Indian Country Noir Read online

  He is so consumed with his own personal combat that he's in another world. "Chief, stop! He's dead. You killed him. Knock it off!"

  He can hardly hear the other marine over the roar in his ears. He's barely aware of the guy's hand gripping his shoulder, shaking him. "Ira. Ira!"

  His lids popped open. Sergeant Beech's fingers squeezed his shoulder at the nerve point, sending the pain radiating down his arm. The Indian twitched to shake the sergeant's hand off. Beech gripped him by the upper arm to lift him to his feet. The roar of the audience's applause subsided as Rene Gagnon sat down next to Ira on the dais again. Gagnon shot him a disgusted look and turned back to his dessert.

  The Indian stood up, stretched, and opened his mouth in a huge yawn. The audience responded in kind. They looked like a sea of goldfish swimming toward the surface for food. Beech grinned. This gave him a kick every time it happened.

  He shoved Ira toward the microphone. "Tell 'em ..."

  But the Indian knew what to do. He stood before the microphone and confronted the audience of Chicagoans who had turned out to see the heroes. His mouth always got dry at this point. He was never a man to use many words, and his vocabulary seemed to abandon him in front of a crowd.

  "I hope you buy lots of war bonds," he said.

  He sat down again.

  The crowd in the hotel ballroom erupted in applause and cheering. Ira wasn't really aware of them. He was busy looking around. Beech knew what he wanted and leaned down to whisper in his ear. "Later, chief." He patted the Indian's shoulder reassuringly.

  Ira didn't want to wait until later. He needed some booze now. He was thinking about how to attract the waiter's attention without attracting the attention of the audience. He barely heard Bradley, now at the microphone, denying they were anything special.

  "We're not heroes." Bradley gestured to himself, Gagnon, and Ira Hayes. "We just put up a flag. The real heroes are the ones who died fighting on Iwo Jima. Please buy war bonds to honor their memory."

  The crowd went wild. The band started up again, and the room exploded in a cacophony of chatter, laughter, and music.

  Beech slapped Ira on the shoulder. "Come on, buddy. Let's go.

  Ira got up eagerly. Keyes Beech was always ready to bend an elbow.

  Gagnon sneered. "What's the matter, chief? Can't wait to start drinking again? Fuckin' drunken Indian." He muttered the last part.

  Ira went cold, then hot. His fists curled.

  Then Bradley poked Gagnon. "Hey, come on. Ira's working as hard as we are. Lay off."

  Beech steered Ira away from the dais, and it was over. "Don't listen to him. This bond tour is getting to all of its. He's just blowing off a little steam. Hey, a buddy of mine tipped me about this great bar in the Loop. Let's go check it out."

  Ira didn't say a word. He just followed Beech out of the hotel, listening to the sergeant's nonstop chatter. He had no need to talk. Beech said enough words for both of them.

  Ira didn't feel at home anywhere, but he felt the least uncomfortable in a bar. Just walking inside, inhaling the familiar bar smells-old beer overlayed with cigarette smoke-made the churning in his stomach stop. The act of sitting on a bar stool gave him that relaxed feeling. Then he gripped the glass in his hand, and even before the first swallow, he felt at peace.

  The whiskey had just begun spreading its comforting warmth in his stomach when it started.

  "Hey, aren't you that guy from the picture?"

  "You're a hero, man. Lemme buy you a drink!"

  "Look who's here-he's one of the ones who put the flag up! Bartender, this marine's money's no good tonight!"

  Beech loved it. His job was to chaperone the three flagraisers as they toured the country on the 7th War Loan Bond Drive, raising money for the boys overseas. But Bradley was a pretty straight arrow, and Gagnon, with his movie-star good looks, had no trouble fending for himself. Ira was the one he had to babysit. The Indian was likely to wander off somewhere and get into a fight, then not remember how to get back to the latest hotel in the latest city. Or even remember which city he was in.

  Not that Beech minded hanging out with Ira. Hell no. The guy attracted attention wherever he went. And he was so modest he hardly said two words in a whole night. So people began talking to Beech instead. Beech was a tech sergeant and war correspondent. He told the war stories that people wanted to hear from Ira, but that Ira would never talk about. After a few drinks, it didn't matter who was talking. Everyone was a hero by that time. And the booze flowed, so Beech was happy. And Ira was happy.

  Except Beech didn't think Ira was so happy. Oh well. Nothing he could do about it. The only one Ira would talk to was "Doc" Bradley, and Bradley wasn't really a drinker.

  So that left the two of them. Two little Injuns, he thought, and giggled. Snippets of the song ran through his head. Four little Injuns up on a spree / One got fuddled and then there were three / Three little Injuns out on a canoe / One something, something, and then there were two. He couldn't remember the rest.

  "Hey, Ira." He reached across a man who was in the middle of telling a story and grabbed the Pima by the shirt sleeve. "What happened to the three little Injuns?"

  Ira glared at him. Oh boy. He must be drunker than he'd thought.

  "Never mind," he said, trying to pat Ira's sleeve, placate him. He turned to the storyteller he'd interrupted. "Do you know what happened to the three little Injuns?"

  The guy shook him off. "Buddy, I think you've had enough."

  "I'm fine, I'm fine," he slurred. Then, "Oh shit." He got up and tried to get to the restroom before he tossed his cookies all over the bar floor. He didn't make it.

  Then Ira was pulling him out of the bar.

  Beech bent over in the street, heaving his guts out. "Must have been something I ate," he croaked.

  Ira didn't say anything.

  After a minute, Beech stood up and wiped his mouth. "You know, I actually feel better." He could feel a little spring coming back into his step. "Hey! Look over there." He pointed to the warm glow of another barroom.

  But Ira had already seen it and was heading toward the inviting lights.

  "Geez, wait up, buddy," Beech said.

  They elbowed their way up to the bar, and the same drama from the other bar-from all the other bars on this tourstarted all over again: `Aren't you the guy from Iwo Jima? I wanna buy you a drink!"

  Ira was entering that maudlin stage of his drinking. He couldn't tolerate company, but he did want the free drinks. He made himself as small as possible at the back corner of the bar. He watched the bartender's brogans as the man walked back and forth, hustling drinks. He wished he could just curl up on the floor behind the bar, alone with all the liquor bottles. Just sit on the floor. The rats could keep him company. There must be rats, because there was a box of rat poison, the skull and crossbones warning anyone who came near.

  That's not what a real skull looks like, he thought, hunching lower. A real skull has blood on it. And hair. And pieces of brain leaking out.

  And there are men screaming all around. And huge explosions as mortar shells rock the island.

  The Pima Indian hears a fellow member of Easy Company calling out the password. "Studebaker! Studebaker!" But that's yesterday's password. "Chevrolet! Goddammit, I can't remember! It's me! It's me, Early."

  The Indian doesn't know whether the forgetful marine gets to live or dies because the next thing that happens is three of the "prowling wolves" attack him and two of his buddies. General Tadamichi Kuribayashi, the commander of the Japanese forces on Iwo Jima, has given this name to his teams of stalking, crawling night-murderers-the dancing shadows feared by every American fighting man on the island.

  The Japs are ruthless. They think it's a big honor to die in combat. Ira just knows it's him or them, and it ain't gonna be him. He shoots the one who's attacking him in the head. The round smashes the Jap's face and leaves his teeth lying on the ground.

  The Pima marine wants to be sick, but he's distracted by some
thing even worse than the dead jack-o'-lantern in front of him. A marine is wrestling with an enemy soldier, but he's losing because they're not really wrestling. The Japanese soldier is stabbing him.

  "Mom, he's killing me!" the marine cries. "Mom!"

  The Indian's eyes flickered. "I'm coming to help you!" he called. He reached out and grabbed the guy's arm.

  "Easy, easy," the man told him. "I just got this here tattoo. It's a beaut, ain't it? Mom in a heart, that's what I wanted. And that's just what I got." His jacket was off, his shirt sleeve rolled up to display his newest artwork.

  Ira squinted. There were two hearts, its seemed, and two Moms. His heart rate slowed down. "Nice," he said. Or tried to say. He couldn't be sure he got the word out. The guy was talking to somebody else now, anyway. It didn't matter.

  He was tired of this bar. In fact, he was sick of this two-bit joint and everybody in it. He pushed up from his bar stool and staggered to the door. Somebody came up behind him, and he whirled, ready to throw a haymaker, let this guy's teeth wind up on the floor, like the Jap's.

  The man looked frightened. "You forgot your jacket there, buddy." He held it out to Ira at arm's length.

  The Indian grabbed it out of the man's hand. Who did he think he was, anyway, following him around? His mom?

  He let out a howl, like a wolf in pain. It sounded so good he did it again. It was a mistake, though, because he was attracting attention.

  "What are you looking at?" he yelled at the crowd beginning to form outside the bar. "Go back inside."

  He turned on his heel and strode away.

  Keyes Beech caught up with him. "Ira, Ira, take it easy, man.

  Ira shrugged him off and kept going.

  "Where you heading? It's cold. Come on, let's go in here. This looks like a quiet neighborhood joint. Nobody'll bother its here. See? I'm going in. Come with me," Beech coaxed. He opened the door and motioned Ira in.

  The Indian was going to keep walking, but then he thought, What the hell, and went in.

  It was a workingman's bar. Sawdust on the floor. Men in caps and thick jackets. Men who looked like Mike.

  Mike Strank is the best platoon leader a guy can have. He understands his marines, and he takes care of them. The Indian respects him. Reveres him. All Mike's men do. And even though the Pima doesn't speak much to anyone, he's practically a chatterbox with Mike. He can tell Mike anything. Mike doesn't judge. He just loves his men back by being the best leader he can be and doing everything he can to keep them safe. That's why they'll do anything for him.

  Mike was born in Czechoslovakia but passed through Ellis Island when he was three. He has the strong bone structure common to Eastern Europeans that keep them looking young, even in their old age. Mike's most prominent feature is a pugnacious chin.

  The Indian walked up to a man standing at the bar, his hands wrapped around a beer glass. The man wore a cap and had a defiant chin. The Indian peered at him. "Mike?" he said in a small voice.

  "Look, I don't know you," the man said, keeping his eyes on his beer. He had an accent.

  Ira's head snapped back. "Sorry," he said.

  Beech pulled him to the other end of the bar. "What are you doing, huh? You want to get us thrown out of here?" he hissed.

  Ira looked down but didn't speak.

  "Here, sit at the table. I'll get you something." Beech shoved the Indian into a chair.

  The sergeant returned to the table with two beers and drank half of his in one swallow, as though it were his first of the evening, instead of his seventeenth. "We'll just sit here for a little while, huh, Ira? It's a good place just to have a few beers."

  It was a quiet place. Every man in there had his own story, and they were all keeping mum. They were just minding their own business after putting in a day's manual labor at the docks or the slaughterhouses.

  Then something happened to fracture the silence. The two marines didn't know what set it off. Not being regulars, they didn't know the politics of the place. But somebody obviously stepped out of line because a man crashed into their table, landing with his head practically in the Indian's lap. As the guy attempted to stagger to his feet, the back of his head slammed into the Pima marine's chin. The Indian punched his enemy in the stomach.

  The guy cries out, bent double. Mike is trying to lead the Indian and several other marines across a dangerous strip of ground. But Boatwright takes a bullet in the stomach. The impact slams him into a shell hole. The others scramble for cover. The sniper fire is unceasing.

  Mike bends down on one knee, surrounded by his beloved troops. He's drawing a plan in the sand to show the marines how to get out of there safely.

  But he doesn't get a chance to speak. A shell explodes, ripping his heart out.

  He was lying facedown.

  The Indian crouched over him, sobbing. "Oh, Mike! Mike!"

  Rough hands pulled him up, shoved him away. "Don't you think you've caused enough trouble, buddy?"

  "Just go before you get what's coming to you."

  Then-"Jesus, Hayes, you can't even have a beer without all this drama. Let's get the fuck out of here before we have to take on the whole bar."

  Good old Beech, bailing his ass out again.

  It was cold, but the Indian wasn't aware of the weather. Or much of anything else. He could hardly see straight, and what he did see came in pairs. He felt pretty good, though.

  Then he spotted it. It loomed ahead, mocking him. This was the cause of all his troubles. He ran toward it. He was going to pull it out of the ground and get rid of it, once and for all.

  The Pima grasps the piece of drainage pipe he and Franklin Sousley found at the top of the mountain. It weighs over a hundred pounds, and they have to drag it over so the flag Gagnon is carrying can be tied to it. Then they all have to hoist up this pole and plant the fucking flag in the ground. Some dumb officer wants to keep the Stars and Stripes that's already flying for his own personal souvenir of the invasion of Iwo Jima. So now he and some other guys from Easy Company have to drag ass up the hill and take down a perfectly good flag, just to put up a new one.

  They're already on a mission to run telephone wire and batteries up the mountain, so why not have them replace the flag while they're at it? The brass are always sending marines on stupid errands.

  The pole is heavy, but he and Sousley are battle-toughened marines. They can do what needs to be done.

  He grabbed the pole and tugged with all his might. This time, he wouldn't plant the flag. There would be no photograph of him and his buddies sticking the goddamn thing into the top of Mount Suribachi. He yelled as though the pole could hear him, his voice filled with grief. "You son of a bitch! I hate you! I hate you!" Tears streamed down his face.

  The copper was walking his beat when he heard a cry. He quickened his step. At fifty-two, John Flanagan was beginning to feel a little creaky. But he couldn't leave the job. Who would replace him? All the young, able-bodied fellows were off fighting in the European theater or the Pacific or some damn place. The Chicago Police Department needed him. Besides, what would he do with himself? Police work was all he knew.

  This hour of night, this part of town, he figured the yelling was coming from some guy who had too much to drink. There was a festive air in town these last couple days, what with the war bond tour and all the Hollywood entertainers who were participating so they could get their names in the papers. Flanagan smoothed his small mustache and pulled himself up to his full five foot six inches.

  Sure enough, there was some idiot hanging off a streetlamp, screaming his head off. Flanagan reached down instinctively to check his weapon. He swiped his left sleeve down over his star. He didn't even notice he was doing it, he'd had the habit so long. Wearing a gleaming star on his chest had been a point of pride since he'd joined the force, and he had developed the unconscious routine of shining it up before any potential confrontation.

  "All right, what's the problem here?" he bellowed. He didn't know why, but drunks seemed to l
ose their hearing during the course of a night's imbibing. He'd learned early on that if you don't shout at a drunk, you won't get through to him.

  The idiot didn't respond. Just kept banging his fist against the streetlamp and cursing it out.

  As he got closer, Flanagan could see that the guy wore a uniform. Great. Another drunken marine. He let out a small sigh.

  Then he realized it was even better than he'd thought.

  The drunk idiot had a friend with him. Another marine. This one looked three sheets to the wind too, but at least he was quiet. He was crouched on the ground.

  Now Flanagan could see what the guy was doing. Why did he always have to get the drunks who puked? He hoped he wouldn't get any vomit on his uniform this time. His wife would have a fit.

  "What's going on here?" he called out in his best basso profundo. "What did that streetlamp do to you?"

  The idiot didn't pay any attention to him. He sighed again. Louder. Stood with his legs apart and his hands on his hips.

  "All right, listen up! Step away from that lamp and you won't get hurt. You hear me?"

  It wasn't working. The idiot was still lost in his own world.

  Flanagan crossed his arms, then almost jumped out of his skin as he realized that the idiot's buddy was standing right behind him. The guy had sneaked up on him like a thief in the night. He whirled around and dropped his hand to his holster. Then he realized there was no threat.

  The sergeant was obviously standing so close to the other guy because he could no longer gauge distance, he was so drunk. He just stood there with a sweet smile on his face, his eyes at half mast, swaying in the breeze. Lovely.

  Well, as long as he was upright . . . "Do you think you can get your buddy to leave the poor streetlamp alone?" Flanagan jerked his thumb behind him. "After all, it doesn't look like the light attacked him first. Why does he have to try to punch its lights out?" Flanagan played to an audience of one. Himself. He chuckled slightly.