"Let me put it another way. You've got a girlfriend with Mob connections. She also has an obsession about this biker gang, the Berdoo Jesters."
"The sheriff told you this?"
"Don't worry about who told me. If you want me to work with you, you'd better haul your head out of your ass."
A drunk cowboy in front of us heard the last statement and turned around and grinned.
"How about saving it till later?" I said to Temple.
"Fine," she replied, and sipped from her soda can, her throat streaked with color.
I touched her on the top of her hand in hopes she would look back at me. But she didn't.
The crowd out on the dance slab was hard-core working class: truck drivers, horse wranglers, waitresses, gypo loggers, Indian feed growers, bale buckers, 4-H kids, women who drank beer with one hand and smoked with the other while they bumped rumps, petty criminals scrolled with jailhouse art, barroom strippers dancing for their own gender with undisguised erotic joy, a group of fist-fighting drunks charter-bused from a saloon, and three Indians who kept squatting down below eye level to inhale huge mouthfuls of white smoke off a crack pipe.
Then I saw my son dancing with Sue Lynn Big Medicine, like kids from the early fifties. She wore a black cowboy hat and a denim shirt with the sleeves cut off at the armpits and black jeans that were dusty in the rump. She danced close to Lucas without actually touching his body, her blond-streaked hair hanging to her shoulders, her chin lifted in the air. With each beat in the music she raised one booted foot behind her, her Roman profile opaque, the brim of his hat touching hers when he leaned over her, his shadow like a protective screen between her and the glare of the world.
"You going to talk to me at all?" I said to Temple.
She finished her soda and set the empty can between us. She seemed to concentrate on the stage. "Was Haggard really in the pen?" she said.
"Yeah, Quentin or Folsom."
"I don't think he's the only graduate here. Take a look at that bunch by the side of the stage," she said.
Three head-shaved, bare-chested young men, wearing laced, steel-toed boots and bleached jeans without belts, were drinking canned beer and watching the dancers from the edge of the cement slab. Their skin was jailhouse white, emblazoned with swastikas and red and black German crosses, their torsos plated and tapered with the muscle development of dedicated, on-the-yard bench pressers. Each wore a stubble mustache and goatee, so that his mouth looked like a dirty hole leering out of the whiteness of his face.
"Is that Carl Hinkel with them?" Temple said.
"That's the man. The George Lincoln Rockwell of the Bitterroot Valley."
Then two other men walked from the rest room area and joined them. One was a slender kid with glasses and a crooked smile on his mouth, an ever-present facial insult that allowed him to offend others without giving them sufficient provocation to tear him apart. His companion had large, wide-set teeth and virtually colorless eyes and wore a flowered green shirt with purple garters on the sleeves, a polished rodeo buckle against his corrugated stomach, and new, stiff jeans that were hitched tightly around his genitalia.
Temple was watching my face. "What's wrong?" she asked.
"That's Wyatt Dixon. I can't think of a worse time for that guy to show up."
Dixon had seen Lucas and Sue Lynn out on the dance slab. He put a cigar into his mouth and popped a kitchen match on his thumbnail and cupped the flame to the cigar in the shadow of his hat. He stood duck-footed, smoking, an amused light in his face, and watched Lucas and Sue Lynn dance. Then he walked out onto the slab, his shoulders pushing aside anyone who chanced to move into his path.
When, as a father, do you intervene in your son's life and perhaps steal his self-respect? I'd never had an answer to that question.
"I'll be back," I said to Temple, and walked down the wood stairs onto the cement slab.
Dixon stood inches from Lucas and Sue Lynn, his back to me, saying something I couldn't hear. But I saw the heat climb into Sue Lynn's face and the bewilderment in Lucas's.
"You want to talk to me, Mr. Dixon?" I said.
He screwed his head around, his cigar clenched in his teeth, his profiled right eye like a clear glass bubble.
"I declare, people from all walks of life has shown up here tonight. It ain't accident you and the boy favor, is it?" he said.
"How about I buy you a beer?" I said.
"No, thank you, sir. I aim to dance. Sue Lynn don't mind. She and me has bellied up before in what you might call private-type situations."
Lucas's hat was pushed back on his head and his hands hung awkwardly at his sides. There were red circles, like apples, in his cheeks.
"What's with you, man?" he said to Wyatt Dixon.