Day of the Dead

by R. Allen Chappell

  Day of the Dead

  R. Allen Chappell

  Dedication

  This series is dedicated to those Diné who still follow the Beauty Way—and while their numbers are fewer each year—they remain the well from which the People draw strength and feed the Hozo that binds them together.

  Copyright © 2018 R. Allen Chappell

  All rights reserved

  First Edition

  6-19-18

  No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form, including electronic media, without express permission of the author or his agent.

  Acknowledgments

  Again, many sincere thanks to those Navajo friends and classmates who provide “grist for the mill.” Their insight into Navajo thought and reservation life helped fuel a lifelong interest in the culture, one I once only observed from the other side of the fence.

  Cover painting by Catalina Felkins

  Cover graphics and layout by Marraii Design

  Author’s Note

  In the back pages, you will find a small glossary of Navajo words and terms used in this story, the spelling of which may vary somewhat, depending on which expert’s opinion is referenced.

  Table of Contents

  The Pact

  Déjà vu

  The Trap

  The Sing

  The Calling

  Underworld

  The Fuse

  The Plant

  The Chase

  The Trouble

  Blood Ties

  Insurrection

  Lucky 7

  Salvation

  The Offer

  Resurrection

  The Supposition

  The Follower

  The Meeting

  The Run

  Capitulation

  Approbation

  Epilogue

  Glossary

  The Pact

  “Carlos needs a good killing.” Tressa was not one to sugarcoat a thing and this was how she put it to Little Abe.

  Abraham Garza, fresh up from Mexico and already in love with the woman, didn’t even blink. Where he grew up, threatening to kill a person was common enough. Tressa Tarango, however, actually meant to kill Carlos—he was pretty sure of it now—this wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned it. Little Abe didn’t even want to know why. One thing he did know—she wouldn’t be telling him if he wasn’t to have a hand in it.

  “Well, that might make his Uncle Hector unhappy?” Little Abe had no use for Carlos Espinosa, but killing him outright might have more serious consequences than she knew. This wasn’t Mexico, after all. Here, they don’t just put you in jail; they might just decide to kill you, too. Mexico, rough though it is, does not have a death penalty, or at least not an official one.

  Tressa narrowed an eye at the dining room door and slashed the air with the edge of her hand. “Hector Espinosa is no better than his nephew.” She turned to look Little Abe in the eye and lowered her voice. “Maybe you’re right, Abraham. Maybe Hector, needs killing, too.” She said this as though it had been Little Abe’s idea to start with. “We should kill them both,” she whispered.

  “We…?” Abe was now certain she considered him part of it and dared think their relationship was progressing. But it made him just a little uncomfortable, too Un poquito nervioso en la cabeza, as his old grandmother would say—a little bit crazy in the head. There were so many people depending on him. I am only a busboy for Christ’s sake… sometimes not even that…sometimes I am just the dishwasher.

  Tressa Tarango had grown even more attractive with time—it happens—and those so lucky may consider themselves among the chosen few. Abraham thought her the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Still, he hadn’t signed on for killing; it was just the trap he’d left Sinaloa to avoid.

  This job was supposed to be a foothold in a new life—that’s how Little Abe looked at it. That’s what his father told him. Something better than filling an early grave down in Sinaloa… “Eventually, it could lead to something big,” his papá said.

  Espinosa’s Cantina y Restaurante was easy work to Abe’s way of thinking, and the money was good, too. He knew people back home who would kill for an opportunity such as this. No Señor! Tressa, or no Tressa, this talk of killing would require some thought. It might be all right to do away with Carlos, but Hector Espinosa was his father’s childhood friend and down in Sinaloa that still meant something. It was only by that grace his papá was able to wrangle such a favor for him. Señor Espinosa even put up the money for a coyotero to lead him north. Granted, he was required to deliver a certain suitcase—a suitcase worth considerably more than Little Abe himself—and he was well aware, should anything go wrong it would be him left holding the bag, in a manner of speaking.

  “Don’t screw this up, Mijo,” was his father’s last blessing. “This can work into something really big for you up there.” And that’s when he said it: “Here in Sinaloa you will most likely just fill an early grave.” The old man paused, scratching at his chin with a ragged fingernail as he considered his son for what might be the last time. Little Abe was his only hope and it brought a tear to think this boy was all that stood between him and an uncertain old age. True, he didn’t need much, a couple of milpas for a little corn and beans, maybe a few chickens. No more than that. The elder Abraham, now forced to look back over a lifetime in so dangerous a business, was amazed at how little he had to show for it. Little Abe was indeed his final play.

  When old Abraham Garza handed his son the battered suitcase, he chose each word as though his life depended on it. “Should you do anything to anger those people up there, Abraham—no matter, if it is your fault, or their fault, or even nobody’s fault—it will be your old papá’s head on the chopping block.” There was a tremor in the old man’s voice and he pulled a long face for the boy. “I am only hanging on by my toenails with these people as it is, Abraham.” He frowned, shaking his head and then, lowering his voice to a deadly whisper, leaned closer to the boy. “One word from ‘El Escuche’ Espinosa…and you will have no more papá—no one to look out for you and love you as I have.” He said this with such finality as to leave no doubt whatsoever in his son’s mind.

  Tressa watched as Little Abe thought his way through the implications of her latest proposal and thought she saw a flicker of hesitation, fleeting and dark as a bat out of hell, but a warning, nonetheless. It is only right he should be cautious, she reasoned. This is not, after all, a small undertaking. She knew to consider it less might indicate a lack of intelligence on the boy’s part. Without Little Abe, her task would be daunting, if not impossible. Evil and conniving people were all around her, watching her every move. No, clearly, this simple young man from Sinaloa was a godsend.

  “So, you think we got to kill ‘em both? Maybe killing only Carlos could be enough?” No one liked Carlos Espinosa anyway.

  She sighed, “No, I don’t think so, Hombrecito.” Then smiling, she shook her head in such a way he might realize how foolish the question was.

  It was obvious to Little Abe; planning the Espinosas’ death bothered Tressa no more than wringing the neck of a yard chicken for the dinner table. Abraham sighed. The woman was right, of course; Hector, left alive, wouldn’t rest until he brought them both to ground and it probably wouldn’t take him very long either.

  If there was one thing Tressa Tarango learned from her late husband it was that a hurtful act must never go unpunished. “If you let something like this pass, you will always be at that person’s mercy.” This was how Luca Tarango thought. He was a man who lived by few rules, but this, and one other, he held inviolate. “On the other hand,” he would remind her, “should you be shown a kindness, there is an obligation to repay that favor as well, else you will fore
ver be in that person’s debt. Both good and evil deserve reward and repayment in the spirit they were offered.” Luca Tarango was a hard man and knew what it took to survive among rough people. Over the years she had come to realize there was an undeniable wisdom in his thinking. Tressa hadn’t forgotten these things, she was only biding her time…waiting for the right moment, and now the time of reckoning had come. Debts accrue interest; especially those owed to a man such as Luca Tarango.

  Little Abe turned back to his sink of dirty dishes and a little bead of cold sweat ran down his back as he thought of his old father in Sinaloa. The old man was probably right, it wouldn’t matter whose fault it was. Something bad would happen eventually. He knew now he was in it for real.

  Tressa smiled as she watched him take an empty tray to the dining room and congratulated herself; he was exactly the person she needed.

  As the door swung open, Tressa could hear laughter and polite applause as Carlos Espinosa’s guitar music ended. He had been a lawyer, and a drunk, back in Mexico, her husband’s lawyer, and later, her lover. Here, he was just a drunk who worked odd jobs for his uncle, and played a little guitar music for the customers.

  When first they met in his seedy little office behind Mercado Central, she was hesitant, thought meeting with the young lawyer a mistake. Yet despite his shabby surroundings, Carlos was undeniably charming and spoke in so elegant a manner Tressa could not help being encouraged and was compelled to explain her situation.

  The attorney listened politely to the halting, sometimes tearful, account of her husband’s plight, smiling encouragement from time to time, as he scribbled away at a little pad. When she finished Carlos began speaking, and so eloquently she was left with little doubt of his abilities. Coming around the desk he patted her shoulder as he described several similar cases, and all with happy endings. Going over his notes, the lawyer allowed as how her husband’s charges were not so serious that a man of his talents couldn’t bring the matter to a speedy and agreeable conclusion. Of course, a certain amount of money would be required, upfront, to grease a few palms along the way, which he declared, would be offset by keeping his own fee to a minimum, a mere trifle, relatively speaking. Tressa, comforted by such generosity, was now totally convinced this handsome young counselor was the solution.

  When eventually Carlos learned Tressa had money put back, and a nice little casita to boot, the man became even more solicitous. He sensed opportunity here, something well beyond stringing her husband along in what he already knew to be an impossible legal entanglement.

  Only days later, the young attorney—retainer safely in pocket—approached Tressa with a far more troubling outlook, explaining with downcast eyes that her husband’s case had become more complicated. There were, apparently, other charges pending—more serious charges that might not be so easily resolved.

  The wife and the lawyer met with the unfortunate Luca at the prison; there, Carlos went so far as to advise the man he might be better off to plead guilty, gain favor with the prosecution, who in turn might speak on his behalf.

  “I think we can make a deal,” the lawyer assured him. “We cannot win this thing outright, Luca. But if you throw yourself on the mercy of the court the judge may go easy on you and most likely consider a lighter sentence.”

  Luca didn’t like the idea, but he was not an educated man—who was he to say how these things worked? His wife seemed satisfied this Carlos Espinosa knew what he was talking about; this was all he had to go on.

  The lawyer’s sights were now zeroed in on his client’s young wife, and with the added inducement of a dowry of sorts, she was seen to be even more desirable than he’d first imagined. Carlos plied his wiles of persuasion and in very little time Tressa Tarango was completely won over to his new plan.

  Faced with the cold bare facts of the business it was not hard for Tressa to envision a better life with Carlos Espinosa. She was not getting any younger, she thought and looks do not last forever.

  “Up north,” Carlos assured her, “we can build a future together, one without fear of reprisal.” Tressa, convinced now that waiting for Luca could only leave her an embittered old woman, became more and more certain this handsome and fine talking lawyer was her best option.

  As it later turned out, the judge did not look kindly on Luca Tarango and his sentence, when it came, was even more severe than anyone could have anticipated.

  Nothing seemed to work as Carlos said it would, and Luca was now faced with twenty years in the most notorious of Mexican prisons. The day following the verdict, Luca received a brief note from his wife saying he should not worry; his lawyer would appeal. Then without warning, Tressa’s visits to the prison abruptly ended. Weeks passed and still Luca heard nothing. Finally, there did come word from relatives that his wife had sold their house, and along with his lawyer, fled north to the Estados Unidos.

  Eventually, Luca received a brief letter saying only that Tressa was sorry to inform him their relationship was at an end. In a short postscript she mentioned enclosing ten dollars as a peace offering, implying it was all she had left in the world. The money, if there had been any, apparently did not survive the prison mail inspection. Luca was stunned, He folded the worn envelope, but not before noting the logo of a Mexican restaurant in Colorado, many miles to the north and well across the border with the United States. Gazing past prison walls, Luca saw things he didn’t want to see and was forced to steel himself against what he knew must lie ahead. The news, coming as it did on the heels of so interminable a sentence, left him no recourse but to engineer his own escape, the doing of which nearly impoverished his entire family. Once Luca set his mind to a thing it was without thought of cost or consequence. None were inclined to cross a person of his reputation. Luca’s goal was now a very different sort of justice and no one dared dispute the wisdom of it.

  Eventually, Tressa heard from an uncle; her husband had found his way out of prison and was determined to rescue her. Underlying these words, however, she detected something more ominous, causing a hint of fear to shadow whatever solace might have been intended. It had never entered her mind her husband might be clever enough to find her, and so far away, too.

  Only weeks later a last note reached Tressa, this one to inform her of Luca’s death on the Navajo Indian reservation. This time there was no suggestion of compassion—her own uncle inferring there was no one else to blame. Tressa, at first incensed at the veiled accusation, eventually came to realize she had indeed treated her husband poorly, and from the very start, too. Clearly, she was the cause of Luca’s downfall. She was the one who begged, then hounded him to leave their humble life in the village, move to the city with its strange ways and eventually fall into a very different sort of life. A life she made certain would provide her those things she’d long coveted. No matter what else the man may have been, or done, Luca always tried to put her interests ahead of his own.

  ~~~~~~

  After Carlos Espinosa went through Tressa’s money, he almost immediately lost interest. Washing his hands of any further responsibility for the woman, he thereafter paid her little attention of any kind. There was no performing together in his Uncle’s cantina—him singing and playing the guitarra, while she danced the traditional bailes of her people—a picture once so glibly painted. There would be no comfortable home, or fine car. There was in fact, no home or car at all. There were only miserable little rooms behind the bar where she and a few other employees were forced to live under the thumb of Hector Espinosa. Carlos, who had a small apartment in town, still took every cent she earned, leaving Tressa to the discretion of his Uncle Hector, a coarse and presuming man, who took his pleasures where he found them and refused to hear any complaints against his nephew. He declared Carlos to be important to his business, said he was grooming his nephew for bigger things, and couldn’t be bothered with her little problems. She would just have to adjust, he told her.

  Little Abe pushed his way through the swinging door balancing a full tray o
f dirty dishes that rattled and clinked as he shook his head. “Well, it looks like that pendejo has worked his oily magic on those two gringas at the bar. They are buying him drinks right and left. I’m surprised he hasn’t fallen off his stool.” He said this hoping Tressa would fret, and fume, and possibly see him in a kinder light.

  Tressa only looked away as though she hadn’t heard.

  “Ingrato!” Abe spit the word as though it had stuck in his throat, watching from the corner of an eye to see how she would take this latest affront, determined now she should take note of so grievous an insult. Pushing her too far, however, might be a mistake. She wasn’t a fool and could be unpredictable to say the least. Still, he couldn’t help adding, “Las dos chicas son gorditas y muy feas también. Pero…no le hacen nada a Carlos.” Little Abe was doing his best to improve his English and only fell into his rural dialect when upset or at a loss for a particular word. His father had spent good money on English tutors, knowing full well his son might one day have need of the skill up north. Under the further tutelage of Tressa Tarango the young man was showing remarkable progress.

  The young women at the bar were unattractive no matter which language he chose, and Carlos Espinosa really didn’t seem to care. Little Abe would not have given either of those girls a second glance, even if he was just a busboy…sometimes only the dishwasher.

  Tressa frowned, Aye, Dios mio…has the man not disrespected me enough? She shot a steely glance at the swinging door and had to force herself not to rush for a peek through the little window. I am beyond that now, she told herself. Then gritting her teeth, seething inside, she imagined what Luca Tarango would have done to this pitiful excuse for a man—if only he had been given the chance. Her husband would not have blamed her for any of this. No, not at all, in her own mind Luca would have blamed the split-tongued Carlos Espinosa. How could a poor girl from the country be expected to deal with such a man? Yes, Carlos would already have suffered a fate worse than death at the hands of Luca Tarango—of that she was certain—and probably, his Uncle Hector would have come to a similar end. Now, however, it was upon her to take revenge on these tormentors.