Chapter 7: Tom Petty

Besides physically laying eyes on Dixie Wexler, which I’d already done, I had two goals — get close enough to observe him in action. And creep his apartment.

It was after ten on my second night in Billings and I was studying myself critically in the Northern Hotel bathroom mirror. I adjusted what I consider to be my Ft. Worth wig — it’s black and changes my appearance radically. My cowgirl boots add inches to my height. A loose vest helps disguise my boobs. A black blouse with long sleeves, buttoned to the neck, hides a lot of my tan. Add my new black Stetson and I’m good to go. Maybe.

Wexler was drinking in The Pub Station, a cavernous bar with live music. He’d been in there since 5, drove straight from work. I assumed — hoped! — he’d be a little oiled by now.

From the street, The Pub looks like what it used to be — a Greyhound bus station. It’s downtown, easy walking distance from my digs. I pushed inside the joint — crowded and noisy.

I’d purchased a ticket — a local band was covering Tom Petty — earlier from their box office. The stage was floodlit, which meant the rest of the joint was pretty dark; good news and bad. I’d be tough to spot, but so would Wexler. The place was jumping — loud from the music and from a couple hundred patrons. Maybe more.

A sympathetic waitress led me to the one vacant stool at the bar. To maintain cover, I ordered a local brew — Cold Smoke Scotch Ale. From the Kettle House brewery in Missoula. With all my cowgirl gear, I was as Big Sky as I’m gonna get.

I’d gone online to check out the Pub Station — they had a firm no-weapons policy. Excellent. No backpacks either. They even discourage bags in general, but mine was small enough to pass muster. Which meant that the BlingSting pepper spray that I’d overnighted to the Northern was riding shotgun.

The two guys to my right and left chatted me up. Lefty worked in a sawmill; the other one was vague. Both checked out my rack. So much for the vest-concealment theory. Nevertheless I was on duty; I needed to find Wexler. In order to hold my place at the bar, I ordered a large pizza — the Carnivore should play well in Montana — from an in-house joint called Pie Guys. My suitors were happy to share the slices and quick to defend my barstool as I made my way around the echoing space.

Time was a consideration because they close early here — midnight. Fortunately, I’m a trained detective, comfortable working in a variety of venues. No surprise then, that I detected my butt off and found Wexler just a couple of minutes into my search.

Being a professional helps. So did an angry woman who screamed “Keep your fucking hands off me, Wexler!”

Several of us close enough to hear over the music turned in time to see his white cowboy hat go flying as she slapped him. Hard. Wexler stood, staggered a little from the booze and stepped on his hat. Furious anyway, he balled his fist.

I put my hand on my BlingSting, but two large cowboys from an adjacent table grabbed Wexler by both arms. He was sputtering and cursing when a couple of Pub Station employees, larger still, lifted him off his feet. Bouncers.

“Cocksuckers! Let goa me!”

Instead they carried him off, legs kicking as the three of them wound through booths and tables. I followed. They didn’t throw him out the door; it wasn’t like some oater, but they set him on the sidewalk a good 10 or 15 feet away. Sans cowboy hat.

“Don’t come back, Wexler.”

“Fuck you.”

Walker: “Your six, yo.”

Pilar: “Motherfuck the po-po.”

I kept a loose tail on Wexler three more nights in a row. During the day he was either in the Butler Brothers storefront office or making the rounds of their security clients. He’d talk with an on-duty Butler guard, sometimes a customer. But I stayed mostly out of sight, mostly in my hotel room. Waiting for tonight. Apartment time.

I called home almost every evening. Talked first with Vanessa, then Pilar. Saved Walker for last. He said, “You sure do travel a lot, Winter.”

“Yeah, lately I have been.”

“Do you, you know, miss me?”

“Sure do. What’s your name again?”

As a favor, Louise Finch agreed to call her counterpoint in the Yellowstone County Sheriffs Department. Sergeant Cathy Riggins. Who was now sitting across from me at a back table in Len’s Coffee Emporium. Just in case, I was sporting my black wig and shades.

‘Call me Cathy’ looks to be in her 40s. Has seen some life; laugh lines, worry lines on her face. It was her day off, so just jeans and a cowgirl shirt. Fur-lined parka, the weather is getting colder in Montana. Creased Stetson, with a faint band of sweat. Her hat is light tan. I stuck with basic black when I bought mine, fully aware of the bad-guy irony.

She said, “Tell me your interest in Wexler.”

I gave her the short version. Left out the Meriwethers, but included the Gunthers.

She said, “I heard about that raid in Coeur d’Alene. Wexler was tied into all of that?”

“I’m not sure. But I think he runs with the same type of crowd. White nationalists, survivalists.” I stopped myself from saying gun-lovers. Montana.

“Sergeant Finch said he ran you off the road.”

“I’m pretty sure it was Wexler. Driving a Jeep owned by another Butler Brothers employee, Caleb Whitestone.”

Cathy nodded, “He reported it stolen.”

I shrugged. Didn’t have any actual proof that Wexler had been driving it. But I’d bet to it.

I said, “Then last month Wexler flew from here to Denver. Transferred to Kansas City. Rented a car in his name. And he was following me around town.” I showed her the two photos that Louie-Louie had snapped. She nodded, “Wexler, no doubt about it.”

I was keeping the larger scenario — the possible Meriwether connection — to myself. It complicates things. And I basically just wanted to learn more about Mr. Dixie Wexler.

Cathy handed back the photos, “How can I help you?”

“For whatever reason, he’s focused on me. So I came here to see him. See him in his own setting. And to learn as much as I can about him.”

Cathy went to the counter for refills. Buying time to think? Probably not. She seems like a straightforward kind of gal. And Wexler isn’t Mr. Popularity with the local peace officers.

She said, “He got kicked out of the Station Pub the other night. Drunk. As usual. Felt up a local girl.”

“Oh?”

“But we’re far more concerned about drugs. Huge opioid problem in Yellowstone County.” She lifted her cup with both hands and sipped. “Like just about everywhere I guess.”

“Opium? Fentanyl?”

“Yeah. God, I can remember when it was mostly just pot.” She smiled ruefully, “Pre-meth, the good old days.”

“How big a deal is Wexler?”

She snorted, “He’s his own worst enemy. Too hotheaded for the larger suppliers to trust.” She sighed, “But he has enough local customers to worry us. Although he’s not that bright. And combine that with his temper ... we’ll nail him one of these days.”

“Or someone will snitch him out.”

Shrug. “Maybe.”

“What else can you tell me about him? Background?”

“Wexler’s a breed — white father, mother was a Crow. River Crow. Winona lived on the rez, just a few miles east of here. Billings would be on ... sort of the northwest corner.”

“That could be tough. Growing up.”

Cathy nodded, “Yeah, Wexler had the usual problems. A lot of the Indians didn’t trust him. White bigots didn’t accept him.”

“A lot of white supremacists have African American blood. Jewish too.”

“That doesn’t excuse their behavior.”

“No, it doesn’t. Was Wexler bullied?”

“Yeah. According to Child & Family Services. They’re over on 4th Street, maybe they’ll talk with you. But Wexler was only a target in grade school. By middle school, he turned things around, became the bully.” She added more sugar, stirred her coffee, “He changed himself into a genuine tough guy. Small as he is, not many want to gravel-dance with him.”

I nodded, neither did I.

“And he spent some time on the Montana rodeo circuit. Added to his rep.” She shook her head, “He was scoring a lot of Buckle Babes for such a homely guy.”

“Buckle Babes?”

“Groupies.”

“Oh.”

She said, “His mother’s mother, Dixie’s grandmother ... well folks on the rez believed she was a medicine woman. Nahimana. Means ‘Mystic’ in Crow. Or Sioux, that’s where a lot of Crow names come from. Medicine woman.”

“Cures?”

“And spells. Legend has it she told Dixie she was going to turn him into a Confederate slave. He was seven or eight at the time. Scared him spitless.” Cathy shook her head, “He still wets the bed. In jail anyway.”

“Who’s the father?” Sullivan & Sullivan Research hadn’t been able to find out.

Cathy shook her head again, “No one seems to know for sure. Winona had the usual problems. She wasn’t a drinker though. But poverty, low-paying jobs when she could find work. Dropped out of school her sophomore year.”

“Does Winona stand for anything?”

“First Born Daughter.”

I nodded. Learn something new every day. “So Wexler ... wait a minute! Is that how he got the name, Dixie? His grandmother’s curse?”

Cathy smiled, “There’s always a smartass around. Nahimana threatened Wexler in Connors Feed Store. Couple of good ole boys hanging around. One of them started whistling “Dixie”.

“And it stuck.”

“To this day, Winter, to this day.”

“Thank you for the info.”

“Watch out for Wexler. He’ll rattlesnake you. In a heartbeat.” She paused, thinking, “He’s more than just another local turd. My opinion only. There’s something...”

“What?”

“I can’t put my finger on anything specific. But it’s like he sees more than the regular Billings trash do.” Shrug, “It’s just a feeling, probably nothing.”

“I believe in feelings. Trust my intuition.”

Cathy nodded, “Wexler has a way of looking at you. Even when he’s behind bars on some petty crap. He makes me feel like I’m ... nothing to him. A bug. Insect.”

I thought, ‘sociopath’.

She stood, “One more thing...”

I nodded, reached for the check. Cathy said, “Wexler leaves town for long stretches. Weeks, sometimes a couple of months. His bosses at Butler don’t seem to mind.” Another shrug, “Don’t know what that means. If anything. Maybe that’s how he gets his product. Doesn’t buy from any local sources, so far as we can tell.”

The dinner in our loft with the four Wrigley permanents had been a success. Not a surprise when you figure how much charm Pilar and Vanessa can lay on. Hobo did his part too. Our four guests know him and are friendly. Even the Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna, rightful heir to the Romanov throne, seems to enjoy the border’s company.

For our lobster dinner, she wore a floor length gown. And a sparkly tiara. Pilar nodded at the Duchess. Hobo, taking his cue, sat beside her at dinner. Pilar moved everyone around the table after each course and Hobo placed himself next to the Duchess each time. She took his attention as her rightful due.

Wally Maypole got beyond some of his shyness. Scout got a little tipsy on the wine. Everyone behaved.

Coming off such an auspicious event — Nature Boy had indeed worn clothes — Pilar decided on an outing. The kids would skip school on Wednesday. I’d go into work late, so would Vanessa.

Pilar did it in style. Reserved four Lincoln Town Cars.

> The Grand Duchess and Walker.

> Wally Maypole, shy little Wally, and Pilar.

> Nature Boy and Vanessa.

> Scout and me.

It’s a short drive to the Nelson Atkins. Just across the street from the Sophian. Now home to a former pimp, the fish-out-of-water Harold Hudson.

We’ll tour the “Eyes of Picasso” exhibit. But more than that, I was looking forward to the contemporary art collection that is also housed in the 10-year old Bloch Building. A relatively unknown architect, Steven Holl, was selected to design an addition to the original 1930s Beaux-Arts building. A classic.

The Nelson, a quite formal horizontal building, was reimagined decades later as a badminton net. Two giant shuttlecock sculptures were installed in front and another two in back. Charming actually. And big. Around 19 feet tall, the orange and white sculptures weigh around 5,000 pounds. Each.