The Lone Ranger And Tonto Fistfight in Heaven

Cover The Lone Ranger And Tonto Fistfight in Heaven
The liquid is pure and irresistible.
    —Adrian C. Louis AFTER SUMMER HEAT and too much coat-pocket whiskey, Dirty Joe passed out on the worn grass of the carnival midway and Sadie and I stood over him, looked down at his flat face, a map for all the wars he fought in the Indian bars. Dirty Joe was no warrior in the old sense. He got his name because he cruised the taverns at closing time, drank all the half-empties and never cared who might have left them there.
“What the hell do we do with h
...im?” I asked Sadie.
“Ah, Victor, let’s leave the old bastard here,” Sadie said, but we both knew we couldn’t leave another Indian passed out in the middle of a white carnival. Then again, we didn’t want to carry his temporarily dead body to wherever it was we were headed next.
“We leave him here and he’s going to jail for sure,” I said.
“Maybe the drunk tank will do him some good,” she said, sat down hard on the grass, her hair falling out of the braid.
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