Bad News

Guilderpost said, “I suppose they might try to negotiate with her, buy her off.”

“They tried that,” Little Feather said.

“If I was them,” Dortmunder said, “and I’m in the spot they’re in, what do I do? And I’m begi

Tiny said, “What you did.”

Dortmunder nodded. “That’s what I’m thinking, Tiny.”

Kelp said, “They would, wouldn’t they?”

Dortmunder and Kelp and Tiny all nodded, not happy. Guilderpost and Irwin both looked baffled. Guilderpost said, “What do you mean?”

Dortmunder said, “What did we do, to make sure the DNA was go

“You put grampa in there,” Little Feather said.

“So if I’m on the other side,” Dortmunder said, “what do I do?”

“No!” Guilderpost cried. “They wouldn’t dare!”

“I bet they would,” Dortmunder said.

Irwin said, “That isn’t fair! We worked hard for this!”

“I told you,” Dortmunder said, “these guys don’t mean to play fair.”

“We’ll have to guard the grave,” Guilderpost declared, “twenty-four hours a day.”

“Yeah, that’ll be good,” Dortmunder commented, “a bunch of dubious guys hanging around one grave in a cemetery for a week or two, day and night. You don’t think anybody’s go

Guilderpost said, “Then what do you suggest?”

“I du

Irwin said, “I can’t believe anybody would actually do that. Dig the man up and put a different body in there?”

“We did it,” Guilderpost said, and Irwin frowned deeply.

“I really don’t wa

“I’m with John,” Kelp said.

“Then what can we do?” Guilderpost asked, but nobody answered him.

For a little time, they all just sat there, the six of them, listening to one another digest pizza. Everybody frowned and concentrated. From time to time, one or another sighed.

“Stones,” Tiny said.

They all looked at him. Kelp said, “Tiny? That wasn’t about the pizza, was it?”

Tiny made a gesture with both hands, like a guy switching the shells over the pea. “Switch the stones,” he said.

Dortmunder smiled. A burden lifted from his shoulders. “We could do that,” he said. “Thank you, Tiny.”

“I could do that,” Tiny said.

Irwin said, “You mean take the Redcorn headstone, move it to a different grave, replace it with the other headstone.”

“Then the tribes come down,” Dortmunder said, “they dig up the wrong grave, they do what they do, and then we switch the stones back again.”

“A lot better than grave digging,” Kelp said.

Irwin said, “And that way, you don’t disturb the soil over the Redcorn grave. It’s been six weeks now, the soil won’t show any signs of recent digging.”

“Particularly,” Guilderpost said, “if the tribes dig up the wrong grave.”

“Now,” Dortmunder said, “I like it.”

24

Friday, December 1. The only interesting workweek in Judge T. Wallace Higbee’s entire twelve-year career on the bench was at last, thank God, coming to an end.

It had all started on Tuesday, when Frank Oglanda and Roger Fox had filed the charges of fraud and extortion against the young woman who, it seemed, must be known henceforward as Little Feather Redcorn. The case had at first seemed like no more than the normal run of stupidity, this time on the part of someone then named Shirley A

Then the Mohawks’ peacemaking plaque had surfaced to buttress Little Feather Redcorn’s story, and at that point, it seemed to the judge, the smart move would have been for Roger and Frank to cut a deal with the young lady. Not try to buy her off and send her on her way, but deal her in. That would have been the smart move, and the judge couldn’t help but wonder why Frank had decided to be stupid instead.

Damn it, he didn’t want to think about this stuff. He liked the drowsy progress of his days, the slow shuffle of stupidity that passed his glazed eyes every day like the doomed peasants in a Breughel allegory. So why the hell were Roger and Frank insisting on behaving in mysterious ways, giving poor Judge Higbee’s brain tough hardtack to chew on?

It had been so obvious, in chambers yesterday, that Frank Oglanda didn’t care if the Redcorn woman were Pottaknobbee or not; he just wanted her gone. Which could only mean he and Roger had something to hide, out there on the reservation. Now, what would that be? The casino was a gold mine; wasn’t that enough for them? Had they succumbed to the temptation of smuggling, being right there on the Canadian border, or drug dealing, or cooking the books? In other words, had those boys been stupid, even when they didn’t have to be? Was Judge Higbee going to have to think about them?

Not this week. This week was done. This morning, the judge had rewarded several acts of gross stupidity with room and board at state expense, and he was in the process now of finishing the week’s quota of stupidity this afternoon. In between, Hilda, his secretary, had started to tell him about a phone call from some lawyer in New York City who was apparently Ms. Redcorn’s replacement for poor hapless Marjorie Dawson, but the judge had had enough for this week, thank you. “Tell me about it on Monday,” he’d ordered, not even wanting to listen to the lawyer’s name, much less whatever his message might be.

Another smart-ass New York City lawyer; as though the judge didn’t have enough trouble. Were they going to start acting like smart-ass New York City lawyers together in his court? Were they going to play tricky games, challenge each other’s (and the judge’s) legal knowledge, come up with obscure precedents, send everybody to the law library, drag it out and drag it out, force poor Judge T. Wallace Higbee to make decision after decision?

Damn! Why didn’t Frank and Roger just bite the goddamn bullet, bury the hatchet—well, maybe that wasn’t quite the right image, but whatever—get over the shock, fellas, the new girl in town is here to stay. That confidence of hers about the results of DNA testing wasn’t feigned, and Frank knew it as well as the judge did.

In the meantime, the soothing sob stories of the severely stupid flowed like a warm bath in the judge’s courtroom. Firing a pistol at the di

Midafternoon, the day and the week and the march of these morons nearly done, and a person entered the courtroom to sit in the rear row, near the door. Judge Higbee was immediately aware of him, of course, because from where he sat, he looked directly toward that rear door, but he would have been aware anyway, because who was that person?

Within seconds, everybody else in court also became aware of the stranger, even though their backs were to him and they had to take quick peeks over their shoulders to get a gander at him. He created awareness simply by his existence, because he was a stranger, and there were never any strangers in Judge Higbee’s court.