by Susan Slater
“Your pal’s over here.” A man behind the counter gestured toward the back where the lockers were.
As Julie rounded the corner, she could see .22 trying every handle on every locker. Well, maybe that’s what she’d do, too—if she thought like .22. He was just completing his rounds when number fifty-seven swung open after a strong tug, much to .22’s glee.
“Hidey place.” He stuck his head in. “No stuff.” He pulled back and looked genuinely disappointed. “Where stuff go?” He stuck his head back in.
He seemed to have the concept of lockers, Julie thought. Sal’s sister must have left right after Julie dropped the key off in order to beat them here, but Julie was relieved. Sal’s package was in the right hands. It was safe. Whatever happened to his grandfather’s fetish jar, it wasn’t her responsibility any longer.
“I don’t want this to be taken wrong. I mean I’m as willing to help the handicapped as the next person, but I can’t have this young man banging on the lockers. Believe it or not, these locks are pretty fragile.” The attendant stood to her left and stared at .22 who had slipped to the floor and cowered with his thumb in his mouth. “Are the two of you waiting for transportation?”
“No, I, uh, we just stepped inside to use the facilities.”
“And you’re finished now?” Julie saw his eyes take in .22’s damp fly.
“Yes.” There wasn’t anything else to say. Few people were comfortable around those who were so markedly different. “.22, we need to go now.” Julie was firm.
She held out her hand to help him up and tried not to flinch when he grasped with his wet thumb sliding along the inside of her palm.
“Thank you for being so cooperative.” The attendant beamed but walked behind them to the door in a barely veiled shooing movement. “And understanding.” He lowered his voice. “It’s a terrible shame, isn’t it?” He inclined his head toward .22 and if he’d clucked his tongue, Julie wouldn’t have been surprised. “Is he a relative of yours?” He asked in a whisper.
Suddenly she felt a rush of feeling for .22—he had faced discrimination all his life. She smiled at him, but he seemed completely subdued by the incident at the lockers. Probably had no idea why he couldn’t stay and play with number fifty-seven.
“I’m his caretaker for the day. It’s important that he takes advantage of every opportunity to interact with the world around him. It’s been so good of you to indulge us.” There. That had a nice snotty ring to it. Seemed to work, too, she decided, as the attendant murmured something and retreated behind the counter.
She was glad to be back outside. Fresh air was preferable even in ninety-six degree heat to the unnatural coldness of the terminal lounge. She had expected some reluctance, but .22 held her hand without prompting as they crossed the street. She waved to Morley, who was waiting on the curb. He’d just rolled a faded green canvas awning to a half-mast position above the wide front display window, but Julie thought the shading device was overkill seeing that the windows were lined with cracked and peeling, yellow see-through plastic as it was.
“Who’s your friend?” Morley looked down on .22 from a height made considerable only because of .22’s slump. It dawned on Julie that .22 would be almost as tall as Morley if he stood upright.
“Hannah Rawlings’ son. She runs the trading post by Hawikuh.” Julie pulled her recorder and briefcase from the rental’s backseat before joining him.
“Of course. I used to do business with Ed Rawlings. That was some years back. How long’s he been gone now? Ten, twelve years?”
“More like sixteen or seventeen.”
“Don’t say. And what’s this youngster’s name?”
“.22” The answer was gleefully shouted out and Julie hurried to amend with, “That’s a nickname. This is Harold. Harold, can you shake Morley’s hand?”
Suddenly .22 seemed shy and shuffled behind Julie.
“That’s okay, big fellow, don’t want to take up with strangers too fast. Tell you what, I’ve got some coloring books inside and some crayons that could keep a guy busy for some time. Let’s me and you go take a look.”
Julie smiled as .22 reached out to take Morley’s hand. Once inside, Morley cleared a space at a roll-top desk and took coloring books and crayons from a bottom drawer.
“You think he’d like those watercolor pens better? I got a box of them around here, can’t say as I remember where right offhand.”
“The crayons should be fine.” Julie watched as .22 peeled the paper off the magenta. At least, he wasn’t sticking them in his mouth.
“We can work over here.” Morley motioned toward a card table behind the glass counter that held some old pawn. “I thought these pieces might interest you.”
Julie picked up a concho belt, each round etched section finished in the center with a piece of coral. “This is exactly what I had in mind.” Then she pulled out the recorder and her notebook. “I’d like you to give me the history of each of these pieces—and any interesting stories, if you think of any. I don’t promise I can use everything so I’ll reserve the right to edit.”
They worked quickly together even with the half dozen interruptions caused by phone and customers. She’d already narrowed Morley’s seemingly endless supply of anecdotes to three and had decided to put him on camera for the show when a tourist bus unloaded thirty people at the door, and Morley excused himself to act as proprietor. She wasn’t watching closely, but it seemed like he sold a number of things—at least two big pieces, a squash blossom necklace and a pair of beaded moccasins, followed by the usual trinkets.
The tourists hovered over the counters as Morley pulled first one, then another tray from underneath and switched on the crookneck lamp clamped to each cabinet’s edge. She noticed .22 had stopped coloring and had begun to rub his stomach. He must be famished. She’d lost all track of time. It was already twelve-thirty. She really needed to get him something to eat. She’d probably be asking for trouble if she kept him waiting too much longer. He had been so good, no whining. He’d sat in one place and stayed out from underfoot. That had earned him a hamburger and then some.
She told Morley that she needed to get .22 some lunch and then home, said she’d take a rain check on their lunch together but maybe when she brought the edited version of her notes—the part of the script that would deal with the pawn shop for him to review on Monday, they could go then. Morley promised he’d close between eleven and one—he allowed as how he wasn’t going to miss out on a date with the “prettiest gal in Gallup.” She gathered her materials and, taking .22’s hand, went out to the car.
“Bus.” .22 stood on the curb and watched a charter pull out and head north.
“Yes,” Julie answered and hoped with fingers crossed that he wouldn’t want to go back to the terminal. “Are you hungry?”
“Me eat.” At the mention of food he clamored into the car and held quiet while she pulled the seat belt across his chest and snapped it in place. The scent of udder cream almost gagged her. His head seemed more thickly coated than usual. Poor thing, the sores looked icky. He had had to put up with so much in his young life.
“Booger. Me want booger.”
“Ham—bur—ger.” She enunciated clearly. “We’ll stop and get hamburgers on our way home.”
She was saving the bribe of ice cream until she really needed it. And so far, so good. She was amazed and feeling more than a little self-righteous about her good deed. It had really been pleasant—taking .22 with her had been a super idea, good for both of them. It taught her some patience and gave him some quality time in the real world. She slipped behind the wheel and started the engine.
+ + +
“Phone’s for you.” Hannah leaned into the kitchen.
Damn. Ben had taken the time to grab a sandwich before he took off for Albuquerque, and now it looked as if he was going to be delayed even longer—unless it was Julie ... He bounded for the hallway.
“Rose?” He hoped the disappointment didn’t show.
/> “You’ve got to get back here.” He started to interrupt but she cut him off. “I know you have other plans. But believe me, you’ll want to take a look at this. I can’t say any more. Please, trust me.” Then she hung up.
Ben stood a minute by the phone. He’d never known Rose to exaggerate. If she said it was important, it was. He just couldn’t think of what patient might be causing the crisis. Someone must have been brought in who needed hospitalization—maybe needed to be taken to Gallup. He’d have to go back.
+ + +
“They’re in your office.” Rose met him at the front door.
“They?”
“Daisy and Mary.”
Suddenly, Ben was angry. “You dragged me back here because of two women who probably have nothing more than a good case of premonition—”
“This is serious. I think they know something about Sal. And Julie.”
Ben felt a wave of dread. “Julie?” He pushed past Rose. Julie? What could she have to do with this?
The two women sat next to each other exactly like they had on Monday. Only there was a package on his desk opened at the top, its wrappings torn back to reveal a large piece of pottery.
“She killed Sal.” This from Mary, who seemed agitated as she folded and unfolded a white handkerchief bordered with pink flowers.
“You don’t know that for certain,” Daisy snapped. “It’s the girl that I’m worried about after what Rose told us.”
“Wait. Someone start at the beginning.” Ben sat down.
“Your friend Julie called me this morning about a receipt and key to a locker at the bus terminal in Gallup. Sal, sometime back, had asked her to store a package for him there.” She paused to indicate the box on his desk. “She told me it held the fetish jar of our grandfather. She said she had no idea why he didn’t just bring it to me in the first place because in a letter to Hannah, he’d said I would pick it up—”
“He never wrote a letter. She killed him. So now she has to lie,” Mary interrupted.
“Let me finish.” Daisy scowled in the general direction of Mary, who was staring at the floor. “Your Julie wanted to bring the key and receipt to me, have me go into Gallup and pick up the box. She said she would be more comfortable if I had it. I told her that would be fine. Then the more I thought about it, I knew it had something to do with Sal’s—”
“Death.” Mary finished her sentence.
“Disappearance,” Daisy corrected.
“When we got the package home, we opened it. It was great-grandfather’s fetish jar all right, but it was sealed shut. That wasn’t right. I couldn’t imagine why Sal would do such a thing.”
“We opened it,” Mary added.
“And look.” Daisy handed him a small notebook, blue cover, three inches by five, spiral bound across the top and about a half inch thick.
Ben flipped it open and couldn’t understand the notations. There was page after page of what looked like experiments. First there was a formula, then a list of ingredients—things like resin and tree sap in addition to poly something or others, synthetics, then cooling times, sketches of insects and things labeled dryers—suddenly, his eye caught the word, amber. Ben looked at Daisy.
“Sal was making amber?” he asked.
She nodded. “I, we, should have guessed before. He always had access to perfect pieces. Amber’s expensive but I thought Hannah got it for him. And he always helped his family. Gave us money when we needed things. I should have known that his carvings couldn’t have paid for a new van—not in one lump. And he had to hide it from us.” Daisy paused. “Could he go to jail?”
“Not if he’s dead,” Mary said, but Ben could tell Daisy was ignoring her and wanted his opinion.
“It’s illegal. The government has cracked down on those producing fake turquoise. It depends on how far he carried the scam—where he sold it. If he kept it for himself and only carved fetishes that he sold, then it’s probably not as serious.”
“Hannah sold amber. The kid who works at the trading post, the one who helped out Sal, said she shipped twenty-five pounds last week. And that trader, Ahmed? The kid says he used to pick up boxes of what could have been the same stuff.” Daisy paused. “That much amber was worth a lot of money. Hannah wanted this notebook. I know she did, and she’s put Sal in danger to get it.”
Ben noted that Daisy didn’t say she believed Sal had been killed. But could that be possible? The recipe was equivalent to a small fortune. People had killed for less. And it seemed obvious that taking Julie into his confidence meant Sal was trying to hide the notebook from somebody.
“Did you say Hannah told Julie she’d gotten a letter from Sal with the receipt—a letter that asked Julie to get the jar and then turn it over to you?” Ben asked.
“I was supposed to pick it up at the trading post. Julie said Hannah thought I was helping Sal—that he was hiding out somewhere with my help. But that’s not so. I haven’t seen him. And I don’t believe he’d write a letter. Sal wouldn’t do that. And he wouldn’t run. First of all, he wouldn’t leave the village. He’d stay until this murder thing was all cleared up.” Daisy folded her arms across her chest. “I know my brother.”
One thing seemed certain. Hannah knew much more about Sal’s disappearance than she had admitted. So, if Hannah got the locker receipt from Sal and tricked Julie into going after the package ...
“Why did you say earlier that you were worried about Julie?” Ben felt his palms grow moist. Somehow he knew he wasn’t going to like the answer.
“We went into town right after she left, and we saw her and the retarded boy—Hannah’s child—by the bus station. She had mentioned to me that she was interviewing Morley from the pawn shop but didn’t say anything about taking .22 with her.”
“In Gallup? .22 was with Julie?” Ben was standing.
“And then when Rose said you might have doubts about .22 even being .22 ...”
“Hope it was okay to tell.” He hadn’t seen Rose in the doorway. He nodded, or he meant to nod. His mind was racing—thoughts of Sal and toads and amber were jumbled together, but all implicated Hannah and whoever .22 really was. Hannah had lied to him not an hour ago as to her son’s whereabouts and Julie’s. He fought a wave of nausea. Hannah had sent .22 with Julie thinking she was going to pick up the package. Julie was in danger. He knew it; he had to think. “Rose, get Morley on the phone. Find out if she’s still there. If she is, don’t upset her but tell her not to leave. Then call Tommy and fill him in. I’m on my way to Gallup.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
“Booger good. Me eat hundred boogers.”
.22 clutched a wad of French fries in a greasy fist, then stuffed the last few bites of the third hamburger into his mouth with his other hand—a two-fisted eater. She was glad she had opted to eat outside. Without a bib .22 splattered ketchup and mustard down his shirt and onto the table. She had some cleanup to do, but it was better than eating in the car or inside. Bob’s Drive-in at the edge of town had been a good idea.
But they attracted attention. That part was difficult to get used to. Diners inside peeked out the window between bites and let their eyes wander to .22. She had wanted to scream at them that he couldn’t help it. Did they have to stare? This wasn’t a freak show. She could never get used to this sort of thing.
There was always so much promise, hope, during a pregnancy and no warning sometimes that things could go wrong. What would she do—she and Ben do—if they had such a child? They hadn’t talked about children, not in any concrete way. Both seemed to take for granted there would be some—one or two. And if she were asked when, she knew the answer would be vague. Sometime. Some future time when everything was perfect. Jobs secure. A house of their own—not something temporary supplied by IHS out in nowhere.
But when were things ever going to be perfect? She was signing on to follow Ben around—and it would be just that for a few years before he might land a job in a metropolitan area, if he ever did. But would that be so bad for
a family? Living in settings with minimal threats of gang involvement or drugs? A reservation might prove the best place to raise a family. It could provide the kind of diversity that enriched children, in addition to keeping them safe.
She opened another package of ketchup and squirted it onto the plastic lid from the shake. .22 stopped dunking his fries in his “berry-milk” but put his five fingers in the ketchup one at a time and then loudly sucked the thick red condiment off of each one. Julie ignored him. He was quiet and getting nourished.
A young child rode by on a bike chanting, “Dumbo, Dumbo, Dumbo ...” .22 stuck out his tongue and left it there until Julie was afraid that he’d pulled a jaw muscle. She couldn’t really reprimand him; it was the other child’s fault.
And the child’s lack of manners didn’t seem to faze .22—with a little coaching he even ordered another strawberry shake on his own. She gave him the money, and he went inside the diner and waited at the counter behind two other people before placing his order. She’d have to tell Hannah. Julie doubted if he’d ever done that before. And he was proud of himself. He actually glowed and kept patting the sweating sides of the shake cup and repeating, “Mine. I got berry-milk.” Then he would break into a grin.
He was being so good. There had been the hint of a hassle when she hadn’t let him take the shake or any of the food in the car. She was anxious to get back, but she sat with him until he finished, which seemed to take forever. She could remember her parents’ exasperation when she and her brother dawdled over food. But it was a beautiful summer’s day, and their table was under an old cottonwood whose natural canopy offered shade. She really wasn’t in a hurry.
Julie relaxed and watched .22 drag his fries through the ketchup and make loud sucking noises with his straw when he reached the bottom of his shake. And then she thought of it— why couldn’t she test .22? He trusted her; he’d try for her. Couldn’t she find out if he could flip a coin on demand? That would be helpful. Give Ben some idea of whether what he saw was a fluke or not.