said. “There weren’t no worse men for the Indian community. I read the Bible, just like anybody. What Bluebird did was wrong. But he’s paid, hasn’t he? An eye for an eye. They’re dead and he’s dead. And I’ll tell you this, the Indian people got two big weights off their backs.”
“Okay,” said Lucas. “I can buy it. Ray Cuervo was an asshole. Excuse the language.”
“I heard the word before,” Dooley said. “I wouldn’t say you was wrong. And not about this Benton fella, either. He was bad as Cuervo.”
“So I’m told,” Lucas said.
Dooley finished the trim above Lucas’ ear, pushed his head forward until his chin rested on his chest, and did the back of his neck.
“There’s been another killing, in New York,” Lucas said. “Same way as Cuervo and Benton. Throat cut with a stone knife.”
“Saw it on TV,” Dooley acknowledged. He pointed at theblack-and-white television mounted in the corner of the shop. “ Today show. Thought it sounded pretty much the same.”
“Too much,” Lucas said. “I’ve been wondering . . .”
“If I might of heard anything? Just talk. You know Bluebird was a sun-dancer?”
“No, I didn’t know,” Lucas said.
“Check his body, if you still got it. You’ll find scars all over his chest where he pulled the pegs through.” Lucas winced. As part of the Sioux ceremony, dancers pushed pegs through the skin of their chests. Cords were attached to the pegs, and the dancers dangled from poles until the pegs ripped out. “There’s another thing. Bluebird was a sun-dancer for sure, but there’s folks around saying that a couple years ago, he got involved in this ghost-dance business.”
“Ghost dance? I didn’t think that was being done,” Lucas said.
“Some guys came down from Canada, tried to start it up. They had a drum, went around to all the reservations, collecting money, dancing. Scared the heck out of a lot of people, but I haven’t heard anything about them lately. Most Indian people think it was a con game.”
“But Bluebird was dancing?”
“That’s what I heard . . . .” Dooley’s voice trailed off and Lucas turned and found the old man staring out the window again. There was a park across the street, with grass worn brown by kids’ feet and the fall frosts. An Indian kid was working on an upturned bike in the middle of the park and an old lady tottered down the sidewalk toward a concrete drinking fountain. “I don’t think it means much,” Dooley said. He turned back to Lucas. “Except that Bluebird was a man looking for religion.”
“Religion?”
“He was looking to be saved. Maybe he found it,” Dooley said. He sighed and moved close behind Lucas and finished the trim with a few final snips. He put the scissors down, brushed cut hair off Lucas’ neck, unpinned the bib and shook it out. “Sit tight for a minute,” he said.
Lucas sat and Dooley found his electric trimmers andshaved the back of Lucas’ neck, then slapped on a stinging palmful of aromatic yellow oil.
“All done,” he said.
Lucas slid out of the chair, asked, “How much?” Dooley said, “The regular.” Lucas handed him three dollars.
“I haven’t heard anything,” Dooley said soberly. He looked Lucas in the eyes. “If I had, I’d tell you—but I don’t know if I’d tell you what it was. Bluebird was the Indian people, getting back some of their own.”
Lucas shook his head, sensing the defiance in the old man. “It’s hard to believe you said that, Mr. Dooley. It makes me sad,” he said.
Indian Country was full of Dooleys.
Lucas quartered through it, touching the few Indians he knew: a seamstress at an awnings shop, a seafood broker, a heating contractor, clerks at two gas stations and a convenience store, an out-of-business antique dealer, a key-maker, a cleaning lady, a car salesman. An hour before Bluebird’s funeral was scheduled to begin, he left his car in an alley and walked across the street to Dakota
“Okay,” said Lucas. “I can buy it. Ray Cuervo was an asshole. Excuse the language.”
“I heard the word before,” Dooley said. “I wouldn’t say you was wrong. And not about this Benton fella, either. He was bad as Cuervo.”
“So I’m told,” Lucas said.
Dooley finished the trim above Lucas’ ear, pushed his head forward until his chin rested on his chest, and did the back of his neck.
“There’s been another killing, in New York,” Lucas said. “Same way as Cuervo and Benton. Throat cut with a stone knife.”
“Saw it on TV,” Dooley acknowledged. He pointed at theblack-and-white television mounted in the corner of the shop. “ Today show. Thought it sounded pretty much the same.”
“Too much,” Lucas said. “I’ve been wondering . . .”
“If I might of heard anything? Just talk. You know Bluebird was a sun-dancer?”
“No, I didn’t know,” Lucas said.
“Check his body, if you still got it. You’ll find scars all over his chest where he pulled the pegs through.” Lucas winced. As part of the Sioux ceremony, dancers pushed pegs through the skin of their chests. Cords were attached to the pegs, and the dancers dangled from poles until the pegs ripped out. “There’s another thing. Bluebird was a sun-dancer for sure, but there’s folks around saying that a couple years ago, he got involved in this ghost-dance business.”
“Ghost dance? I didn’t think that was being done,” Lucas said.
“Some guys came down from Canada, tried to start it up. They had a drum, went around to all the reservations, collecting money, dancing. Scared the heck out of a lot of people, but I haven’t heard anything about them lately. Most Indian people think it was a con game.”
“But Bluebird was dancing?”
“That’s what I heard . . . .” Dooley’s voice trailed off and Lucas turned and found the old man staring out the window again. There was a park across the street, with grass worn brown by kids’ feet and the fall frosts. An Indian kid was working on an upturned bike in the middle of the park and an old lady tottered down the sidewalk toward a concrete drinking fountain. “I don’t think it means much,” Dooley said. He turned back to Lucas. “Except that Bluebird was a man looking for religion.”
“Religion?”
“He was looking to be saved. Maybe he found it,” Dooley said. He sighed and moved close behind Lucas and finished the trim with a few final snips. He put the scissors down, brushed cut hair off Lucas’ neck, unpinned the bib and shook it out. “Sit tight for a minute,” he said.
Lucas sat and Dooley found his electric trimmers andshaved the back of Lucas’ neck, then slapped on a stinging palmful of aromatic yellow oil.
“All done,” he said.
Lucas slid out of the chair, asked, “How much?” Dooley said, “The regular.” Lucas handed him three dollars.
“I haven’t heard anything,” Dooley said soberly. He looked Lucas in the eyes. “If I had, I’d tell you—but I don’t know if I’d tell you what it was. Bluebird was the Indian people, getting back some of their own.”
Lucas shook his head, sensing the defiance in the old man. “It’s hard to believe you said that, Mr. Dooley. It makes me sad,” he said.
Indian Country was full of Dooleys.
Lucas quartered through it, touching the few Indians he knew: a seamstress at an awnings shop, a seafood broker, a heating contractor, clerks at two gas stations and a convenience store, an out-of-business antique dealer, a key-maker, a cleaning lady, a car salesman. An hour before Bluebird’s funeral was scheduled to begin, he left his car in an alley and walked across the street to Dakota
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