To tell you to get your bloated ass off my seat.”

Then she and all her three hundred pounds loomed over me. “Or what?”

“Or”-I grabbed a handful of her oversprayed hair and yanked, turning her sideways so I could chicken wing her arm-“I move you myself.”

“Ow. Stop. You’re hurting me.”