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“You like Indian culture?”
“Excuse me?”
“The way you dress and all.”
“I wanted to get out of New Orleans as soon as I could. When I had the chance, I took it. Now I live out in the West. It’s clean out here.”
He looked out the door, then back at her. He wasn’t sure what he was supposed to say. “Some people think Missoula is turning into Santa Fe.”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been there. It’s the model for something?”
“I’ve never been there, either,” he replied, feeling more and more inept and wondering why he had agreed to meet her.
“There’s always time,” she said. She held his eyes. “Isn’t that the way you look at it?”
Time for what? He ordered a draft beer for the woman and another shot for himself. He waited until the bartender had filled and set down their glasses and walked away. “You said maybe I could help you with something.”
“You and your friend were talking to Dixon. He sold my daughter a bracelet before she died. Do you think he could have killed her?”
“I don’t doubt he’s a dangerous man.”
“Dangerous to women?”
Clete was standing at the bar, one foot resting on the brass rail. In the mirror, he could see her looking at his profile, her face tilted upward. “Who am I to be judging others?” he replied.
“You looked angry when you were talking to him. I don’t think you hide your feelings well. I think we’re a lot alike.”
“In what way?”
“You’re not ashamed of your emotions.”
“I don’t know if I’d put it that way. I don’t like criminals. Sometimes you meet a guy who’s been inside and is on the square, but not too often. Anyone who’s been down at least twice is probably a recidivist and will be in and out of the can the rest of his life.”
“Why won’t you answer my question?”
“A man who strikes a woman is a physical and moral coward. There’s no exception to that rule. We call them misogynists. The simple truth is, they’re cowards. Dixon is a head case and probably a lot of other things, but a coward isn’t one of them. I hate admitting that.”
“What is it you don’t like about him?”
“I don’t like reborn morons who say they understand the mind of God.”
“Could he have been working with someone else?”
“He’s a loner. Most rodeo people are. I got to ask you something, Miss Felicity. The Wigwam, the bar Angel was drinking in the night she died? It was full of outlaw bikers. A lot of those guys are sexual fascists and get off on smacking their women around. Dixon went to the joint for shooting a guy who murdered a prostitute. Why is everybody zeroing in on him?”
“Why were you all talking to him if he’s of no importance?”
“My friend Dave thinks Dixon knows something about a guy who left a message on a cave wall behind Albert Hollister’s place. Sometimes Dave reads more into something than is there.” He motioned to the bartender for a refill. “Look, I’m sorry about your daughter. If I could help you, I would.”
“You can’t?”
“Maybe I could, but not officially.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I’m licensed as a PI in Louisiana. A private investigator’s license has the legal value of a dog’s tag. Because I chase down bail skips for a couple of bondsmen, I have extrajudicial powers that cops don’t have. I can cross state lines and break down doors without warrants. I can hook up people and hold them in custody indefinitely. See, when a guy is bailed out of the can by a bondsman, he becomes property. The law lets you go after your property. You can hang the guy up like a smoked ham if you want. I’m not proud of what I do, but it’s what I do.”
“I want the person who killed my daughter.”
