Officer James takes it slowly, counting his paces down the warped wood planks to the stairway. He passes a room illuminated by the glow of a TV flickering against the drawn curtains, laughter and loud voices. At another room a woman holds a door open for a man carrying a baby in a car seat. An alarm honks from the used- car parking lot, no one nearby.
Although Israel Franklin James is a man of the law, supposedly he's a descendant of Jesse James, hothead outlaw and one- time Missouri boy. He suspects it's just a family myth. Kin always get a little vague when asked for proof, citing some long- lost letter from Independence, Missouri, with Jesse's name on it. Israel figures Jesse wasn't much of a letter writer, what with the bank robbing and all. His hands must have been full, holding six- shooters and bags of cash.
And he doesn't particularly like the name Israel. He's uncomfortable with the biblical, Red Sea tone of it. He isn't a Bible thumper and doesn't want to be confused with one. But a name is a gift one doesn't give back. Friends call him Elray. His sister named him that. She gave it a hillbilly twang, just to yank his chain.
Elray hears bedlam before he reaches the top of the stairs. A man and woman both talking at once is what he'd say with his eyes closed, which they are in effect, just a pair of voices somewhere above and down the breezeway to the right. The woman raises hers loud and clear, calling for the comfort of the public sphere.
You touch me I'll scream, she says.
Nobody's touching nobody, the man says. Touching time is over and out.
Possession is nine- tenths of the law, says the woman.
Yeah, well, the other tenth is what matters, and it's my grandmother's ring. So turn it over already.
You don't scare me.
Give it back and let's just close this door and move on. That's what we're going to do here, less you got twenty grand cash to buy it straight out.
You're crazy.
Right. You don't have it, do you?
I have a ring is what I have. A diamond ring you gave me. Fair and square.
You got a broken heart and a rock that don't belong to you, is what you got.
Jack Brown is breathing hard and pulls his asthma inhaler out and takes a breath as he watches the law approach.
Come on, now, Brown says to the woman. You're making a spectacle of yourself.
She sees Elray and her eyes stay on him as she speaks. Don't tell me to clean it up. You're the dirty one, not me.
Brown holds her elbow. Great, he says. Now you're going to end up in court. Everybody's going to get a good laugh.
See here, says Elray. Let's you two just calm down and be nice.
Brown shakes his head. We got no use for you here, Officer. Just a civilized disagreement is all.
That's a lie, says the woman, trying to twist away from his grip on her arm. He's trying to take my engagement ring is what he's doing.
That's between us, Becca.
I'll be the judge of that, says Elray. Let her arm go why don't you?
Brown doesn't budge. This is my grandmother's ring.
I don't give a shit whose it is. I said let the woman go.
I'm not letting her take my—
In two steps Elray has Brown's ear in his right hand, twisting.
Pardon? says Elray. I don't think I heard you right.
He gave this ring to me, says the woman. He gave it to me, she repeats. He called it off but once you give an engagement ring you don't take it back.
Jack Brown grimaces from his ear being twisted. That ring cost twenty thousand dollars, he pleads, his breath wheezy. It's over, right? Well, I can't be paying twenty thousand dollars for two months of her time, now, can I?
I told you to let go of her, says Elray. This ain't tag- team wrestling, shithead. Let go before a judge sorts things out not to your liking.
You want this ring? asks the woman. She puts her ring finger into her mouth. She sucks for a moment, squeezes her eyes shut tight, then pulls the ring off her finger with her free hand and holds it out. Is this what you want?
Becca? Don't mess with me.
It's mine, she says. It's mine to do with what I want. She holds the diamond ring between her index finger and thumb. As if to assay its value. As if to offer it in auction. Or to hock at a pawnshop. For a brief moment. Then she smiles and moves to put the ring into her mouth.
Brown tries to grab her hand and snatch the ring but misses and stumbles, Elray still holding on to his ear.
Are you crazy? He tries to jam his fingers into her mouth. A confused struggle, his voice cursing her. Elray pins Brown by the neck against the rough wood siding of the motel wall. Brown's baseball cap cants sideways at a comical angle. Elray feels the flex of a windpipe. Brown's face goes purple.
Whoever you think you're dealing with here, says Elray, you are mistaken. I am a horse cop, yes. That's who I am. Who are you? You're the jailhound who just resisted arrest.
He thinks he knows everything and everyone, says the woman. He's walking poison is what he is.
Brown's gasps, his tongue visible in mouth agape. He seems to be shaking his head, grabbing at Elray's left arm with both hands. His hat falls and the woman catches it in the air, flings it backward over the railing. It lands brim down in an oily puddle. Brown continues to struggle. Elray pulls him forward a space and slams him back against the wall. His eyes bulge. He raises his hands.
That's probably good, now, says the woman. She touches Elray's arm. I don't want you making trouble for yourself. Come on, now.
I let you go, you going to touch this woman again?
Brown does the best head shake he can, his neck pinned and his face gone purple.
Elray loosens his hold and steps back, one hand held out as if to ward off a wild vengeance swing. Brown gasps and hunches over, wheezing, his lungs loosing a high- pitched hiss. He scrabbles on his knees for a moment, a squirming ball of faded western shirt and blue jeans, working the inhaler out of his pocket and into his mouth.
Oh, good Lord, says the woman. She kneels beside Jack Brown and strokes his forehead as he wheezes. Every time he tries to play the badass, his asthma acts up.
Elray watches crestfallen, afraid now that this little dustup is turning into something ugly and complicated. Domestics are always like this: One minute you think it's over, the next you're rushing a shirtless drunk to the St. Mary's ER or answering questions at a disciplinary hearing.
He going to be okay?
I think so. The woman helps Jack Brown sit up. He just can't breathe is all.
Elray asks for their names and an explanation of the dispute. Hers is Rebecca Cisneros, friends called her Becca. Long black hair like a show horse's mane and high cheekbones. She's the kind of woman who could be the mother of beautiful children or the teller of a First National Bank. Or end up broadcast on the Internet in a sex video shot in a no- tell motel like the Buffalo Head Inn, with bad lighting, shag carpet, a painting of elk and pines on the wall, and beneath her naked skin an ugly bedspread.
When he can talk Jack Brown says, My name is Smith. He stares at Becca as he says this.
Smith? Elray repeats. First name?
William. That's right. A vein pulses down the middle of Brown's pale forehead, and at each breath he grimaces. I'm guessing you've probably heard my name before.
Elray looks him straight in the eyes and does not blink. Sounds like an alias.