“Because it’s what his father wants.”
“But don’t you think there is something more to it than that?”
“The old man likes me, that’s all.”
Little Abe thought about this, everyone likes Tressa. What’s not to like? But Abe was smart enough to realize the danger of being caught in enemy territory. The Mariano family controlled Sonora State, and much of Western Chihuahua as well, still the Sinaloa Cartel were making significant in-roads. It was only a matter of time before the two factions came to war. How that played out would decide who controlled the most lucrative stretch of the border, and the bulk of the U.S. market.
Tressa took a small bite of egg and potatoes. “We need to eat and get out of here, Abraham, before those shooters catch up to us again.”
“I don’t see how they could find us here, Tressa. This is a long way from anywhere, and I’m pretty sure we weren’t followed. One of those hired guns got hit, too, I’m pretty sure of that. The one at the front door wasn’t feeling so good, neither. It’s probably going to be a few days before those two are up to doing much.”
“That’s exactly why we need to be getting out of here while the getting is good. We might not get off so easy next time.”
Little Abe chewed this over along with his eggs and studied the box on the shelf behind Tressa—the box containing Luca Tarango’s ashes. “Maybe there won’t be a next time Tressa. You do know it was Chewy Mariano that fired that last shot yesterday.”
“I know. There’s not many like him. He’s a good son to old Sancho…to carry out his father’s wishes.
“Well, what about those Indios? That Charlie Yazzie said it would be safer for us to wait here until he got back.”
“I’m only thinking of you, Abraham. You are the one Drug Enforcement wants to get their hands on…not me.”
“That may be true, Tressa, but if they decide to tie us into the Espinosa murders—which they could probably do if it suits them—then we might both be better off to cooperate.” Abraham Garza was not without basic knowledge of how the DEA worked its business. Flipping people was what they did, and he’d known plenty who took advantage of it, a few came out all right, but not everyone. What if they knew about the suitcase his Papá had him bring into the country? He’d hoped that secret died with Hector Espinosa—but who knew? It was a hard and dirty business no matter how you looked at it, and in the end, few walked away better off.
While Tressa was cleaning up she couldn’t help thinking that Abe had given her something else to worry about. She hadn’t considered there might be conspiracy charges related to the death of the hated Espinosas. So it’s cooperate or go down, and for something we had very little to do with—Little Abe could be right.
“Get the truck ready, Abraham, we’re leaving.”
“Are you sure that’s what we should do, Tressa? It’s going to get rough down in Mexico. I’ve thought about it, and I’m pretty sure it’s going to get lively down there.”
“It’s rough everywhere, Abraham, I’m finally catching on to that.” Tressa began taking down the few things she’d washed the night before—it wasn’t much and in minutes she was ready to go.
Abraham stood helplessly by, not really sure what he should be doing. Exasperated, he grabbed up their two small bags and opened the door. “Uh…Oh,” he whispered barely loud enough for Tressa to hear. “A pickup is coming…” It was a truck he’d not seen before.
Tressa, just behind him, poked her head around to see what she could make of it. “Maybe it’s just the neighbor checking out our truck.”
Abe nodded but thought if it were the neighbor, he might be there to get his food back, or barring that, at least get paid for it. What did they say his name was? Harley Ponyboy, I think. Little Abe stared harder at the truck as it stopped in a cloud of dust then eased forward a bit, almost touching their old Ford’s bumper.
When the dust cleared, and the door opened, Tressa said in a barely audible voice, “Whoever it is, he’s an Indian…and a pretty good sized one, too.” The man vaguely reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t quite decide who; she didn’t know that many Indians.
The man walked right up to the steps like he owned the place. There was something about his attitude—and then it came to her—this was an older, heavier version of Thomas Begay. Not quite so tall as Thomas, but definitely older.
“How are you folks today? Doing all right, I hope?”
Tressa pushed past Little Abe who she could see already had his hand in his pocket.
“We are doing fine, thank you. We were told we could spend the night here last night and were just getting ready to be on our way.”
The man came closer and though Tressa was standing on the upper step, he was still about eye level. “Ah, yes, I know all about that…and who you are, too.” He smiled briefly, “I was told to take you somewhere else. Someone thinks you might be better off in another place.”
Tressa gave Little Abe a significant look. The sun was just moving up behind the man now, and Tressa had to squint a little to make him out. “And who might you be then?”
“Oh… my name is John Nez from up around Navajo Mountain. My nephew is Thomas Begay. I stopped by to see him last night and when he heard I would be coming this way he asked if I would drop by and maybe take you somewhere else. He said you’re strangers around here and might need a little help this morning.”
“Well, that’s very thoughtful of your nephew, and of you, too, but we’re fine up here and as I said, we’re just getting ready to leave—we have a long way to go today.”
“Yes, well my nephew has a phone now, and it was Charlie Yazzie who called and said he would like for you to be taken to a different place until he can have another little chat with you.”
“Do you intend to force us to go with you, Mr. Nez?” Tressa’s voice took a slight edge. “Because if you do, my friend Abraham here might have something to say about that.” She nudged Abraham hoping he might make some kind of tough talk and maybe take charge of the situation.
Little Abe hadn’t said a word and apparently didn’t intend to. This was a big Indian and Abe couldn’t be sure the man didn’t have a knife in his own pocket.
Tressa was looking at Little Abe to see what he intended to do about this John Nez from Navajo Mountain. Almost a minute passed, and though Abraham postured and screwed up his mouth a little, he still hadn’t said a word. Finally, Tressa decided to speak for him. “If you don’t move your truck and let us out, Abe here will kick your ass.” She tried to sound matter-of-fact, as though she had good reason to believe Abe could do such a thing should he take a mind. She felt this was the sort of talk that might bolster Little Abe’s courage and cause him to take a stronger position in the matter.
Abraham blinked his eyes a couple of times, thinking he had simply not heard her right. The last thing on his mind was kicking this big Indian’s ass. He’d had a light breakfast and was feeling a little weak as it was.
John Nez looked from one to the other of them and said, “I see… Well, I hope it doesn’t come to that. If it does I’ll have to knock him down.” He turned his attention to Tressa Tarango. “And if you don’t get your hand out of your coat pocket I may have to knock you down, too. I’ve never knocked no woman down before but I can see you have a gun in there and I don’t feel like getting shot this morning. I’ve been shot before, and it hurts.”
Abraham looked down and could clearly see the outline of a pistol in Tressa’s pocket. “Tressa, I didn’t know you had a gun. That might have come in handy yesterday.” He took his hand out of his own pocket and handed his knife to the Indian. “I think we better do what he says, Tressa. If he’s anything like his nephew, he probably means business.” He looked at her again but his time with a hurt expression. “I could have used that gun yesterday…”
Tressa glanced up at him and, after hesitating only a second or two, took her hand away from her pocket.
John Nez nodded and moved right up in her fac
e. “That’s better,” he said calmly. “Now if you’ll just turn a little toward me, I’ll take that out and hold it for you. You can have it back later—I already have one. You’ve done the right thing here,” John assured her. “You wouldn’t have stood a chance in hell.”
Tressa turned slightly, and John fished out the handgun and put it in his own pocket.
Abe shrugged and whispered in her ear, “He didn’t really have a gun, Tressa…but now he does.”
Regardless of who was or wasn’t armed at this point, Tressa could see she and Abraham were no match for this man…not under any circumstance. When she turned to go back into the trailer for the box with Luca in it, she thought it only polite to mention, “Mr. Nez, I don’t have anything to offer you to eat this morning; we are fresh out of everything.”
“That’s all right. I’ve had my breakfast and there’s plenty to eat where we’re going—we should be good till Charlie Yazzie gets out to talk with you.”
Tressa and Abraham gathered up their possessions and stood by their truck waiting to see what travel arrangements this Indian had in mind.
“I see your truck has Colorado plates on it.”
“Yes,” Abraham said proudly. “It’s a built truck, you know, like for…I dunno, racing maybe, I guess that’s maybe what it was for. It’s fast.”
“I could see that from the exhaust pipe, have you tried to start it today?”
“Not yet, uh…why?”
“It wouldn’t have started.”
“Why not?”
“It has a potato stuck in the exhaust…I saw it right off. If you’d tried starting it you might have damaged your engine…or worse.”
“Worse?”
“Well, if it blew out while one of you was passing behind…it might have killed you.”
Tressa canted her head slightly, “How did a potato get in our exhaust?”
“I expect my nephew jammed it in there to keep you two from leaving. He did it to my truck once when he was a kid.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened to the truck, but plenty happened to him.”
Nobody said anything for a short moment, but it was plain everyone was thinking about that potato and how someone might have gotten killed by it. No one wanted to get killed by a potato shot from a thirty-year old truck. There wouldn’t have been anything funny about that.
John Nez pointed at his own truck and then to Abraham. “You’d best follow us in my pickup, it’s not very fast at all. This lady and I will take your racing truck.”
19
The Meeting
Charlie Yazzie spent most of his night thinking how he would approach Bob Freeman regarding Little Abe and Tressa Tarango. While he still figured a deal with Freeman might be to the pair’s advantage, now it was getting complicated. It might only be the kind of lawyer he was coming out, but he was beginning to feel some sense of responsibility for the two and didn’t want it on his head should they come off badly dealing with Drug Enforcement, whose methods he was beginning to think somewhat questionable.
Sue Yazzie woke several times to find her husband staring into the dark. When the baby woke and toddled into their bedroom it was Charlie who put Sasha in bed between them. Ordinarily he would have returned the baby to her own bed across from little Joseph Wiley, but on this morning he appreciated a little company from someone neutral on the subject of him helping these people reach Mexico. Charlie tried to convince Sue it was only an option and probably wouldn’t happen; at least he hoped that would be the case. He had already decided, however, that should Drug Enforcement take Little Abe into custody without a deal that included equal protection for the woman, it could change the entire dynamics of where he was in the matter.
Sue generally got up to make Charlie’s breakfast when he had to go in early, but not today. He considered making oatmeal and toast but after noting the time, he didn’t, making do instead with only a cup of coffee and the thought of something more substantial later at the cafe.
Sue had mentioned she and the children would be busy packaging dried peaches. The Yazzie’s little row of peach trees had begun bearing in earnest this year, and all things considered, the harvest had been bountiful. She dried more peaches than they could use she told him and intended to take some to Lucy Tallwoman and Charlie’s aunt, Annie Eagletree, if she had enough time. Peaches and apricots came to this part of the country with the Mormons, she’d been told, though, some claimed they were already there, brought by the Mexicans. Either way, the dried fruit had become a favorite winter staple for the canyon dwelling Diné.
Sue’s mother had grown peaches and as a young girl she had helped. Her favorite treat, as a child, was hot fry bread filled with stewed peach filling—the Navajo version of peach pie.
~~~~~~
The wind was coming up, and the little metal- roofed porch rattled and shook as Charlie looked out the window and watched a plume of dust swirl down the drive before slipping across the highway to the river. The clouds, banking well to the north were sending wind-blown scouts ahead to promise a nasty day…maybe in more ways than one.
Charlie left for the meeting at the Diné Bikeyah still hungry, and was already thinking of huevos rancheros as he pulled into the parking lot. He headed directly for the big back table next to the window.
Bob Freeman was already there, as was Officer Billy Red Clay who waved Charlie on back, as though the investigator might not have noticed them in the nearly empty room. Billy held up a cup to alert the waitress and grinned as Charlie pulled out a chair.
“Yaa’ eh t’eeh, Counselor.” The young policeman pushed the stainless coffeepot toward him with a smile.
Bob Freeman signaled a greeting as well and then motioned toward the door where Fred Smith was making an entrance—knocking the dust off his hat and frowning back at the approaching weather. The FBI man appeared a little out of sorts, which was not the amiable lawman’s usual demeanor.
Bob raised a finger in salute and regarded the agent before speaking. “Good day for working on reports back at the office, huh, Fred?” He was glad a suit and tie weren’t always required in his line of work.
“I just had my car washed last night, too.” Fred waved it off with what he hoped came across as good humor.
The waitress appeared with yet another steaming pot of coffee and filled everyone’s cup before taking orders. The girl seemed to be on good terms with Billy Red Clay, and the two bantered back and forth a few moments before she left for the kitchen; obviously, this was not the pair’s first encounter.
Charlie nudged the young policeman. “Nice,” he teased, and stirring his coffee, didn’t remark further.
Billy turned a shade darker and was glad Thomas Begay wasn’t there; his uncle wouldn’t have let the subject go so easily.
Fred Smith looked over at his Tribal Liaison Officer but only nodded. Fred was an old hand with the Navajo and knew Billy well enough not to make too much of it and then even moved to help him out. “So, Billy, how’s Captain Beyale coming along this morning?” Fred was aware he checked on Beyale’s condition several times a day.
“Not very well, I’m afraid. I talked to the floor nurse first thing this morning and she said he was still hooked up to support and isn’t showing any improvement. I’ll get back with the doctor later—maybe we’ll know more then.”
Charlie could see Billy still felt responsible for the captain’s misfortune. “So, Lieutenant Arviso’s in charge now?”
“Pretty much, but it’s like a ship without a captain. I think they are waiting for something more from the doctors before actually appointing Joe; that could come any time now if there’s no improvement.”
Fred Smith held up a hand. “Right, down to business. Quantico sent us the results from the paint sample taken from Robert Ashki’s truck. They believe it’s from an older model Chrysler product. But that’s as far as it goes…really nothing new that points to foul play. Our people say the paint damage could have happened anytime, not n
ecessarily at the time of the wreck, and there’s no real proof anyone forced him off the road. The final autopsy shows death by head trauma, and the coroner thinks that might well be attributed to the wreck itself.” Even Fred appeared surprised they had nothing more to go on than this. “It’s beginning to look like a blind alley.”
Billy Red Clay looked up. “They returned what was left of our file…a few pages were missing…maybe lost out of the wreck and carried away by the wind for all anyone knows.”
Charlie felt compelled to add, “Robert Ashki was obviously complicit in the theft of the file and just as obviously, had some reason for taking it to Albuquerque with him.” He paused and looked at Billy. “One thing is for certain, there’s no lack of people who might have wanted the man dead. But that doesn’t mean that’s what happened.”
Fred Smith held up a cautionary finger as the waitress brought their tray, and no one said anything further until she distributed the food, smiling all the while at Billy Red Clay who concentrated on his breakfast and didn’t look up. No one appeared to notice and when the girl left everyone busied themselves with the food for a few minutes.
The DEA’s man didn’t seem inclined to discuss the case from his agency’s perspective, and he was glad when Fred Smith took up the conversation again. “An interesting report came in yesterday evening…maybe one of you might know something about it?” He reached for the syrup and gave his pancakes a good dousing. “It seems a body was found last night dumped in a patch of weeds south of town. Hispanic male about thirty years old, shot in the chest with a load of double-ought buckshot, but at a distance they doubted was lethal. The preliminary says infection was the eventual cause of death, a slow and painful way to go by all accounts.” Here, Fred put down his fork and looked up to three blank faces. “There is one more thing—on the inside of his left wrist was a small tattoo, the mark of the Sinaloa Cartel. There was no other identification.” The FBI man glanced at Bob Freeman and smiled, “Our people checked with your people, Bob, and they confirmed the tattoo indicated an affiliation with the Sinaloa bunch. I assumed they let you know.”
Day of the Dead Page 17