Bad News

“Come in, Be

Be

“Something like what?” Frank asked from out of sight behind the bar, where he was looking for the other bottle of Wild Turkey.

“Something reprehensible. Something that would make people want to shun her even if she was Pottaknobbee. Something to make the tribes get together and throw her out, and be damned to DNA.”

Frank reappeared, holding the fresh bottle. “I don’t know, Roger,” he said.

Roger said, “Be

“Okay!”

Frank readily gave up the job, to lean on the bar instead and say, “What reprehensathing? There are no Commies anymore. Nobody would believe an Indian lesbo. We already know she’s got no police record. Thank you, Be

“I do.” Be

Frank peered at him across the room from bar to desk, where Roger stood holding his glass like anyone at a cocktail party, Be

“There’ve got to be some, Frank,” Roger told him. “Where did this Little Feather Redcorn come from? Out of the blue, she’s suddenly here with histories and claims. There’s got to be somebody behind her, some whadayacallit, puppeteer, pulling the strings. She can’t be doing all this on her own, so the people who put her up to it, why are they hiding? Because they’re no good, Frank.”

“You lost me somewhere in there,” Frank admitted.

Roger offered Be

Be

“Little Feather Redcorn,” Roger said, extremely patient. “Who does she associate with?”

“Nobody,” Be

Roger blinked at him. Frank said, “Where’s that bottle I just opened?”

“Just a minute, Frank,” Roger said. “We have to keep our wits about us now.”

Frank looked thoughtful.

Roger said to Be

“Mostly, she stays in that motor home thing, down at Whispering Pines,” Be

“She didn’t associate with me,” Frank said.

Roger said, “I don’t believe it.”

Be

“No, no, not you, Be

Be

“Frank,” Roger said, “leave that bottle and—”

“I don’t have the bottle.”

“I have it, Uncle Frank!”

“Put it down, Be

“Me, too?”

“Yes, Be

The three went to the burgundy sofas L-ing around the glass and chrome coffee table as Frank said, “What are we going to do?”

“We don’t know yet,” Roger told him. “That’s what the conversation’s about. The one thing I know for sure, though, it’s got to be something drastic.”

23

I don’t like this,” Dortmunder said.

“What, the pizza?” Kelp asked. “The pizza’s fine.” “It’s very good pizza,” Irwin declared.

“Not the pizza,” Dortmunder told them, “the story Little Feather just gave us.”

“Well, it’s the truth,” Little Feather said.

“I know it’s the truth,” Dortmunder agreed, “that’s what I don’t like about it.”

Since Little Feather hadn’t gotten back to the Wi

“I’m ordering with pepperoni, without pepperoni, with and without extra cheese.”

“You’re an indecisive person.”

So they had the pizza delivered in, and Little Feather reported on her meetings, first with Marjorie Dawson and then with the bunch in judge’s chambers, telling part of the story before the pizza arrived and the rest after the pizza left, when Dortmunder a

So now Guilderpost said, “I don’t see what the problem is, John. We’ve reached the first plateau, the DNA.”

“From here,” Irwin said, “it’s plain sailing.”

“No,” Dortmunder said. “They’re fighting it. From the begi

“Well, they’re going to have to get used to it,” Irwin said.

Dortmunder said, “No, listen. You’re acting like these people are the same as the people you sold the Dutch land things to, like you come in and scam them and they take it like a sport and that’s it. But they aren’t like that, not from the get-go.”

“I don’t believe their attitude matters anymore, John,” Guilderpost told him. “At first, it was certainly troubling, particularly for Little Feather—”

“I didn’t like the night in jail,” Little Feather remarked.

“Of course you didn’t, my dear,” Guilderpost agreed, and then said to Dortmunder, “But we’re past that now. I spoke with my contact at Feinberg today, and he put me in touch with their DNA expert, Max Schreck. Little Feather will phone him in the morning, he’ll phone Judge Higbee, and we’re well on our way.”

“That’s right,” Irwin said. “From now on, it’s simply the lab work, and the judge says, ‘Look at that, it’s a match. Little Feather is hereby declared a Pottaknobbee. Welcome to the casino.’”

“And you fellows collect a not-inconsiderable recompense,” Guilderpost added.

“I don’t like it,” Dortmunder said.

“You don’t like the recompense? We agreed—”

“Not the recompense,” Dortmunder said, “the story Little Feather come back with. The meeting she had.”

Tiny said, “You listen to Duh—John. He’s got a nose for this kind of thing.”

“All right, John,” Guilderpost said in his most kindly fashion, “tell us what it is you don’t like about today’s events.”

“The whole thing,” Dortmunder told him, “starting from yesterday. No, starting from the day before yesterday. Now today the guy from the tribes shows up with a lawyer that isn’t even his regular lawyer but is a lawyer from another outfit like your Feinberg outfit from New York, meaning what they declared here is war. And when those guys declare war, I don’t think they mean to play fair.”

Irwin said, “But, John, what can they do? We’ve got them cold.”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure,” Dortmunder said. “I’m thinking, if I was them, and I wanted Little Feather out of my hair, and I was begi

“Kill me,” Little Feather said.

“They thought of it,” Dortmunder assured her, “but they know they’re too obvious. So they gotta do something else.”