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Someone whispered, “Hell, drunk Indian.”
Another voice: “Call security now, please.”
I walked to the L in the corridor, turned, and saw Ed Cartwright.
“Not goin’ anywhere. Trying to keep the red man down. Stole our land. Sons of bitches. But the Apache were never defeated! You needed Apache scouts to beat
the other Indians!”
He was weaving among three nurses and aides, putting on a great show. He wore a red ballcap and a blue sling, neatly pressed Western shirt and new blue jeans, tooled cowboy boots. His right hand held a pint of cheap whiskey.
“I’m a deputy sheriff.” I flashed the blood-caked badge. “I’ll take care of this man.”
“Hey, watch the shoulder, po-po!”
“Come with me, sir,” I said, steering him by the uninjured right arm toward the elevators.
“Racist!” he shouted toward the audience, his face a mask of tragedy. “You heard what he called me! I’m gonna get rich off this! Sue the Sheriff. Sue the County. Sue this pale face! You’re all witnesses. Racist po-po! Oh, feel like I’m gonna throw up.”
He weaved and bent over.
I whispered, “If you puke on me, I’m going to break your good arm.”
The car arrived empty and I pushed him inside. Instantly, he stood in a posture suggesting authority.
“You make a subtle entrance,” I said.
He smiled.
“It’s a good thing the Phoenix cop guarding Lindsey didn’t get involved.”
“Where’d you get that deputy’s badge?” he said.
“Long story.” I pointed to his cap. “Redskins” was emblazoned across the front. “Political statement?”
“Huh? I’m a Washington fan. Have been since I was assigned to FBI headquarters in D.C. I can’t find any love for the Cardinals. Who beat the crap out of you?”
“The same woman who shot Lindsey.”
He assessed me in silence. Cartwright must have been very handsome when he was younger, with his high cheekbones, black oval eyes, dark sandstone complexion, and rugged look. Now, in his sixties, his face was cut into hundreds of rivulets and the eyes were bordered by puffy skin that left him with a permanent and intimidating squint. His hair was the color of lead, tied back in a ponytail.
“How is she?” he said.
“Bad.”
He patted my jacket.
“Still carrying that wheel-gun artillery?”
I nodded.
“You have a backup?”
“On my ankle. The woman who shot Lindsey had one, too. That’s what she used.”
My mind was back on Cypress Street, Saturday night—why didn’t I take the shot?
When we reached the first floor, he dropped the whiskey bottle into a recycling container and I followed him outside into the perfect day. We moved at the fast stride that I remembered from the first time I had met him, when he had showed me his survivalist bunker built into the side of a hill. Back at his house, he had a formidable library. I liked him instantly.
