Pardon? asks Hiram.
I can get it, shouts Jack Brown. It! he shouts. The ring! Later today.
So where is this Star of India?
It was my grandmother's! He shouts again to be heard above the drum noise. Two teenaged girls who have just wandered in cringe and go wide- eyed.
Hiram nods. Let me guess. She's no longer among the living?
Died two years ago.
The kid kicks into a drum solo. Jack Brown shakes his head. After a moment the kid stops and calls out, I get that 40 percent off ?
You got it, Ringo, says Hiram.
The whole set?
The whole set. I'll even throw in an extra pair of sticks.
The kid smiles and extricates himself from the drum stool. I'll be back later with the money.
You do that.
Hiram calls out to the teenaged girls in the electronics aisle and tells them to give him a holler if they have any questions.
Now, where were we? he asks Brown. Oh, yes. We were tak
ing a diamond ring off your deceased grandmother. Right. Have to dig her up and soap her finger, do we?
I gave it to a woman is what I did. Now I'm having second thoughts.
Hiram smiles. Clear as mud.
I asked for it back. I'm going to pick it up later. It's early yet.
And this Ophelia? She's happy to return said expensive romantic keepsake you gave her free and easy? She hasn't sold it already?
Not if she knows what's good for her.
Hiram steps away, wiping his hands, mock Pontius Pilate. You bring the ring and I'll take a look.
I'll be back before you can get bored watching the two fillies there on aisle two.
Hiram stares back into his eyes. Okay, Cousin Jack. I'll be waiting. But remember what Margaret Thatcher said about patience.
Margaret who?
Thatcher. Former prime minister of England. I assume you've heard of the nation of England? Beef eaters and blood pudding? Soccer hooligans? Ring a bell?
Don't be talking down to me, okay? I know you got me over a barrel, but there's other pawnshops in the world.
Yes, there are.
So tell me already. What did this Margaret lady say that I should remember?
She said, I'm extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.
. . .
L i k e s o m e t h i n g out of legend, an equestrian patrol officer appears before La Iglesia de los Niños de Jesus Cristo on a chestnut horse. He dismounts and ties his mare to the crèche, squatting down to get a good look at the girl in the hay. The nun meets him and they speak for a moment. Both wear gauze face masks, struggle to hear each other over the shovel scrape and high- pitched beeping of a passing snowplow. The nun mentions the word fever.
Officer Israel James comes to stand above Ruby curled in the wheelbarrow. He shakes her shoulder. She does not respond. He calls in a report to the dispatcher. She tells him that all the ambulances are busy, that he should transport the girl to the hospital himself. He explains that he's on horseback. The dispatcher tells him to wait while she directs a patrol car his way. He listens and nods, replaces the wireless unit in his shoulder harness.
The girl has the fever no doubt and to touch her is forbidden if you are anyone but family or a doctor. He guesses a lawman fits somewhere between the two categories. A risk of his life it is and he will do it without thinking, looking at this pale face. How can you turn away? You can't. If it's your time to punch the big clock, so be it.
The chestnut mare shakes her head and mane, whinnying high- pitched and petulant.
The policeman takes a handful of sugar cubes from his pocket and holds them out, the horse's tongue warm against his cold fingers. Now, calm down, Apache, he says. This girl's hurt and I think you can wait a few minutes till the wheels arrive.
Before long he sees a patrol car turn at the intersection and head his way. He stands over Ruby for a moment, plants his feet wide, hefts her into his arms. He carries her to the patrol car, her body limp and lifeless. He waits as the patrolman opens the door and, grunting and breathing hard, he maneuvers her into position on the rear seat. She parts her lips and moans, her eyes half open and dreamy.
Later Officer James is called to defuse a domestic disturbance. At a motel no less. The dispatcher says some couple is shouting and threatening mayhem. Sober guests have complained.
Israel James does not like motels. They bring out the worst in people. The good take home a bar of soap or vial of shampoo, the polishing cloth for a shoeshine they will never use, maybe the Gideon Bible in times of spiritual doubt. The bad rip the blow dryer out of the wall, burn a hole in the carpet, then strangle a hooker to death after failing to perform, leaving her body beneath the bed or stuffed in the closet, covered with a blanket, behind an ironing board. And the people who are torn between good and bad? They hear the devil whispering, and they listen.
The Buffalo Head Inn has seen better days, perhaps during the Dust Bowl of the 1930s, when the Joads offered to sweep and mop to pay for the room. It's two stories of bleached and weather- beaten wood done imitation- ski- lodge style, with pine railings adorned with bucking- bronco woodcuts, plank walkways outside the rooms, and room numbers wood- burned on aspen cuts.
Israel James rides his horse to the office breezeway and dismounts, the leather of his gunbelt creaking. Apache snorts, her shoes popping the pavement. The carport roof above the breezeway catches the sound. He ties her to a wrought- iron bench.
You behave now, girl, he says. Don't bite the paying cus tomers.
The parking lot is spotty with old pickups and new Minis, cars so small you expect a troupe of clowns to emerge at every stoplight. Cigarette butts dot the asphalt amid the deadbeat jewelry of broken glass.
Inside the lobby, a bleached blond sniffs a magazine perfume insert and watches Israel approach. Country music sad- sacks out from a radio. Behind her sits a bassinet with a sleeping child in it. A handwritten sign above the sign- in counter advertises happy hour
5– 7 in the wagon wheel lounge, free beer & wine.
Her ID tag reads, Fufu. You must be here for the honeymooners, she says. They're in 117.
You know anything about them?
Fufu shrugs. The gal's been staying in the room alone mostly. I think lover boy just showed up and if I'm guessing right, she's pissed he found her. Maybe she's just not that into him. Or he wants into her, and she wants out.
The female must be an Amish schoolteacher, right? A looker?
Fufu pulls a face. Nothing special. My guess is she's the kind of woman men like. You know. For their earthly pleasures.
James is thinking of Fufu along similar lines. It's the devil on your shoulder in the motel zone. She wears a tangerine western shirt with pearl- snap buttons and saddle stitching, a gap between the snaps revealing a peek of lily- white bra cup. He guesses she's sometime past high school and somewhere before second divorce.
Well, it's my job to keep the peace. Should I be worried about these two?
Fufu shrugs. He smells like lowlife, you ask me. Like he'd beat a dog if it took to barking.
You're saying maybe I should use some caution.
Fufu smiles. A horse cop trying to break up a domestic? Maybe you should call in the Mounties.
You watch my back, would you?
She