Trust Me

by Richard Z. Santos

  “Through here you won’t get a signal,” Mallon said. “In about ten minutes, maybe.”

  Charles looked out at the miles of scrub. He exhaled loud, as if he could blow away the entire desert.

  “That was bad news,” Charles said. “A friend was killed in Syria.”

  Mallon shot him a quick look. “Military?”

  “No, teaching political parties how to organize.”

  “So he was CIA.”

  “What? No, no, lots of political people take jobs overseas. We know how to talk to voters, and lots of countries don’t.”

  Mallon furrowed his brow. He looked like someone told him that animals sometimes speak English behind people’s backs.

  “Like Doctors without Borders, but for political hacks,” Mallon said.

  “Is that a joke?”

  “I don’t know,” Mallon said. “Maybe.”

  Charles burst out a guffaw and then held it back. “Yeah, I suppose it’s like Hacks without Borders.”

  Mallon seemed to release some of his anger, but he kept moving his mouth as if literally chewing his words before spitting them out.

  “You actually help others, or are you just American tourists partying?”

  “I haven’t done it,” Charles said. “I’d like to. Hell, if my wife leaves me, why not? This guy, Jim Hawley, he was a prick with a temper, but even the worst of us still want to help people. Or, we started that way, at least.”

  “Then what turns you into assholes?”

  “What turns some cops bad?” Charles quipped.

  Mallon’s eyes cast sparks of rage at Chris, who quickly looked away.

  “I know it’s not the same,” Charles said. “I’ve already been warned against making that comparison.”

  Charles watched the land go by, noticing how the clouds on the horizon seemed to hover inches above the peaks of the distant mountains, as if they wanted to come so close, but were afraid to actually touch.

  “It’s the ego,” Charles said. “The candidates and the electeds and the donors are all rich assholes, and that rubs off on you. Everyone wants to climb higher, closer to the center of power, but everyone loses eventually, and that also messes with you. Even when you win, you’re out of a job the day after the election.”

  “But you keep working. You keep doing what you do.”

  “And then you end up taking a job in Damascus because you’re looking for that next jolt, an injection of energy.”

  “I knew you guys in the Army and on the force. Itching for a battle.”

  “You’re not?”

  “I’ve been through battles.” Mallon pointed his finger at the road in front of him. “If your friend had walked out of that prison, he’d be done with all of you. He’d be carving out his place.”

  Charles laughed, bitter and ironic. “That’s what I’m doing out here, I guess. After my battle.”

  “That was not a battle you went through. A real battle changes you. You disappear. Can’t get that back, not ever, not all the way.”

  Charles looked straight ahead, watching the highway curve around hills. “I think I liked you better when you were just scary.”

  “We’re almost to San Miguel,” Mallon said. “I’m giving you a chance that you don’t deserve. Stop what you’re doing. You know what I mean. You need to either focus on this job, or you need to go back home.”

  Charles’ mouth went dry. Mallon knew about Olivia. Somehow, he knew.

  Addie called him back. Only two bars of service. He ignored the call; he would only lose the connection again.

  TWENTY-NINE

  OLIVIA PARKED HER SUV behind the Spanish Governor’s Mansion and walked through the plaza. Men with leaf blowers were making a lot of noise but not moving too many leaves. She looked over her shoulder at the people on the sidewalk. She resisted the urge to duck her head or hide under a shawl. It was time to tell Janice about Charles.

  For months now, Olivia continued to be surprised by how well Janice still knew Cody. That woman felt him in her bones, and it was useful. She was bound to have some ideas about what Charles could do. In truth, Olivia would never say she trusted Janice, but she trusted her anger. Her rage for Cody was pure, rational and unadulterated.

  Still, meeting was risky because it would look so strange to anyone who knew them. Why would the two Mrs. Branches be grabbing a cappuccino together? They chose a coffee shop in a converted house near the commuter rail station. The porch creaked and the wall near the front door showed an Aztec mural of a warrior in front of a blocky, tiered pyramid. The Aztec’s skin was unpainted adobe. He was holding a knife and wore a flowing headdress of white feathers.

  The coffee shop was so dark, it tended to scare away any stray tourists. Olivia loved it. Coffee beans were roasting in the basement, giving the shop a faint smell of burnt popcorn. Olivia ordered a black coffee. Janice sat at an untreated picnic table in a side room. The old, grey walls were covered with photos of Pancho Villa, Emiliano Zapata and scowling men wearing bands of bullets.

  Olivia sat down, always unsure how to greet the woman helping her leave her husband. They were much closer than a hug and a peck on the cheek.

  “Did I tell you about the tracker I found in the car?” Olivia asked.

  Janice nodded. “Not surprising. Unfortunate, but not surprising. He’s tearing his hair out. These Apaches are not taking a quick payout and I’ve heard San Miguel is terrified they’ll lose everything.”

  “They should be. He’ll go with whichever tribe makes it the easiest for him to cash in. Everything’s moving so fast.”

  Janice tilted her head. “You know something.”

  Olivia sipped her coffee. “I have a friend. An old friend.”

  “Oh, I see. A very good friend, I’m sure.”

  “Not as good as he thinks he is.” Olivia smiled.

  Janice’s eyes glimmered. “It must be that new fellow from back east, right? Dark hair, kind of looks scared all the time.”

  “Accurate description.”

  “And this friend knows something?”

  “Wait, first, I need you to do something,” Olivia said.

  Janice picked up a spoon and idly stirred her coffee. She would not say yes or no without first hearing the request. Maybe Cody had learned more from her than he liked to let on.

  “I need you to pay a lawyer a retainer, on my behalf. Give him my name, tell him it’s a divorce, secure him however you need. I can’t pay for that now, but you can.”

  “That should be easy enough.”

  “I also think you know more about Cody’s finances then you’ve let on. Send me the banks, the account numbers, anything you have.”

  “Dear, you must already have that information.”

  “He divorced you as the money was coming in. You’ve seen accounts I haven’t.”

  “And you’re going to rob the bank?”

  “I’m looking for transactions, embarrassing information. Don’t say the word you’re thinking of.”

  Janice smiled. “The B-word? Of course not.”

  Olivia looked around the coffee shop, worried someone had slipped in behind her. “I don’t like what I’m turning into,” she said. “But I am going to live my life after Cody Branch.”

  “That’s what I said.” Janice sighed, and her mouth pouted into an expression equally maternal and condescending. “You think I’m such a bitch for still being so hung up on him.”

  “No, I get it. He sticks to you. And I can still see him, the man I fell for, underneath all these layers of fat and ego.”

  “Isn’t that the worst part? Knowing how good it could be.” Olivia saw Janice’s anger differently now. She was not only furious about being left behind, she was also mad at Cody for having changed. Maybe helping Olivia leave—finally, a loss for the great man—would bring some of the old Cody back.

  “I don’t think he has any of the same accounts,” Janice said. “His bankers would have set him up with a whole new portfolio, but I do recall the man
loved his safe.”

  “Yeah, it’s in the bedroom. Not very big.”

  “Do you know the combination?” Janice asked.

  Olivia rolled her eyes.

  “Dumb question,” Janice continued. “Try . . . well . . . try my birthday.”

  “Your birthday? For the combination?”

  “That opened it years ago, and Cody is, at times, both sentimental and lazy.”

  Olivia nodded. She took a sip of coffee and looked around again. “It’s not just an airport. The plan is to help fund a casino, and Cody will use the different leases and airport commissions and tribal groups to mask his ownership. He’s going to make millions.”

  Janice sat back and smoothed her hair. “Of course. What else could it have been? We’re idiots for not seeing that earlier. Oh, your friend must be a really good friend.”

  “Cody told him personally. I’m not sure why. He either trusts him a lot or he’s looking for someone to blame now, when construction has barely begun, which is earlier than usual. Charles is a good guy, and I’m hoping he’ll get out of this fine, but he’s desperate for recognition.”

  “What if he doesn’t get recognition? What if nothing goes like he planned?”

  “He’s already hit rock bottom.”

  Janice put her hand on Olivia’s arm. “Be careful. Be careful. Watch out for your friend.”

  Olivia pulled her hand away. “Stop. Cody’s not dangerous, not like that.”

  “But the money is, dear.”

  Olivia didn’t like the look in Janice’s eyes—too concerned, too sympathetic. Guilty. Olivia pushed back from the table. “Should I not have told you?”

  Janice looked down into her coffee and then raised her head, with a new smile like a pane of glass over a painting. “We should have never started telling each other anything, I’m afraid.”

  “Did you do something you shouldn’t have? What did you do?”

  Janice opened her mouth but closed it again. Olivia stood up and backed away, unable to turn her back on Janice and her glassy smile.

  THIRTY

  CHARLES HAD NEVER BEEN on a reservation before. They passed a faded sign, hand-painted on a sheet of plywood: Now Entering San Miguel Pueblo. No pictures allowed. This is a closed Pueblo and a sacred space. If you do not have official business here or have not been invited personally, please turn around. Open feast day is September 29.

  “You been out here before?” Charles asked. He and Mallon had not spoken since his veiled threat.

  “For Mr. Branch,” Mallon said. “June 25th. Last year. We needed to persuade some tribal elders that the airport wouldn’t impede their way of life.”

  “Did it work?”

  “We’re here, aren’t we?”

  Charles could see a line of trailers up on a ridge. Some trailers had carports and attached patios, while others sat alone in the middle of the grass, as if dropped from above. They passed houses with cars under wooden carports and sheet metal ringing small yards. Wire penned in a few goats and chickens, and wood was stacked alongside blackened adobe ovens.

  “What’s the difference between a pueblo and a reservation?”

  “None of these people were relocated. This is their ancestral land, but with a . . . perimeter around it.”

  They approached the edge of town, where the roads were freshly paved. Gravel cul-de-sacs holding five or six homes branched off the main road like seed pods. There were no sidewalks anywhere in town, and electrical wires sagged off their poles. Charles expected poverty, but he was surprised by the economic range the houses displayed: two-story jobs with brick facades and pillars, squat adobes with crude additions, patched-up trailers with sagging roofs. For every three farm trucks with rusted side panels and plastic sheeting where the windows should be, there was a new SUV.

  “Look, why haven’t they tried to build a casino or anything sooner.”

  “Bigger tribes lobby to limit new gaming licenses.”

  “Can’t the tribes all work together?”

  Mallon smiled. It looked strange, like his lips were accidentally glued to his back teeth. “Working together is almost as bad as working with us.”

  The tribal headquarters was in a white adobe building shaped like a southwest church, complete with curving walls, a bell tower and wide doors. The doors were propped open, letting in a stream of people. This was supposed to have been a small meeting, but Charles saw families, kids, elders, even teenagers shuffling in, as if they were going to see a new movie. He folded the statement, shifted it from his jacket pocket to his shirt pocket and then back again.

  The room was lined with tribal flags and framed photos of smiling men in suits. Most of the seats were taken, and there was a microphone set up in the aisle. The tribal council was already seated on the stage, and there was an empty chair next to a man with a nameplate that read “Governor.”

  Mallon disappeared to the back, underneath a large aerial photo of the pueblo. Charles looked around, waiting for someone to save him. The governor got to his feet and waved him forward. Charles thought he might have been at Olivia’s show a few nights ago. Charles went to the side of the stage.

  The governor bent over and introduced himself, “Oscar Luján.” He shook Charles’ hand. “Is Diana outside?”

  “No, she couldn’t make it.”

  “We had this scheduled.” Luján stood up and looked over Charles’ shoulder as if he might be mistaken.

  “I’m here.”

  Luján looked down at Charles. “Who the fuck are you?”

  “Charles O’Connell. I’m with the airport. Salazar and Branch,” he managed to spit out.

  Luján put his hands on his hips, causing his suit jacket to stretch over his belly. “I guess you’ll have to do. Come on.”

  Charles took the seat next to the governor and nodded at the other men on stage. They gave him curt, political smiles, the kind you get when someone has to hide the look they think you deserve.

  Luján tapped the microphone, silencing the crowd. “Thank you everyone for coming on short notice. As tribal governor, I’m going to go ahead and call this meeting to order. This is a special session, so we’re going to forgo some of the formalities. We’re here to discuss potential changes to our agreement with Branch Development, the Santa Fe Regional Airport Commission and other related entities.”

  Charles saw a stenographer in the front row. There was also a man holding a video camera in the aisle. Charles wanted to wipe away his sweat, but he knew that would call attention to his nerves.

  “We’re joined today by. . . .” Luján grimaced at Charles.

  “Charles O’Connell. Director of Public Outreach and Communications for the Santa Fe . . .” His mind went blank again. “I work for Mr. Branch.”

  Luján looked at the crowd. “Let’s welcome our guest.”

  To call the applause that followed a “smattering” would be an exaggeration.

  “I have a statement to share before taking questions.” Charles smoothed the piece of paper in front of him and then held it in both hands. It seemed so insignificant now.

  “The Santa Fe Regional Airport Commission and Branch Development have enjoyed a long, mutually beneficial relationship.”

  A snorting laugh came from the crowd.

  “Recent developments have slowed our progress, but now that the San Miguel Tribal Council, supported by historical evidence, have approved our plans resuming construction, we hope to make up lost time and open the airport on schedule. In regards to the claims of the so-called San Miguel Apache . . .”

  A few hisses came from the front row.

  “We’re not prepared to comment on their veracity or historical accuracy. We have an agreement with the San Miguel Pueblo that we plan to honor, as we’re sure the tribal council will honor its agreement with us. We commit to respecting all tribal rights and privileges. If, pending future discoveries, the claims of the San Miguel Apache prove to have merit, then we’ll discuss a concession to their rights. Until then,
we hope to resume construction later this week.”

  Charles looked up, wondering if the room had always been this silent. He could see Mallon’s dark shape in the back corner, like a water stain on the wall. Luján’s thick face was pinched into a network of caves and bulging flesh.

  Then, Charles looked back at the words he had just read. “A concession to their rights will be discussed.” That was not what Salazar briefed him on. This statement opened the door to cutting in the Apaches in on the deal. Charles saw the stenographer tap out the last words of his statement.

  A man sitting next to Luján finally spoke, “Can you say that last part again?” Charles looked at his nameplate: Otero, Lt. Governor.

  “What I think it meant,” Charles said, “was that we’re excited to start building again and to open this airport so that the San Miguel Pueblo can benefit.”

  “Sure, sure,” Otero said. “But you also said concessions might be given to the Apache fraudsters. How is that possible? And are we going to be the ones paying them?”

  Charles was sitting there, in an uncomfortable folding chair in New Mexico, but he was also standing behind a lectern in Dover. The press could have been sated with a stern denial and the election would have been close, but they would have won. Then Charles would not be in New Mexico at all, he’d be in DC, chief of staff to a US senator. But he hadn’t given that strong denial, he hadn’t handled the moment properly. He had dug into his own ego and told the press that nothing was wrong and that everyone should go back to work. This time he would be firm.

  “The Apache claims have zero reliability. None. However, it’s possible, unlikely but possible, that they have a small, valid claim.

  It’s also possible we’ll all be hit by a meteor before I’m done with this sentence.” Charles paused. “So far neither of those things are true.”

  This provoked an actual laugh from the crowd. Sure, it was more of an acknowledgement of humor than a laugh, but it meant there was light ahead.

  “We want this Apache claim to be laughed out of the state,” Otero said. “We want our rights to be ironclad, but you’re leaving wiggle room.”