All the Beautiful Sinners. Stephen Graham Jones

it on the counter for her.

      “Him?” he asked.

      The girl looked down at the grainy face: the longhair looking back, into Gentry’s dash camera.

      “This a joke?” the girl said.

      “It’s not me,” Jim Doe said. He’d had to say it in Montezuma and in Jetmore and in Bazine already. He knew he should have gone to Oklahoma, too. That’s where everybody else was, working with the tribal police, stopping every blue Impala with an Indian driver, and hitting the barbershops too. Because maybe he’d changed his appearance. Become Jim Doe, to hide.

      The girl was smiling now. “He supposed to have come through here or something?” she asked.

      “Nebraska plates,” Jim Doe said.

      “You’re from Texas,” the girl said.

      Jim Doe nodded.

      “But you’re Indian,” she said.

      “Blackfeet, yeah.”

      She laughed some. “Let me see your hands,” she said.

      Jim Doe did, unsure, keeping his elbows close to his ribs. She pulled his hands the rest of the way across the counter, turned one over then the other. Shrugged.

      “Yeah,” she said. “One of my boyfriends was from Browning. It’s something about the fingers with you Piegan”—she rolled her eyes when she said it, like she’d been trained to say it like that, pay-gun—“how they look at certain angles.”

      Jim Doe looked at them, his hands.

      “What are you doing down here, though?” she asked. “Long way from Montana, cowboy. Yeah?”

      Jim Doe flattened the copy of the face on the counter.

      “This isn’t about Montana,” he told her. “It’s about Texas. Listen, just—have you seen him?”

      She looked down. Shook her head no.

      “I should have xeroxed his hands, right?” Jim Doe said, refolding the flyer.

      She rang up his coffee and he held both cups close to his stomach and opened the door with his back, nodding bye to the girl at the last possible instant. He was glad to have the coffee in his hands, too. Because she would have been looking at them.

      In the parking lot, the old man was standing there, switching from foot to foot.

      Jim Doe tried walking to his truck. He could feel the old man watching him, measuring his steps. Finally he turned to him.

      The old man was smiling.

      Gove. Somebody should have warned him about this Gove.

      He offered one of the cups to the old man, already shuffling across the parking lot, taking it in both hands. The steam from the coffee caressed the old man’s face. He said something in some kind of Indian to Jim Doe.

      “No problem,” Jim Doe said, lifting his cup—you’re welcome.

      The old man looked over at the idling Bronco.

      “Where you going?” he said. In English.

      Jim Doe lifted his cup to his mouth.

      “You?” he asked.

      One side of the old man’s mouth hooked up into a smile. “North,” he said. “Home.”

      Jim Doe looked north.

      “Sorry,” he said to the old man.

      The old man shrugged, raised his cup in thanks for the coffee.

      Alone in his truck, Jim Doe sat there taking small, hot sips.

      The old man was just standing by the ice machine again. Waiting for Jim Doe to go south. The way he had to have seen the Bronco just come from.

      The girl was reading her magazine.

      Jim Doe backed out, slid to a slow, drifting stop, and crawled the Bronco to the front of the parking lot.

      He’d already been south, was the thing.

      He shook his head, said to himself what the hell, clipping the words in his head, and reached over for the passenger side door handle. The wind opened it, flung it as far as the hinge went, but the old man didn’t step in. Jim Doe looked in the rearview mirror—empty?—so he turned around, to look through the back glass. Nothing.

      “Old Indian trick,” he said to himself, smiling—it was an Eastwood line, maybe—then popped first gear to close the door, and had to slam the brakes before he could even get the clutch back down.

      The old man was standing right in front of him. Still holding his coffee.

      The truck was dead, the headlights paler for it.

      “That face you’re looking for,” the old man said from the passenger seat, two miles closer to 70. “He’s Indian, enit?”

      Jim Doe nodded. “My brother,” he said, half a joke.

      The old man looked hard at the shotgun locked in place between them, aimed up at the sky, then raised his cup, took a long drink.

      “Only one place to be if you’re Indian tonight,” he said, and winked at Jim Doe. “Put your ear to the ground, man, you can hear it.”

      SIX30 March 1999, Garden City, Kansas

      Three hours after letting him into the Bronco, Jim Doe and the old man pulled into Garden City. It was back to the south, towards 156. The wrong way. There were already flyers of the longhair in the windows of some of the stores. Jim Doe had taped them there. The high school the old man directed them to was circled by probably eighty cars. They were Indian-issue. Hardly any of the fenders matched, and the only speed they had was leaning forward all the way, somebody’s hands on the wheel at one and eleven, just wide enough for them to set their face, see. Jim Doe had heard some joke like that. People were always bringing them to him, Indian jokes, like he was supposed to laugh. He never could remember them until it was too late, though—until whoever’d brought it was leaned back, launching off into the punch line. Then he’d get it, Jim Doe, dread it, turn away because he’d always thought the side profile of his smile was less insincere than head-on.

      Garden City. Like Eden.

      Jim Doe trolled up one aisle of cars and down the other, and suddenly, impossibly, close enough that it had to have gotten there early, there it was: the Impala. Different plates, but the pattern of rips in the rotted vinyl top was burned into the back of Jim Doe’s retinas. And there was a ragged dog nosing around the trunk, already slinking off.

      The old man looked behind them and beside them when Jim Doe killed the truck right behind the Impala. He looked over to Jim Doe.

      “You sure?” he asked.

      Jim Doe nodded.

      Jim Doe climbed down into the parking lot. He’d parked close enough to the Impala that he had to leave his door open for the old man to come out his side. He didn’t wait for him.

      The car.

      He ran his hand over its lines, the tips of his fingers not even touching the snow enough to mark it. He wanted to call the DPS, the FBI, an airstrike. And Agnes. But bringing a white cop in an Indian place like this. Or, cops. All the men would fold themselves into lockers, spin the locks from the inside, stay there as long as they had to. And he wanted to bring him in himself, anyway, the longhair.

      The rear door was still dented where Gentry had thrown him into it.

      The steering wheel was rubbed shiny across the horn, right where your palms would rest if you were wearing handcuffs.

      There was no rearview mirror.

      Jim Doe looked up, remembering he wasn’t alone here. Not quite. The old man was standing off, one car over.

      “Thanks,”