Day of the Dead

by R. Allen Chappell

  Little Abe was seeing things in a different light. It had not occurred to him she might have such strong feelings for him. Finally, with a crooked smile, he said. “Don’t you worry, Tressa,” he said, finally, with a crooked smile. “I will take care of you down in Sonora. The Marianos don’ know everything about my people in Sinaloa. Not by a long shot, they don’t.”

  The sun was just touching the tallest peaks of the San Juans as they approached the little mountain town of Ridgway.

  “Tienes hambre?” Little Abe was getting hungry and thought she might be too.

  “I could eat.” Tressa hadn’t even thought about it but now that Abe mentioned it she salivated at the prospect. “We got to be careful though, Abe, we don’t need to risk going into some restaurant.” She glanced over at the fuel gauge and allowed they should fill the truck before tackling the mountains, and to this, he agreed.

  Little Abe slowed the truck and when he spotted a combination service station and convenience store, he pulled into the pumps, shutting down the engine while peering inside to the checkout counter. “Only one old woman in there, this is a good time.” He looked back down at the fuel gauge. “This little truke sucks down the petroleo. No?” He hadn’t been keeping track of the fuel as he might have and now thought them lucky to have made it this far. I better start paying more attention, he chastised himself. The thought of them being stranded alongside the road and at the mercy of any who might come along weighed on him.

  Tressa reached in her satchel and fumbled among the moneybags. Selecting the smallest, she extracted three twenties then opened her door. “You fill the tank, Abraham. Old Man Mariano said it takes the hi-grade. I’ll get us something to eat and some coffee. And pay for the gas, too.”

  “Hi-grade, eh? I’ll fill ‘er up but it’s not going to be cheap. I think this has some kind of larger tank than a regular pickup. Must have been a transporter, this truck.”

  When Tressa came out with her arms full, Little Abe was still checking the oil and then proceeded to kick the tires.

  “You don’t need no tire gauge for that, Abraham? They got some for sale in there on the wall.”

  “No, Tressa, this is how we check ‘em where I come from; it works okay once you get a feel for it. I don’ like to waste money on those tire gauges.”

  She watched him kick the last tire, then stand back squinting at it as though still not quite sure. He shrugged finally and got back in the truck. Tressa made a mental note to pick up a gauge the next time they gassed up. A plastic cup-holder stuck out from the dash and she inserted the coffees in it, being careful not to loosen the plastic lids in the process. She had sweet rolls and breakfast burritos in plenty, but waited till Abe roared out onto US 550 and settled the truck on a course for Ouray. She unwrapped a burrito and passed it to him as they headed for the snowy peaks of the San Juans and the summit at Red Mountain Pass.

  Tressa unwrapped a burrito for herself.

  Carlos’s Uncle Hector had brought them north this very same way. He had picked them up at the safe house in Phoenix only days after they crossed the border west of Nogales. These mountain roads scared her then and they scared her now. They didn’t have mountains like these in Sonora State.

  Little Abe had to slow down as they negotiated the winding road but, as he ate, finally had a chance to study some mountain scenery in daylight. His Coyotero had brought him up from Texas, mostly in the dark of night. These were the first real mountains he’d been able to see and he, too, was impressed and more than a little intimidated. As they entered the mountain town of Ouray, Abraham was amazed to see a large pond alongside the road, with steam coming off it—near naked people clearly visible in the mist. A few were already lolling around in the water, seeming to enjoy the chilly autumn morning.

  “Why do you ‘spose those people want to go out there half-naked, and this early in the morning, only to freeze their asses off?”

  “The water is hot, Abraham, these mountain people probably think it feels good.”

  “Well, when they get out, they will freeze their asses off…I don’ care how good it feels…or what kind of people they are.”

  High above the town of Ouray and past the steep switchbacks that left them wide-eyed and dizzy, the truck clung to the impossibly narrow two-lane etched into the sheer face of the cliff. Far below, when they dared look, a silvery thread of river flowed so deep among the towering ponderosas it only showed itself in bits and glimpses. A road sign declared it “The Million Dollar Highway” and noted it was built at a cost of one million dollars a mile in 1920 dollars.

  By this time Little Abe had a death-grip on the steering wheel, and Tressa braced herself against the dash with both hands, eyes tight shut.

  A Highway Patrolman, after a long night running the mountain, appeared from the south and turned his head as they passed—looking for a moment as though he might turn around—had there been a place to turn around. Little Abe, watching in the rearview mirror, thought he saw the policia frown, but couldn’t imagine him being able to make a U-turn and follow them back up the mountain. Maybe, Abe hoped, the policeman would be thinking of his breakfast, or need to take a pee at one of the little blue outhouses scattered along the lower stretches.

  In any case, Little Abe would be long gone by then. The highway was entering the alpine meadows after the pass and Abe put his foot in the carburetor.

  As they approached the historic mining town of Silverton, Abraham was settling to his job but became entranced with the old frontier look of the distant buildings, slowing the truck for a better view, thinking he might spot some cowboys or saloon girls. Abraham was a great fan of American westerns and watched them every chance he got. He had improved his English in the process—not knowing some of those words and sayings had gone out of fashion. He kept an eye peeled behind them for the law and eventually came to believe the policeman hadn’t noticed they were the sort of Mexicans who might need inspecting. He’d heard the law was prone to profile Hispanics in this part of the country. An activity that often proved beneficial to the state’s coffers.

  According to Tressa’s map, Durango was just ahead, meaning they were nearing New Mexico, a comforting prospect. The fact that Mexico was part of the state’s name made him feel closer to home.

  It was nearly noon when they fell off US 550 onto 160 West and the more leisurely descent into Cortez—more of a hardscrabble farm and oilfield town than anything else. The beginning of Indian country and a welcome change from the upscale and bustling college town of Durango, with its ski resort and wealthy retirement community. The pair felt more at ease in the desert. Entering the business district of Cortez, they were comforted to see Indians, and people who looked like them along the streets. This put them even more at ease. It was only common sense they would be less likely to attract attention here, and that alone calmed their anxiety. For a minute or two Tressa thought they might be better off staying in Cortez until they figured exactly where they stood. But she wanted to talk to Charlie Yazzie as soon as possible, and time was running out; they hardly slowed down passing through town.

  10

  The Trouble

  FBI Agent Fred Smith frowned as he picked up the phone and punched the button for his private line. He had absolutely no idea what he was going to say to Bob Freeman. The man had called twice already this morning and was beginning to sound peeved, according to the secretary. Fred had been tied up on the other line both times the agent called. His recent relationship with Drug Enforcement had become strained—iffy, at best, was how he might describe it in the vernacular of the Four Corners. Still, with a little effort, there was no reason to think he couldn’t work things out. It wouldn’t hurt to be the bigger person. And it wasn’t that he disliked Agent Freeman, either. Bob seemed a good enough guy. Many thought him a straight shooter—at least that’s what he’d heard—Charlie Yazzie, for one, thought so, and so did Billy Red Clay. Still, the FBI man’s past experience with the DEA had been on a more complicated level and ofte
n left him frustrated, especially their notion of sharing. They never seemed willing to divulge the full scope of their work, even in joint operations, often pushy, expecting a lot in return for what little they were sometimes willing to offer. Fred admitted he might be wrong, but nonetheless remained slightly suspicious.

  The drug problem on the reservation had become such an issue; the FBI Agent now felt the two agencies might soon be forced to a closer cooperation, one that might bring with it a better sense of trust and transparency. Fred was thinking that time might now be fast approaching.

  “Bob! Sorry I missed your call earlier. It’s been crazy here.” Fred shifted the phone to his other shoulder and paid close attention as Agent Freeman updated him with a few choice bits on the Sinaloa Cartel’s changes in operation, both in Mexico, and in Colorado. Fred already knew the bulk of that information from his own sources but listened politely and tried to sound interested. When the DEA agent suddenly shifted gears and continued in a more confidential tone, Fred’s interest grew more genuine. “No, Bob, I didn’t know that. The Bureau had a briefing on Ashki’s death yesterday, from our own people in Albuquerque, but there was very little about the recovery of the missing Tribal Police file, only that it had been found.” He paused for a moment thinking Freeman might add something further, and when he didn’t, went on as though it didn’t matter. “So, you think it was Ashki who took it?” Privately, Fred was surprised the DEA had information beyond that covered in his own agency’s reports. He was, however, quick to express his appreciation for Bob passing it along. His interest increased substantially when made aware that someone else might be thought to be involved in the theft.

  “I see. Well that is news, Bob. We may be able to help some there. I’ll get in touch with Quantico; they’re pretty good at this sort of thing.” Fred had learned something he didn’t know, after all, and was certain Billy Red Clay would be just as surprised at the information.

  “Yes, Bob, I’ll pass that along to Officer Red Clay, I’m sure it will be a load off his mind to have a lead on that file. It will, at least, be a place to start. Yes, I can assure you Bob, we’ll lend every assistance.”

  When Fred finally hung up he had a slightly better opinion of Drug Enforcement, or at least of Agent Bob Freeman. The agency had certainly been forthcoming this time around. He recalled Charlie Yazzie saying it all along—ex-councilman Robert Ashki wasn’t capable of pulling off everything the DEA attributed to him. It looked like he might have been right. At least Bob Freeman is man enough to own up when he’s wrong.

  ~~~~~~

  Charlie Yazzie and Thomas Begay saw one another coming at the same time and Charlie’s first thought was he might be able to duck him by pulling into the convenience store coming up on his right. He should have known better. He was already overdue at the office; spending time jawing about the weather was not on the morning’s agenda.

  Being late for work went contrary to the investigator’s nature. The flat tire had put him on edge, the second one this week. Charlie suspected it was more than just bad luck. Two other people in the office had flat tires in the last few days, too. There had been a rash of flat tires only a few months back, as well. The culprit turned out to be a disgruntled ex-husband in a domestic violence case, apparently taking the only revenge left him. The judge in the case, a clan relative of the man, let him off with a warning and suggested he go live with his brother in Albuquerque—see if he could lay off drinking and get himself straightened out. The man declared at the time he’d be back. Maybe he was. Charlie had to wait for the motor pool to send a mechanic with his spare—the one he’d taken in two days before. He made a mental note to request the big magnetic sweeper be brought in from Farmington; this wasn’t the first time tacks had been spread in the gravel parking lot.

  The Tarango woman wasn’t supposed to show up until after noon, and would most likely call ahead, at least he thought she would—anyone else would. He didn’t want Gwen fielding for him on this one. That could turn out to be problematic to say the least. Gwen was a talker and kept no secrets.

  Charlie Yazzie was never fully convinced Tressa Tarango needed his help retrieving her husband’s remains. He’d felt from the start there was something more sinister there, and that was one of the reasons he’d considered throwing in with Bob Freeman and the DEA. A little professional backup by people with a vested interest might have provided a measure of confidence at this point. It only made sense; the more likely reason the woman contacted him was to find out how Luca died, who killed him, and who knows, maybe even get even. That’s how it was coming together in his mind. The wife of Luca Tarango would have a plan.

  Charlie already had the nozzle in the tank and was watching the numbers roll across the meter as Thomas got out of his truck and ambled over, not saying anything or even looking directly at him. The lanky Navajo leaned against the front fender of the Chevy and watched as the pump tally mounted. Charlie considered his friend from under the brim of his hat. Thomas had always been a leaner, even when they were kids, as though his long frame needed to be propped up just to counter gravity. Nothing was farther from the truth, of course, Thomas was quick on his feet and with lightning reflexes when a situation called for it. The problem was, the situations calling for it were often of his own making.

  “How much does that damn thing hold anyway?” It wasn’t really a question. Thomas knew exactly how much the truck held so Charlie didn’t bother answering, pretending instead to focus on the meter.

  After a while the pump shut itself off and Thomas threw Charlie a look as he whistled at the amount. “Too bad we can’t run drip gas in these new trucks, you know, like we did when we were kids.” Thomas was referring to the natural gas distillate known locally as Drip, covertly available from wellhead locations all over that country—assuming one was willing to take the risk of getting caught or blowing himself up on some isolated well location. Back then they, and most of their friends, were willing to take that chance. Store gas was, after all, 36 cents a gallon at the time. The Diné are, of necessity, frugal, but remain born gamblers—helping explain why Charlie had now been without a spare tire for two days.

  The reference to drip gas made the investigator smile in spite of himself, and he was still chuckling under his breath as he finished writing down the figures for his expense account. “Those were the days, all right. I don’t know how we made it through those little adventures without one of us getting killed…or at least spending a night or two in jail.”

  Thomas grinned, “Ah, good times, huh? Do you remember the night Tommy Natallii’s engine froze up at the well—he didn’t even make it off the location.” Thomas slapped his leg, “I had just told him the day before that the Corporation Commission was sugaring those wells closer to town.” The two stood looking at one another and smiling, their minds lost in a far different time and place.

  Charlie shook his head, “No word on the old man yet?” He hoped if there was it wouldn’t be bad. Paul T’Sosi was one of the last of the old time Hataaliis and took a protective interest in the Yazzie family from day one. Paul considered himself the family’s personal guardian when it came to traditional pitfalls and concerns. It made the old singer no difference that the Yazzie’s didn’t always believe in the old ways.

  “No,” Thomas grew more serious. “Lucy’s afraid if we don’t hear anything in the next few days, we never will. You know how it is with these old ones when they get that thing in their head…start believing they’re done for…that’s when they come up with their own way out.” Thomas looked across the parking lot, gazing for a moment at the trailing clouds of discharge from the coal-fired generators between them and the river—misty white now in the morning sun. Some thought they let the heavy stuff out after dark. The new scrubbers appeared to have made a difference, at least during the day. When he turned and refocused on their conversation, it took Thomas a moment to pick up the thread of what he’d been saying. “Paul is sick, and he doesn’t think he will get any better.
I’m sure that’s what he’s thinking. I can understand that, too.” He looked back toward the generators and grimaced. “I hope I have the guts to do the same thing when the time comes.”

  Charlie shook his head; it wasn’t what he wanted to hear. “Let me go in and pay for this gas. You want anything from inside?”

  “Naaa, you go ahead…that left front tire of yours looks a little low…I’ll check it for you.”

  When Charlie came out he watched as Thomas finished rolling the air hose back up, hanging it on the hook by the pump just next to the water hose.

  Thomas looked over at him and smiled. “What’s up today, college boy, you just wandering around town this morning…or did they shut down Legal Services, and let you go.”

  “No, I’ve got something going on and I need to be getting back to it.”

  “What is it?” Thomas was not shy about his curiosity no matter how private the matter—but that didn’t mean he would get an answer. “Or is that more of your privileged information?” Thomas, if he was attempting a smile, wasn’t putting much effort into it.

  Charlie took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “Tressa Tarango is supposed to be in town this afternoon. I’ll probably have to meet with her. I don’t know what she really wants for sure, but I’m thinking it might concern your uncle, John Nez. Those court documents were sealed and only one other person, outside you and I and Harley, knows for sure what really happened that day up on the mountain.”

  Thomas nodded and narrowed his eyes in the direction of Pastora Peak. “Will she be alone?”

  “From what I’m told she may be traveling with someone; the DEA agent let me in on that when we talked recently.”