Day of the Dead

by R. Allen Chappell

  John Nez hadn’t missed the exchange and gave Charlie the kind of look one might expect from a man who had, in another life, made a habit of sensing danger. John had, in fact, killed more people than Tressa’s husband but for different reasons. Charlie sometimes wondered; what exactly, in the final analysis, made them so different. In the end killing was killing. He didn’t think very long on it for fear he might decide they were more alike than he cared to admit.

  The waitress returned with their orders; she leaned close to Tressa and whispered something in her ear that made her smile and give a quick toss of her head.

  The food was good, not too spicy, which Charlie thought might be the case having never eaten Mexican food…in Mexico. The migration of Tex-Mex to the greater southwest was most likely responsible for that misconception, Tressa explained when he mentioned it.

  After paying the bill and waiting for Tressa to return from the baño, the three of them headed for the door—preceded by the two men with gold chains. The pair filed out ahead of them, got into a convertible sporting a set of bull’s horns on the front, and with a wave, smiled back at Tressa. They turned the car north, toward Nogales, and their wives and children.

  John and Charlie looked at one another, and still standing near the door, watched until the car was out of sight. Neither man commented, and Tressa only smiled. She thought, Welcome to Mexico amigos.

  The three were so focused on Tressa’s two admirers they completely missed the gray Suburban hidden between two eighteen wheelers at the rear of the parking lot—nor did they feel the two sets of eyes that followed them when they left.

  They hadn’t gone far when John Nez moved up alongside and indicated with a backward jerk of his thumb that they were being followed. They saw the ex-Marine smile and shrug his shoulders as he fell back and let Charlie stay in the lead. A few miles later, when Tressa directed them to turn right on a feeder road to the coast, they could see the Suburban slow and gradually fade from sight. This told them two things: these men were not in a hurry and there was no other way out. There remained the remote possibility that seeing where they were headed, the men simply decided it wasn’t worth it.

  According to Tressa, there was still a ways to go. The heavy traffic and long wait at the border had eaten up a lot of time and would put them into the village late in the afternoon.

  Her village, she said, would host its own Dia de los Muertos and would draw many people from the smaller communities in the coastal mountains. Some would already be gathering, so as not to miss any of the next day’s festivities. The real fun, the dancing and drinking, would begin that very night. The three passed a few old cars and trucks full of people—and even a few Seri Indians on foot or horseback. The Indians generally kept to themselves, relegated to the banks of the little stream from the mountains. That trickle of water from the Seri reservation to the north was the villagers’ only supply, and for that reason alone the Indians would be tolerated—the locals guessing what might happen to their water supply, should the Seris be given cause.

  As they drove down the dusty main street, small groups stood and watched them pass, some already lined up at those houses where women were selling food through the open windows of their kitchens. Suspicious dogs surprised by the sudden influx of strangers, took up defensive positions in alleyways and behind fences, where they barked nonstop until old women were forced to come screaming out of their houses to throw sticks at them. Roosters crowed from backyards, cutting their wings at the ground as they did their little dances, listening for rivals to crow in return. A pall of dust and smoke from cooking fires hung heavy in the air, but only those now living in the north took any notice.

  Children were everywhere, chasing, screeching and laughing; a few already wearing the costumes meant for the next day. Vehicles with U.S. plates parked along the street, or in front of relative’s mud-brick homes. Several of the women were unpacking black plastic bags filled with used clothing—items shrewdly bargained from northern yard and garage sales—the better things, some still in style, were from gringo thrift shops and church fundraisers. Lucky relatives of these travelers came out to the street to pick through the best of the booty. The remaining items would be sold on the streets the next day. What rags were left would be given as an act of kindness to the Indians.

  “There is really no place for you to stay here,” Tressa warned, “My cousins have been living in my old house, but now they have gone to Guaymas to find work, and only their old father is left. I will introduce you—he is a good old man but lonely and welcomes company. He worked up north, in the fruit, when he was young. He likes Americanos for some reason. He will be happy for you to stay and rest up before you start back.” Tressa considered the two Navajo for a moment and her tone softened, but only a little. “I have relatives to see and things to prepare before morning. The men of my family will watch out for me now.” With that, the woman turned and slipped away up the street; Charlie watched to see which house she went in.

  John Nez kept an eye out for trouble and when he did finally speak, it was to say he thought they shouldn’t wait, but leave right then. Charlie was considering this when Tressa returned to the trucks.

  “I have spoken to the old man and he will take care of everything, even bring you some food later. You can leave Sancho Mariano’s truck where it is; my uncles will come for it. I promised old Sancho he would have it back.” Almost as an afterthought she added. “I will go to my sisters-in-law for the night and after I settle with Luca tomorrow, I will figure out what to do from there.” The woman, looking mostly at Charlie Yazzie, said, “You have done what you came to do…though you owed me nothing…and I appreciate that.” Tressa let her gaze fall to the ground. “But I will probably not see you again before you leave. Were I you, I would be careful for the next few hours—stay inside. The old man will watch while you sleep and wake you when it’s time. Those men in the car, from the funeral parlor, are not who you have to be afraid of. They don’t know what they are getting into down here…when they figure that out, they may not show up at all, but if they do they will be taken care of.”

  The partying had begun with music and drinking already underway, singing could be heard from several directions.

  Charlie nodded back the way they’d come. “John thinks we should go now?”

  “No, that would not be a good idea. Once people hear who you are it will be safer for you right here. Besides, no one drives at night on Mexican highways, there are no fences and the horses and cows are all over these roads at night. It’s dangerous. And if your truck should break down there’s no telling who might come along and cause you trouble—the Policia most of all. In the daylight everything is different down here…you’ll see.”

  ~~~~~~

  The old man brought them steaming bowls of green chili and pork caldio, with freshly made tortillas wrapped in a cloth. Although Charlie had never had the soup he thought it good after learning to watch for the pieces of neck-bone from the young pig that went into it. John Nez didn’t care for it but ate it just the same; he’d eaten a lot of things he didn’t care for over the years. There were cots made up, but before that the old man brought out a bottle of something with no label and sat it on the table in a further show of hospitality. Neither man refused, and each took a good swallow as a matter of courtesy. The drink, rough going down, left the oily aftertaste of barbershop Bay Rum. That was what it tasted like.

  They talked with Tressa’s uncle for a while as he had several more drinks, and they listened to the party grow louder outside the windows of the old adobe. The old man finally went to bed in the other room, and John Nez picked the cot closest to the door and lay down with a sigh. The trip had taken more out of him than he’d thought, and he suspected he might finally be getting old. Charlie’s bed was farther from the door but not by much. The two discussed how they would go home after crossing the border, and it was decided they should go pretty much as they came. Shortcuts on a map are not necessarily quicker. They woul
d already be later returning than they’d hoped, but were not totally unprepared for that eventuality. Charlie was signed out for a few days of vacation time and coupled with the weekend, thought that would be enough. By two in the morning the party outside was winding down with only the occasional shouted obscenity left to mark its passing.

  When John Nez woke, thinking he heard some small noise at the door, he reached down in his boot and pulled out Tressa’s automatic pistol. He’d brought the gun hidden behind and above the glove box in his truck. The harried Mexican Customs Agents, too busy for a thorough search, made only a cursory check of the vehicle, and turned up nothing. John had always been lucky that way. He meant to leave the handgun in Mexico to avoid the more careful scrutiny of the U.S. border agents. For now, though, he was glad he’d kept it. Tressa had not asked about the weapon nor indicated she wanted it back, but he had told her he would return it and he would.

  A shadow passed across the front window, then several, and though John was aware there were people still on the street and some of them drunk, this was something else—a feeling born of long experience in dangerous places and one he couldn’t shake. There was no lock on the door, only the crude wooden crossbar the old man had been careful to put in place. John Nez, not making a sound, reached to touch Charlie’s shoulder. The sleeping figure woke to see his companion with a gun in one hand, and a finger to his lips. John Nez pointed with the pistol and they watched as a slim blade entered at the door’s edge and silently lifted the bar to allow the door to start open with little more than a mouse-like squeak.

  John eased from the cot and moved in stocking feet toward the front of the room. Charlie Yazzie, still groggy, followed suit. As he passed the table he picked up the near-empty bottle by the neck and was almost to the door when it opened a bit further. A slight figure edged part way in before John made a grab and pulled the person inside. Charlie brandished the bottle, and would have brought it crashing down, had he not heard the female voice.

  She raised one arm to shield her head and a small animal sound escaped her. Both men held to the girl as the door swung fully open to reveal several men with automatic weapons already to their shoulders. The lead figure smiled at John’s little pistol and slowly shook his head letting John know how futile that might be. The Navajo dropped the gun with a clatter. In his younger days he might have foolishly resisted but had grown more cautious with the years. One of the men flicked on the dim bulb that hung from the ceiling and quickly moved to cover the Norteñoes from the side. Another pushed in from the opposite direction, the muzzle of his weapon never leaving its target. The leader came forward and motioned for them to release the girl and for Charlie to put down the bottle, which he did, leaning over to set it gently on the floor. The tall man in charge picked it up and looked at it briefly, before again shaking his head. “I hope you didn’t drink much of this, amigos, it will rot your guts.” He ordered them back with the end of his rifle and motioned they should take a seat at the table. He jerked his head from the girl to the door and she ran.

  “Tressa Tarango’s cousin,” he explained. “Tressa herself, however, seems to have disappeared, at least temporarily.”

  Charlie nodded, “You must be Chewy Mariano?”

  The man grinned. “No, that would be my brother. I’m known as El Gato… Gato Mariano. I am in charge down here…well almost.” He said this last with a quizzical glance upward as though hoping for some divine intervention in that respect. “We thank you for bringing little Tressa home, but expected to see Abraham Garza with you. We’ve been waiting for him. We mean Tressa no harm; there is no need for that. She might know a little something that would be helpful, but she is frightened, and still cautious. I have sent her cousin to reassure her. It is Abraham my uncle wants to talk to. Little Abe is the one we want.” The man spoke perfect English and without stopping to think about it.

  Gato sat himself across from Charlie and leaned his rifle against one leg. His men kept their eyes, and guns, on the two captives and appeared incapable of blinking.

  Gato Mariano was obviously an educated man and one used to being in control. He cocked his head to one side and leaned slightly toward Charlie Yazzie. “You wouldn’t happen to have word of my father, in Colorado, would you? My brother tries to find out his condition, but Federal Agents are blocking him…and tracing any calls that inquire about him. I had hoped you might know something?”

  Charlie sat back in his chair “Are you going to kill us?” He thought if that were to be the case, he needn’t answer at all.

  “Kill you?” The Mexican smiled and shook his head, before laughing softly. “Now why would we want to do that? Killing two U.S. citizens, with ties to Drug Enforcement, is the last thing we need right now… or should I say, the last thing my uncle wants. We are businessmen and that would be bad for business. My father’s brother is quite old, and more cautious when it comes to raising the hackles of U.S. law enforcement.” He shrugged. “Were my father in charge, things might be different and they will certainly be different, when my turn comes. Right now, I do as my uncle wishes and that’s why you’re still alive…and might be allowed to remain so, should one of you not do something foolish.” Here Gato looked pointedly at John Nez.

  Charlie wasn’t sure he believed this part but didn’t mind telling the Mexican what he’d last heard about his father. “Sancho Mariano,” he said, thinking a moment how best to put it, “is…as of two days ago… still alive and fighting for his life. I can assure you he’s receiving the best possible care. Some up there are beginning to think he might make it.”

  Gato, seemed both relieved and a little agitated by this news but nodded and said, “And you might be interested to know the two people from Sinaloa have been taken care of. They won’t bother anyone again.”

  With the approach of dawn the room grew gradually lighter and Tressa’s uncle came from the back room smelling of alcohol and scratching at his underwear. He looked around the room as though not surprised to see armed men guarding his guests. Buenas dias, Señores. Que pasa?

  El Gato hardly gave him a glance and waved him away. Then, looking out the window at the increasing light, turned back to the two Navajo seated at the table. “From what I hear, Tressa and her husband’s family are planning an early procession. If her cousin has found her…and I expect she has…they will be coming past here soon with her husband’s remains. The man had a reputation here in this village and I expect it will be something to see—it’s said there are many people anxious to make amends with his spirit…now that he’s gone.” He said this last somewhat dryly but without smiling. “From what Chewy says the woman is quite beautiful…at least my brother thinks she is.” Gato said this thoughtfully as though he didn’t trust his brother’s judgment when it came to women.

  John Nez spoke at last, not loudly, but without any sign of fear. “I’m hungry. If you’re not going to kill us, then let’s have something to eat.”

  Charlie gave him a sharp glance and nervously pulled at one ear. John’s relationship to Thomas Begay was again made clear, like Thomas, John Nez gave undeniable evidence that he was still capable of getting them both killed.

  El Gato frowned and narrowed an eye at the older man…but then broke into a grin as he motioned his men to lower their weapons and whispered to the nearest one to go for conchas, the sugary pan de muertos, and coffee from the little street-side kitchens.

  ~~~~~~

  As the sun rose to warm the rocky peaks to the west, the men stood in front of the house that once belonged to Luca Tarango. The clear air of dawn carried the doleful sound of a church bell, and bystanders, unable to turn away, watched quietly as the Tarango woman came bringing her husband to his final rest. Not everyone thought it right that so notorious a person should be brought back to the village—but none were so foolish as to say so.

  Dressed all in black, her face painted in the luminous hues of the Dia de los Muertos, there could be no doubt in anyone’s mind that Tressa had at last attaine
d some measure of peace. And though his murderous rampage would keep Luca from heaven—Tressa felt she might still have secured him a higher place in hell.

  22

  Approbation

  Charlie Yazzie had been home no more than an hour when he saw Thomas Begay’s diesel truck coming. According to Sue the man had been calling since daybreak. She had already told him Charlie and his Uncle John were across the Mexican border and headed for home. She would have her husband call as soon as he made it in, she said.

  Thomas stood back from the door as Sue and the kids were on their way out to see the horses; the neighbor’s stud had gotten out and jumped the fence the month before and Sue was keeping a close check on her mare to make sure she wasn’t getting a belly. The children were excited to think they might have a colt in the spring and grinned up at Thomas.

  Sue waved as she herded the children past without stopping. It wasn’t hard to see their friend Thomas was a man on a mission.

  He confronted Charlie directly, “I guess Sue told you, Harley Ponyboy found Paul up on the Chinle?” Thomas Begay was never the type to waste time on niceties.

  Charlie sat his cup of coffee down on the porch railing and eyed his lanky friend. “Yes, she said Paul was in bad shape—in the hospital in Farmington. No visitors she said. Sue was going to check with Lucy later this morning about us going up there.”

  “Not yet, but maybe this evening, Lucy thinks. The doc is still running tests. He says they need to get the old man rehydrated and some nourishment back in him before anything else.” Thomas stopped and thought back to the other thing the doctor told him. “He did say there are several things that might be causing Paul’s mental condition and some of them could be reversible…actually, he said there’s about fifty things that could be causing it, and only a few are reversible—and even those are long shots. He’s going to talk to a specialist and says he should have a better picture of what’s going on in a day or so.”