Chapter 14: Jean Balukas

Mr. Matthew Striker and I have gotten pretty proficient in bed. I’m usually easy to please anyway, but he’s gone to some trouble to discover what, precisely, makes my toes curl. And what my preferred sequences of events are.

Not that I’m formulaic in bed, not at all. Sometimes surprises add a lot. Vanessa knows my body the very best, but Matt is getting there.

Of course pleasing him is easy, he’s a guy. Sometimes I like to employ my ... um, dark talents to bring him just to the edge. And keep him there. He doesn’t beg, that wouldn’t be Matt. But I love the hunger in his eyes, in his voice. In his quickened breathing.

He’s fooled me though. Twice. I thought I was keeping him on the brink, but he tricked me. Hello! Quite pleased with himself, our Matt.

This Dixie Wexler quest is getting expensive. No client other than myself. But I don’t have a choice, not really. As Vanessa told me, “If we go broke, we go broke. We have to nail that fucker.”

Sometimes the stars seem to stumble into alignment. Vanessa called, “Perfect timing. Envoy Assets sent you a check for $28,000.”

“What!”

“Came with a hand-written thank-you note from Phillip — they sold their shares in The Globe.”

A residential luxury yacht. I’d done some work for Phillip Montgomery on board the condo cruiser. It hadn’t been all good news and I’d complicated matters by stumbling across a dope smuggling ring that involved the ship.

I said, “Well, Envoy must have done all right. They wouldn’t send me a bonus if they were losing money on the deal.”

Whew!

I decided to start with Jean Balukas. The one woman in the group of four reservation overdose cases. The four who lived anyway.

Sergeant Cathy Riggins had given me a copy of the files on each of the four. I didn’t mention that Sullivan & Sullivan Research had provided me with thicker dossiers, filled with more personal details.

Balukas worked in Billings at the unfortunately named Town Pump convenience store / gas station. I could imagine how many jokes she’d endured over the seven years she’d been there.

While the 31-year old lived, mostly, with her mother on the reservation, she couch-surfed in a Billings apartment rented by three girls and a guy. It was within walking distance of the Pump, which was a good thing since Balukas didn’t have a car.

Hers was a sad, familiar, story. Dreary. High school dropout. Shoplifting, joyriding, booze, pills, joints. The usual litany magnified because she was a full-blooded River Crow and subject to the usual townie discrimination.

Balukas had spent the last couple of years sliding into harder and harder drugs. Chasing a high that became increasingly elusive. And expensive.

I waited until she got off work Thursday afternoon at 4:30. If she followed her usual pattern, she’d hitchhike back to the rez for the weekend. Yep.

She walked along Business 90, sort of halfheartedly sticking a thumb out. But her best chance would be at the intersection of I-90. I was parked four blocks from there watching Balukas in my side mirror.

As she trudged toward me, I slumped down in my Jeep. A needless precaution — she had her back to the parked cars, was focused on incoming traffic. When she was a block in front of me, I checked the lane and pulled out. Slowed, started to stop, then drove past her. Hit the brakes. Projecting uncertainty — vehicular method-acting.

No surprise, she hurried to the passenger side. It was cold and turning dark early.

“Hi. Thanks.”

“Hi. You’re welcome. I’m going as far as Hardin, that do you any good?”

“Yeah, perfect, I’m meeting my mom there.”

We rode companionably along, then she gave me the break I’d been counting on. “Mind if I smoke?”

“I don’t, not at all. But this is a rental, it’ll cost me like two hundred bucks.”

“Oh.”

“Tell you what. I wouldn’t mind a hit myself. I’ll pull over at the next exit.”

“Cool.”

Just two gals, chilling.

Except Balukas looked like she was about 50. Careworn face, trembly hands, raspy smoker’s voice. She was exhibiting the usual opioid withdrawal symptoms — yawning, sweating, runny nose. She looked like she had the flu. And she was restless, squirming around in her seat.

I parked behind a gas station, reached over and opened my glove box. Took out a baggie with four blunts. Winked at Balukas whose face lit up. We hustled over to a battered plastic picnic table, faded red, and I brushed some twigs and trash off the bench. We bundled our coats tighter.

I lit hers, then mine. Mine was more tobacco than grass; hers wasn’t.

Just like the self-help articles recommended, I waited for her to speak.

She held that second hit in for almost a full minute. Exhaled slowly. “Nice. Where’s it from?”

“Denver. Completely legal to buy.” I winked at her, “I roll my own. Takes more to get high these days.”

“Tell me about it.”


After 10 minutes or so, she pinched hers out and offered it back to me.

“Keep it. There’s a dispensary a couple of blocks from my house.”

“Lucky you.”

“Yeah, except the fucking feds are crawling up everyone’s butt.”

“Tell me about it.”

Back in the Jeep, I gave her the baggie, “Here, I’m going home tomorrow.”

“Really? God thanks. That’s bitching.”

Balukas repackaged her half-smoked blunt, zip-closed the bag after squeezing the air out, folded it carefully, and slid it into a zippered compartment in her purse. Grinned, “My mom finds this, she’ll smoke it up.”

As we neared Hardin, I slid into my pitch, “Actually, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for something a little more ... powerful. My Denver guy moved to California. Sacramento.”

I left it there.

She fidgeted. She felt sort of obligated to the driver who’d just gifted her with some righteous grass. But I was a stranger. And Balukas was on the radar since her overdose.

“No. Sorry. I don’t do hard stuff. Just a joint once in a while.”

“That’s cool.”

I pulled into Hardin’s very own Town Pump. Balukas had called her mother and they’d meet up in a couple of minutes. I smiled, “Good luck.”

She was standing by her passenger door, “Thanks. For the ride. And ... everything.”

“You bet.” I looked around as if checking for cops. Once I’m into method-acting ... I pulled a wad of twenties from my shirt pocket. Rifled them with my thumb. It was two hundred dollars, but looked like more. “If you know someone who knows someone...”

Balukas looked around herself. Started to say something. Stopped. “There’s maybe a guy...”

I kept quiet, a new technique I’m experimenting with.

“Look, my name...”

“I don’t know your name, don’t care. But if you’re worried, I’ll find someone else.”

She looked around again, then back at my cash, “You didn’t hear this from me...”

“Who?”

“I don’t know how to get hold of him, he just ... shows up. No regular schedule. Jeannie told me ... I heard he may be working the eastern towns.” She licked her lips, staring at the money. Torn.

“Got a name? Nickname? First name is fine.” I moved my hand to the passenger seat, closer to her.

Balukas took a deep breath, still wavering. I kept still. And quiet.

She said, “Where are you staying?”

“Billings. The Northern.” I left the money on the seat.

She whispered, “Dixie.”

I drove away remembering my mental map of the Crow Reservation. Billings, on I-90, was on the upper left hand corner — a little west and a little north of the rez. Hardin, also on that same highway, was less than 50 miles east of Billings. Right on the northern border.

Then I-90 jogs south.

Here I had to consult Professor Google for a refresher course on the towns that fell within the eastern quadrant of the reservation. With Hardin at the north end, it was a little over 50 miles down to Aberdeen.

Around 15 miles south of Hardin, the first town of any size would be Crow Agency. And that would be the largest on this stretch of the Interstate. Population 1600.

Next town: Gary Owen, population — two. I thought about that. Imagine living in a town with only one other person. Suppose you got into a spat? A feud? No thank you.

But Gary Owen might be better than some other towns along that stretch of I-90 — Aberdeen had never participated in a census. Nor had Dunmore. Benteen. Lodge Grass had over 400 denizens, Wyola just over 200.

Like that.

All this geography had made me hungry so I’d carb up tonight. And again in the morning. Then I’d start my search of what Balukas had called ‘the eastern towns’. I had assumed, with reasonable logic, that she was referring to the eastern side of the Crow Reservation. Not the state of Montana. Nor the East Coast.

Her world probably was, and always had been, small. Maybe always would be.

I watched from two blocks away as Balukas got into a battered dark green pickup that U-turned, chugged west, back the way we’d come. Then I parked three blocks from my motel and left my Jeep there. Just in case.

In the morning, I settled my tab in cash, hit the Lariat Country Kitchen for a 7 AM breakfast and headed south on I-90. First stop, the town of Crow Agency.

My god, what sad, sad country an Indian reservation can be. Often is, from what research I’ve done. Poverty begets poverty. Some of the poorest people, poorest counties, in the entire country. A dark corner of the American Experiment.

Crow Agency, near the site of the Little Big Horn conflict, drew some tourists. But not in December. No reenactments in this weather. The snow was still holding off but the temperature had dipped into the teens and seemed resolute about staying there. Gray skies, blustery.

I eased off onto Frontage Road. First impression of Crow Agency? Well, two. Hardscrabble. And religious. I passed St. Dennis Parish on the west side of town. East ... let’s see. Crow Community Baptist Church. Crow Revival Center. My favorite — Spirit of Life Foursquare Church.

There was a winter-barren park on Makawasha Avenue. Two boys in mittens playing some desultory basketball on a cracked court. Why weren’t they in school? Why was that my business?

There’s the school — Crow Agency Public School. And another — Little Big Horn College. Not bad for a town of 1600. Although their Ram mascot was awfully angry-looking. Again, none of my beeswax.

I drove around and around, on both sides of the highway. Small businesses, small homes, perhaps small hopes. In any case, I didn’t see a line of druggies waiting their turn at the Melvin ‘Dixie’ Walker Fentanyl and Carfentanil Emporium.

Of course I hadn’t expected to spot him. Too early in the morning for one thing. And it would call for too much luck at this point. I was just starting my search. This trip was simple reconnoitering — something that a certain George Armstrong Custer hadn’t done. Which earned the good General a monument of sorts. A Crow Agency tip-o-the-scalp — the undistinguished waterway now known as Custer Creek.

Once I familiarized myself with the eastern side of the reservation, I’d decide whether to talk with the other three Carfentanil users. Once Balukas said, “Dixie” I believed I was on his trail. But those other three might have more details. We’ll see.

I looped back onto I-90, still heading south. I absolutely had to visit Gary Owen. With luck, both citizens would be in residence.

I had one of my favorite playlists — Italian arias — cranked up. I would have rolled down the windows but... 16 degrees. A highway sign signaled that the Little Big Horn National Monument was just ahead. Somehow I couldn’t picture Wexler sightseeing in this weather. Nor any weather. So I rolled past the exit — Highway 212.

One thing I learned that morning, it’s not easy to meld the “Please Mr. Custer, I don’t want to go” lyrics into music by Puccini. I gave up just as a strangely gentle crackling noise — the shattering glass of my rear window — began to register. And short-circuited my ability to think clearly. I slammed my foot onto the accelerator and wrenched the wheel to the left, to the right, back and forth.

I was doing 92, 93, 94 and still weaving frantically in and out of the sparse traffic when my brain kicked back into a sort-of functioning stage. I was out of rifle range. If Wexler were in a car ... well, he’d have to be a passenger to have even a remote chance of hitting my Jeep while on the fly.

The arias were fighting, and loosing, to the roar of wind and highway noise coming from the back. I turned my iPod off. And kept driving south, although I slowed to 85 and checked all three mirrors continually.

Who to call first? I figured I was about an hour north of Sheridan, the first town of any size heading away from Wexler. Fucker.

Most immediate concern? That Wexler was on my butt. Impossible to tell for sure. Whether he was driving or riding, I had no idea what the vehicle was. Once I reached Sheridan, I’d be in a congested enough area to circle blocks, double back, determine if anyone was following me.

I doubted it though. Wexler was a back-shooter, a stalker, not a confrontationist.

Not that I’d bet my life on that particular assessment. I removed my .40 from its shoulder holster and placed it on the passenger seat beside me.

Second concern? Transportation. I needed to lose my Hertz Jeep, yet keep from having a shattered rear window show up in the system. I was still undecided on whether Wexler had access to some sophisticated digital snoopers. But I had to assume he did. And I was intent on keeping my Rachael Adams ID away from Wexler’s world.

Third concern? Well, I needed to settle the first two before moving on to the next dozen or so.

It was clear to me what had happened. Jean Balukas had second thoughts. She was more afraid of Dixie Wexler than she was grateful to me. Although he’s such a fuck-weasel she may well end up paying for just talking with me.

The rifle shot had come from my left, from the east. Wexler had to have been hiding on or near Highway 212, the exit leading to the Little Big Horn Monument.

In this weather, he would have been waiting in a vehicle. It’s simply too cold out. I imagine that Balukas had given him a basic description — big, black SUV. If she’s into cars, which I doubt, she could have said, “Jeep Compass.”

In any case, Wexler must have been watching the southbound traffic coming toward him on I-90 from daylight on. Relentless. He’d used binoculars — absolutely necessary in order to have enough time to spot a moving vehicle and then to aim in my direction. I can picture him parked, facing north. Scanning through his windshield, no sun in his eyes, not that early in the morning.

He’d have to be looking through the two northbound lanes to see me but traffic wasn’t at all heavy. His choice of location must have meant there hadn’t been a decent hiding spot west of the highway. Although, as I ran the mental calculations through, from the east he would have been shooting at the driver’s side of my ride.

And his own driver’s window would be on his left, so he’d be shooting from behind the steering wheel.

Wexler couldn’t have been sure it was me; even if I’d been wearing my black Stetson, it could have been someone else.

And he was willing to kill that someone else for the chance that it was me. It had been a decent shot to hit my Jeep at all — I’d been traveling around 70. I couldn’t have done any better myself. Most people couldn’t. Maybe Emile could. Probably.

I called Sharon Fleming. Something in my voice got me put through immediately. “Wexler took a shot at me. Busted out my rear window.”

“You’re okay?”

“Fine. I was driving south on I-90 from Hardin. I think Wexler was on Highway 212. Don’t know if he’s following me. Don’t know what he’s driving.”

“Wait one.”

I waited one. Then two and three.

“Good. The Denver office has two agents about half an hour south of Sheridan. They’ll meet you at the Holiday Inn, it’s just off Ninety.”

“I need to lose the car. And keep my Rachael Adams identity ... I mean Hertz...”

“I understand, Jennings, this isn’t my debutante ball. We’ll take care of Hertz. Meanwhile the Sheriff’s office in Billings has an ABP out for Wexler. Probably won’t do much good without a vehicle description.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll call Daddy now.”

Despite having been shot at — for the second time — by Wexler, my day became rather tedious. Once I determined that no one was tailing me, I met the two agents at the Holiday Inn and Conference Center. They were not difficult to spot. They looked like you would expect two youngish agents to look. Clean cut, conservatively dressed. Suits.

Someone — in DC?, Ash Collins? — had tugged some strings. Faraday and Cooper were quite willing to help however they could. Cooper drew the short straw and drove away in my Jeep Compass. Faraday took me back to Denver. A little over 400 miles.

He sensed that I wasn’t in the mood to talk — unusual for me — and left me to my thoughts. He kept his own playlist, mostly classic country, tuned down. Waylon and Willie, good stuff.

He dropped me at the Brown Palace — it was almost 10 at night and I hadn’t eaten since breakfast. In the morning Fleming, or someone in the KC office, would Skype-interview me. But for now ... food and drink. Drinks.

I’d never been to the Brown Palace. Soaring lobby that dates back to the 1800s. It may have been the inspiration for starchitect John Portman’s multi-storied atria. I was thinking about trivia like that because it was ... comforting.

But right now I was much much more interested in sustenance. In my room, I showered and went over the online menus. There’s a fancy restaurant in the hotel, but I went for the more casual Ship Tavern. It closed at 11, but fortunately the bar stayed open later. I planned to dent both inventories.

Steamed PEI mussels with truffled shoestring potatoes to start. The Tavern Cobb Salad. Then — when in Rome — Rocky Mountain Trout. Sautéed in lemon butter with capers.

It wasn’t escape-eating; I was thinking long and hard about Wexler the entire time.

Faraday had promised a car would be in the hotel garage waiting for me in the morning. After I talked with KC, I’d head back to Montana. On the fucking hunt. Again.

Walker: “I ain’t strapped.”

Pilar: “Lo siento.”

For my third Montana quest, I didn’t stay in Billings. Rachael Adams checked into the Locomotive Inn in Laurel, Montana. A railroad town, appropriately enough. Under oath, I’ll swear that my choice of lodging had nothing to do with the fact that there’s a Mexican restaurant next door.

Laurel is close to, maybe even a suburb of, Billings. But I felt more anonymous, more hidden, than in the city itself.

I’d left Denver at around eight in the morning after my KC Skype interview put everything Crow on the official record. My promised ride had been in the Brown Palace garage. It was another biggie — a white Ford Expedition from Enterprise. I guess Ms. Adams had worn out her Hertz welcome.

It’s about a ten-hour drive to Billings if you don’t stop for lunch. Who would be that foolish? So I checked into the Locomotive around eight that night. I wouldn’t be using the indoor pool — nothing more embarrassing than being unable to blitz someone because your pistol is rusted out.

The Tex-Mex restaurant, Guadalajara, is part of a local chain, but I put that aside and tucked into menudo — tripe with white-corn hominy. Not the best I’ve had, but decent enough. Another Margarita, rocks, please.

I was tempted by the veggie chimichanga, but went with the Chili Colorado. Good choice.

In bed, under the sheets with Le Wand, by 10. Asleep before 11.