Trust Me

by Richard Z. Santos

  “You’re asking for all of San Miguel’s land?” Jordan asked.

  “No, ma’am.” Rey pulled out a surveyor’s map. “This marks out the land that the San Miguel Apaches are entitled to.”

  “And I’m sure it happens to include highway access and the airport site.” Salazar dropped her pencil on the table.

  “There are nine recognized Apache tribes in the United States,” Jordan said. “Two of them already have land in New Mexico. How could they all have forgotten the San Miguel Apaches?”

  Charles spoke up. “Gentlemen, I also think we’ve lost sight of the issue that first brought you to our attention and to the attention of the media.”

  One of the younger men wearing a flannel shirt spoke up. “We are entitled to that land. Many of the men who joined Geronimo’s fight were San Miguel Apaches. They left their home and were murdered by the US Army.”

  “Excuse me, once again,” Salazar said. “I’m trying to follow along. Correct me, if you will. The claim is that you deserve the land. Is there a legal aspect to your argument or is this about giving you something because you asked nicely?”

  Rey shifted in his chair so he could face Salazar. The big man looked contorted and uncomfortable. The focus of the room shifted away from Charles and Rey towards her in the corner. It was a brilliant move and it seemed so obvious now.

  She continued before anyone could respond. “We can come back to that question, I suppose.”

  “There are complicated tribal feuds and land disputes that go back thousands of years. It is our contention that the San Miguel Apaches were driven from their land first by local tribes, and then the US Army finished the job. Now, they are back.”

  “When did the local tribes drive the San Miguel Apaches from their land?” Jordan asked.

  “The first expulsion occurred in the late 1700s, and the final removal was completed in the late 1800s.”

  There was silence around the table. Charles had trouble following all the details, but it was clear the men in suits next to Rey looked nervous, like something was slipping through their fingers.

  “So . . .” Charles said. “If this started happening two hundred years ago, how do these men know they’re related to what you claim is a lost tribe?”

  “That’s exactly what I was wondering,” Salazar said.

  “They’ve gone through the painstaking effort of re-creating tribal genealogy. Each of the people listed in this suit is related to a group of Apaches who were living on your construction site before the first expulsion. Construction on this airport must stop immediately because it was not San Miguel’s land to sell. It has never been San Miguel land. It is Apache land. Once the property rights have been reestablished and the government has redistributed the land to the San Miguel Apaches, these men here today, then we can discuss whether or not we are willing to do business with your group.”

  “We’ve cleared that land and prepped it for development,” Salazar said.

  “The county already bought the land and handed it over to us,” Charles added. “Is there a settlement that can be reached? Maybe a certain outlay of funds to an organization that represents . . .”

  “We’re not after a payoff,” Rey said. “The county bought that land from someone not authorized to sell it. We plan on taking ownership. How San Miguel reimburses your investors is up to their tribal council.”

  “You do know they’ve paved roads, built health clinics and new schools with that money,” Jordan said. “Half of it has been spent.”

  “The transfer of money between your organization and the San Miguel Pueblo is not our concern. You can try to get your money back, I suppose. But if I sell you the deed to Manhattan, the Mayor of New York won’t give you his sympathies.”

  “You’re taking away San Miguel’s future,” Jordan said.

  Charles jumped in again. “A settlement offer could be arranged.”

  “Your organization did not do the proper research,” Rey said. “We did not expect your organization to hand over the land. So, in an hour, we are filing this suit with the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the US Attorney General’s Office and the proper local authorities.”

  Rey zipped his bag shut, but Salazar stood up a fraction of a second faster. It looked comic, this scramble to be the first to adjourn the meeting, but Charles knew it was important.

  “We still haven’t discussed the issue of Geronimo,” Charles said again.

  “I have a feeling Geronimo is resting peacefully in Oklahoma,” Salazar said. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Geronimo was a prisoner of war buried in alien territory. Our documentation on Geronimo’s request to be buried in his homeland has been released to the press,” Rey said. “I’m sure if you open any news site you’ll be able to read all about it.”

  “Of course,” Salazar smiled and shook each man’s hand like the meeting had gone according to plan.

  The three Apache men trailed behind Rey. Salazar walked them to the front door, while Charles and Jordan remained in the conference room.

  “And you thought we were about to lose our jobs,” Jordan said.

  Charles looked at his notebook. All he had written was, “a billion in investments.” He had been sliding around like a kid on ice skates. These guys never raised their voices or broke a sweat. The meeting lasted less than ten minutes, but they’d blown up everyone’s plans and had started a forest fire with Cody Branch’s money. It was hard not to be impressed.

  Salazar came back into the conference room. Charles could feel her suppressed anger.

  “They’re aggressive,” she said. “Next meeting, we need to start with a number so big it’ll shake their conviction. If we get two or three of those guys willing to take a couple million, then the rest will crumble.”

  “Where’s that going to come from?” Charles asked. “Surely Branch won’t pay it all himself.”

  “There are investors devoted to clearing this up. The money will be there.”

  “San Miguel will be ruined,” Jordan said. “No one will work with them while this is happening. All those improvements, the school, everything will stop until this is settled.”

  Salazar spoke over her concerns. “If these guys are serious about this lawsuit, about petitioning the government, it’ll take years. We just dealt with a tribe down south, seventeen members, who spent a decade trying to convince the US government they were real. And that was down south, away from the press, away from our delightfully liberal Santa Fe.”

  “Away from the ghost of Geronimo,” Charles said. “That’s not his body, is it?”

  “I don’t think it matters,” Salazar said. “It’s a great hook, but the press hasn’t bit. If that changes, then this made-up tribe just became the most famous Natives in the country. We have to settle with them before the press decides to take this seriously.”

  The three sat in silence for a few moments. Charles decided to take a swing.

  “Why do we have to work with San Miguel?”

  Jordan didn’t even look up from her notes. “A little thing called ‘contracts,’” she said. “We gave them money. We gave them a cut of future airport profit.”

  Salazar put a hand along her hairline and looked down at her phone.

  Charles knew he could keep pushing this, or he could be timid, fold, let someone else take the lead.

  “But, let’s say we agree with the Apaches,” he said. “If we discover that it actually is their land, not San Miguel’s, then can’t we get the contracts nullified? We give the Apaches San Miguel’s original share of future profit, maybe a few more points to sweeten it all, and move on with this tribe and not the original one. What’s the difference?”

  Jordan spoke up. “The difference is that San Miguel will sue us, San Miguel will be ruined and we’d have broken our word.”

  “San Miguel gets to keep the money they were already given. They lose future profits, that’s all.” Charles looked to Salazar, but she kept her head down.

  “It’ll be
expensive,” Charles continued. “And we’ll have to make sure we can work with the Apaches, but this could go away. San Miguel will sue, but they’ll take a settlement because they won’t have a choice. And they’ll be next to a major airport. That’ll save their economy, right? And our long-term plans can still work.”

  Salazar speared Charles with her eyes. Then she stood up, smoothed her dress and pushed her chair back under the table. Jordan looked like she knew something had been left unsaid.

  “I need to talk to Cody,” she said. “You two keep digging into what you can find about these Apaches. Jordan, look at the legal details of our agreement with San Miguel. There may be a clause that can get us out of this. Charles, we need press releases . . . you know the drill: peace, harmony, love, respect. We’re throwing around a lot of big plans like this is our money. Let’s be careful about that. This isn’t east coast politics.”

  Salazar left the room, leaving Charles alone with Jordan.

  “We can’t abandon San Miguel,” she said. “Have you been out there? Seen the pueblo? They need this.”

  “Everyone needs something. I’m focusing on helping our organization.”

  Jordan shook her head and gathered her material. Her top layer of idealism was still thick and healthy. She thought there was a way for everyone to be happy in the end. Charles pitied her for that.

  TWENTY-TWO

  MALLON LIVED IN A DUPLEX half the size of Cody Branch’s roof deck. The place was simple, sparse and perfect for him. Still, he had been gone for days. When the job got busy, it was easier to crash on a guardhouse bunk. The hard canvas cot felt better on his back, and Mallon knew the importance of demonstrating his dedication and respect to the newer guys. Branch kept hiring more security—more than he needed. Most of them were sitting around, eyeing Mrs. Branch on the security monitors or strolling around the property like they were being paid to count mosquitoes.

  The duplex was on Santa Fe’s south side. The drive from Branch’s compound took him from wealth, around the plaza, through the middle-class neighborhoods of coffee shops and yoga studios, and then into the Mexican neighborhoods of car repair joints and burrito places. These were his neighbors, but he never talked to anyone other than Claudia.

  She lived in the other half of the duplex. Her old Ford was in the carport and her kitchen light was on. The first thing he did, before even turning on the light, was unlock the back door. She would hear him through the walls and slide in. That was how they first met. A year ago, she opened her back door, stepped over the two-foot high bush that separated their halves of the yard and walked right in. She asked why she could never hear his TV or any music through the thin walls, almost complaining about the quiet. After that, she came over once a week, and then several times a week, and now she visited pretty much every night he was in.

  The living room smelled musty, so he cracked a window. He switched on all the lights, and when he turned on the swamp cooler, he could smell the moist air flood his home. Mallon had never bothered to replace the old machine with an AC.

  Mallon lined up his shoes near the front door and hung his keys on a plain hook he had twisted into the wall. He walked around the house, making sure everything was as he left it. Even coming home had its own dedicated routine. After looking in on every room, even the empty spare bedroom, he dumped his clothes into the washing machine. The routine and the cleanliness soothed him. Clutter, loose ends, made him jumpy.

  As he was loading the dryer, Claudia crept in the back door and dropped onto the couch. He heard her, of course, even though she made almost no noise. Claudia moved with the kind of practiced quiet he assumed she had needed to learn the hard way. She was holding a six-pack of tall beers and wore a long-sleeve T-shirt underneath a pair of overalls. She cracked a can and rested her sneakers on the arm of the couch.

  “You look like an Amish kid,” Mallon said.

  Claudia took a sip and shook her head. “You have no idea what the Amish look like. Do they even wear denim?”

  “Aren’t you hot?”

  “You keep this place cold. And, one day you’ll get a job where you’re wearing a g-string the whole time, and then I’ll make fun of you for wearing a lot of clothes off-duty.”

  He started the dryer and sat in the chair he bought only after realizing that she tended to take up the whole couch.

  “Here’s where I ask about your day,” Claudia said. “And here’s where you tell me it was fine but don’t really say much of anything at all. Ready? How was your day?”

  “It was fine.”

  He smiled and she played like she was going to kick him. “You are such a jerk.” She held out a beer to him, but Mallon shook his head, as she knew he would. “It’s been longer than usual,” she said. “Three days, easy.”

  Mallon nodded. “Work has been . . . demanding.”

  “I love our conversations because they make me feel so damn psychic. I can see it all.” She balanced the beer against her side and held her fingertips against her temple. “I can see your words before they emerge.”

  “Have you fed the cat?”

  Claudia dropped her hands. The beer can almost tipped over, but she caught it and held it on her stomach. “Damn, I thought you were going to ask about the shooting down the street.”

  “Shooting?”

  “Down the street,” she repeated. “Man got drunk. Man climbed a tree in his own backyard. Neighbor thought it was some kind of home invasion from the air.” She made a cartoon gunshot noise. “Man fell from tree.”

  “That’s funny,” Mallon said with a straight face.

  She laughed. “Yeah, I guess it is. Could have been me. I’ve climbed a tree before. Weird, if you think about it.”

  It had taken Mallon a year to stop being puzzled when Claudia was sarcastic. He trusted that she would help him find his way through her words.

  “I heard some music I liked.” Mallon said it fast, then pulled back, embarrassed. “But, I guess I don’t know the name. It was a woman. Modern, I think, but a little jazzy and . . . dark? Is that . . . is that anything?”

  Claudia smiled but didn’t laugh at him. “That sounds nice. You’ll have to find out who it was. I can download the tracks for you. You can finally use that thing.” She waved her beer at the ancient boom box in the corner.

  It had been a gift from the guys when he quit the Highway Patrol. They had lifted it from the evidence room. She was making a joke. He recognized it and smiled.

  “Tell me another story about your boss,” Claudia whispered. “I should have never told you any of that.”

  “Oh, but you did, and now they’re my favorite thing of anything ever. Tell me one secret. Or, at least tell me about a time he got drunk and fell down.”

  Mallon kept secrets better than anyone he knew. But not from her.

  “He thinks his wife is cheating on him.”

  “Ohhhhh. Tough one. Is she?”

  Mallon folded his hands over his stomach. The movement reminded him of Mr. Branch, and he rearranged his hands. “I don’t know. I hope not. She sleeps in the guest bedroom and is always driving around during the day.”

  “You going to follow her? No, hire me. I’ll follow her. That sounds fun.”

  “You would not be good at that.”

  “What?” Claudia pretended to be shocked. “I am sneaky.”

  “You are. But you’d also want to get coffee and chat with her.”

  Claudia laughed. “Maybe that’s what you should do.”

  “Mrs. Branch does not want to talk to me.”

  “I think you have a crush on her. Steal her away from him. Wow, I bet she’d snag a lot of money in a divorce.”

  Mallon felt embarrassed by Claudia’s mention of Olivia. He stood up, grabbed a paper towel from the kitchen and wrapped it around Claudia’s beer.

  “I don’t want to talk about her. And he’s more scared of strangers swooping in and taking it all than he’s scared of losing her.”

  “If he lost everything, it�
�d be terrible for you.”

  “And a lot of other people.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know ‘other people.’ Who is going to listen to my stories about creepy customers if you have to leave for some new job.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  Claudia looked down at her beer and flicked the tab with her thumb. “You’re barely here now.”

  Mallon swallowed. He had no idea what to do with his guilt. What he had with Claudia wasn’t exactly a relationship but it was the closest thing he had to it, so he held his feeling in his chest and let it burn.

  “He pisses in jars,” Mallon said. “My boss.”

  Claudia’s eyes went wide and her eyebrows shot up. “What the fuck?” Mallon knew that was too much to share, but at least she smiled.

  “When he’s drunk, he doesn’t want to get up anymore, so I bring him an empty jar.”

  Her mouth dropped open.

  “I don’t even know that I can laugh as hard as I need to right now,” she said. “That story has gone the full spectrum, over the bar on the swing-set, through laugher up to some type of higher level.” She scrunched her eyes up and started to snicker. “That’s the grossest, I—I can’t.”

  He smiled. Three days was too long.

  “One day, I’ll be rich enough to piss in jars,” she said.

  Claudia finished her second beer and placed it on the carpet next to the sweating cans. No one else in the world could get away with that in his home.

  She yawned. “I’m sleepy.”

  “I could sleep.”

  “You could, but you don’t ever seem to.”

  “I get enough.”

  Claudia stood up and unbuckled her overalls. She left a trail of clothing that led through the house and into Mallon’s bed. He gathered her clothes, folded them on the couch, then went room to room and shut off the lights. He found a clean undershirt and boxers and changed in the bathroom.