Once a Rebel. Debbi Rawlins
because the man did have an uncanny knack for closing a case, he added, “Including the almighty Baxter.”
“You’re good at tracking.”
Cord smiled in spite of himself. Coming from anyone else he would have found the remark a snide commentary on his being half-Navajo. Hell, too bad it hadn’t come from Baxter. It would’ve been Cord’s perfect excuse to pop the guy. Show everyone just how good his shoulder had healed, at the same time send the smug bastard halfway to hell. But someone like Baxter was far too slick and cunning to be an open bigot. Especially not here in good old liberal Hollywood.
Unlike some of the townspeople who lived near the reservation. When the economy was down, there were folks who accused the “dirty, rotten Indians” of taking their jobs, taking food out of the mouths of their children. Cord had been a blameless child himself when he’d crossed into their world. But they’d dragged him through the mud, spat in his face, shaved off his long black hair.
Had circumstances been different when they’d first met, Baxter could’ve been any one of those men. Cord knew the truth of that deep in his gut. He saw it in Baxter’s eyes. They reminded Cord of a past he wanted to forget, pure and simple.
But he wouldn’t let that distract him now. Leslie was right, he was damn good at tracking, but the idea that he could make headway on the high-profile case was ridiculous. He knew exactly what this was about. The sparkling eyes, the phony excitement in her voice, all a nice touch. But of course she’d been a decent enough actress at one time.
“If I’m so good at tracking, why can’t I go after Mad Dog,” he reminded her. “That could net us each a nice payoff.”
Leslie sighed with disgust. “Let it go, Braddock. I’m not helping you cripple yourself for life.” She flipped through the first stack of hundred-dollar bills, as if mentally counting, but he had a feeling she had something else on her mind. “You still seeing Brenda Carlisle?”
“Occasionally. Why?”
Leslie’s lips curved in a rueful smile. “This town isn’t good for you anymore, Cord. Some friendly advice? Get the hell out while you still can.”
He knew she meant well. Brenda was just like the rest of the women in his circle, a circle getting smaller by the day. She was a taker. And lately he had less to give. He shouldn’t resent Leslie’s concern. She was the closest person he had to a friend. He did, anyway.
Clutching the back of the leather guest chair, he watched her lay the two stacks of bills on her desk and then slowly push them toward him.
Hesitating, he tightened his grip. The late afternoon sun filtered through the tinted window and caught his watch. The gold gleamed under the beam of sunlight. Damn, he didn’t want to have to pawn it again.
Cord clenched his jaw, and reached for the money. Only a year ago he’d been sitting on top of the world, his phone ringing off the hook with job offers and A-list party invitations. Then one wrecked shoulder and it had all come to this. His pride was as fragile as the colored beads his grandmother had strung to keep food on their table. And here he was, accepting charity.
2
SHE WAS A SLY ONE, that Leslie. Cord shook his head as he sank to the edge of his bed, irrationally annoyed at the plushness of the burgundy comforter his interior decorator had insisted upon, and pulled off his boots. Not only had Leslie slipped him enough money to pay next month’s rent, but she’d also effectively stopped him from chasing down Mad Dog.
The guy was big and mean but dumb as they came. Wearily, his gaze went to the leather duffel bag sitting on the floor near his walk-in closet. He still hadn’t checked on flights to Deadwood. Going there would appease Leslie, but be a huge waste of his time. He laughed humorlessly. Time was about the only thing he had lately. No money. No prospects. Just a hoity-toity apartment he could no longer afford.
He could downsize, get a cheaper one bedroom in Culver City. Unload some of the furniture through one of those fancy consignment shops. Getting rid of some of this stuff wouldn’t kill him. But the Porsche…
Man, he loved that car.
Even after two years he got a kick out of how valet parkers rushed to the curb when he pulled up. Nah, the car was a deal breaker. He had to do whatever it took to keep her.
He kicked his boots in the direction of the armoire, and then lay back and closed his eyes. The air conditioner kicked on with a low hum and he knew he should get up and close the window. Better yet, turn off the air. Eighteen years he’d been away from the reservation and he still hadn’t acquired a taste for the indoors. He liked an actual breeze skimming his face.
Summers on the reservation had been hotter than hell itself. Burning wood to cook hadn’t helped. Come winter, the mountain of wood Cord kept chopped and the scratchy handmade wool blankets were the only things that kept them warm. His grandmother never complained. Not even when, at seven, Cord had been dropped at her doorstep because his mother had died in a car accident and his father didn’t want to be saddled with a kid.
Cord never thought about his old man, but his grandmother, Masi, he still missed. Diabetes stole her from him two days after he’d turned fifteen. The image of his grandmother’s cold limp body came unbidden and he ruthlessly dismissed it. He’d been clutching her hand for over an hour before his friend Bobby Blackhawk had found him huddled next to her corpse.
The next day Cord had left the reservation. Hadn’t even waited for her burial. Even now, years later, he couldn’t figure out why and the thought still got to him. There was nothing in his useless life he’d regretted more than missing her funeral. Not even the fact that he hadn’t finished high school and hadn’t gotten his GED until he was twenty-two. And only then because he’d been badgered into it by Madeleine Sweeney. But he’d owed the woman. Big-time. Owed her his life, probably.
After three harsh years in L.A., she’d been the first person to really give a damn about him. Sure, he’d tackled the guy who tried ripping off her purse at the sidewalk bistro where she’d been lunching and Cord had been busing tables. But she’d had megabucks and an important producer husband, and she could’ve just as easily given Cord her thanks instead of the introduction that led to his lucrative job as a stuntman.
Sadly, he had attended her funeral last year. The emotional ceremony and church full of mourners had brought up a whole mess of shit he didn’t want to think about. He rolled over onto his stomach, a sudden image of his grandmother’s brown face wreathed in a smile so vivid his breath caught.
He opened his eyes, blinked and then squeezed them shut again, burying his face deeper into the soft comforter.
That had been happening a lot lately. Fleeting memories of her that unsettled him. Last month he’d even foolishly thought he’d caught a glimpse of her standing near a street vendor’s cart on Olvera Street. Madeleine’s untimely death had obviously kicked up a lot of guilt no matter how much he reasoned with himself that he hadn’t actually abandoned Masi. She’d been dead. Gone. Before he’d ever set foot off the reservation.
If anything, she’d abandoned him.
The crazy thought came out of nowhere. She hadn’t chosen to leave him. If she’d had it in her power to stay, she would’ve protected him from the hate and bigotry he encountered after he’d left the Dine. If she hadn’t died, he may never have left at all.
Funny, as a rebellious teen he’d ridiculed the language and customs of the Dine, but even today he thought of them in terms of the Navajo word they called themselves. Dine. The People. It came as naturally to him as breathing. Without resentment. Without judgment.
Besides, he’d never had any quarrel with the Dine. He had some fond memories of days spent swimming in the river and fishing with Bobby Blackhawk, sleeping outside under the stars and sitting around a campfire repeating old Navajo legends they’d heard from the elders.
But he didn’t kid himself that he would’ve been content to stay on the reservation even if his grandmother had lived longer.