Day of the Dead

by R. Allen Chappell

  The men had hardly seated themselves when the sound of voices came from the outer office. Agent Fred Smith bustled through the door carrying a cardboard box that had the picture of a doughnut on it; the word “Spudnuts” was emblazoned on the side.

  Thomas’s face broke into a grin, and even Charlie Yazzie couldn’t help smiling.

  “Sorry I’m late, guys: there was quite a line at the doughnut shop this morning.” Nonetheless, the FBI man sounded pleased with himself.

  Charlie nodded at the box. “That was awfully nice of you, Fred.” He personally knew people who drove all the way in from Shiprock some mornings, just to line up at the Spudnut counter. It was a Farmington institution for both whites and Indians alike.

  Agent Smith sat the box on the table and then shook hands all around, saying each man’s name in turn. He had grown up with the Diné, and even worked in his grandfather’s trading post when he was in school. The FBI man knew how to get along with the Navajo, inquiring after various family members, and then when questioned, offered a few words about how his own brood was getting along. As the others delved into the doughnut box, Fred went for his coffee, which he took black, then found a seat at the head of the table.

  Thomas pushed the Spudnut box toward the FBI man while pursing his lips in approval of the three still warm doughnuts on his napkin.

  As they began, Fred wiped a few flakes of glaze from his lips before saying. “First off, I’d like you boys to know how much I appreciate you coming in. I’ll try not to take up too much of your time this morning. I’m sure we all have other things to do.” The agent looked around the table before getting down to business. “We have sort of a situation, I guess you could call it.” He hesitated before going on. “You may have heard that Robert Ashki was released from prison a few days ago. You know him better than I do; I was still working out of Albuquerque at the time of his trial.” He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and leafed through it before looking up. “The assistant warden where Ashki was incarcerated called to say one of their informants reported the man making threats against certain people here on the reservation and, according to him, the threats were ongoing during the time Ashki was an inmate. It’s prison policy to pass along such information should they feel it warranted. In this case they obviously thought it was.”

  Here the FBI Agent appeared thoughtful for a moment. “I took it upon myself to pull our own file on the ex-councilman and there are things there that seem to lend weight to the seriousness of the warden’s report.” Fred adjusted his glasses and looked at Charlie, and then at Thomas Begay. “There’s more to it than I can let you in on at the moment, but suffice it to say, I have some concerns you should be made aware of.” He indicated the Tribal policeman. “In the last day or so, Billy Red Clay here has come into possession of further information, some of which—I grant you—could be rumor. I specifically asked Billy not to mention any of this beforehand, but this is why he’s here this morning.” Fred eyed the young Liaison Officer who in turn looked at Charlie and then away. “I’ll let him fill you in on that part of this morning’s business.”

  Billy produced a notebook, not unlike that of the agent’s, but in his case he had only to flip open the first page to read from his few notes, which he did while occasionally glancing up at Charlie. “One of our own informants says he recently overheard Robert Ashki claim he was going to ‘get even’ with both Thomas Begay and Charlie Yazzie. The message was left recorded on our answering machine early yesterday morning. The caller said he was a concerned citizen.” Billy frowned despite himself, “We could see who he was by the caller I. D.”

  Thomas chuckled. “That doesn’t say much for your informant’s ‘smarts’ does it, Nephew?”

  Billy Red Clay turned color. “The man’s been pretty reliable in the past, and he did do a short stretch in the same cell block with Ashki. Only got out a few months ago. I know for a fact there was no love lost between the two.”

  The four men discussed the various aspects of the information, the three Navajo finally concluding that “getting even” covered a lot of ground.

  Thomas smiled. “That could mean anything from throwing eggs at our house, to doing someone bodily harm. I’m not really worried about it myself, but I will let my uncle John Nez, up at Navajo Mountain, know what’s going on. He lives near Robert Ashki’s camp up there, and he’d be the one most likely to run into him, but I doubt he will be worried by it either.”

  Charlie wasn’t so sure. “I think we may be missing the point here. A little advance warning might not be a bad thing. We should all be aware by now of what Ashki’s capable of.”

  Agent Smith nodded agreement. “After reading the Ashki trial transcripts, I’m inclined to agree with Charlie.” He looked at all three Diné when he said, “I would appreciate hearing any further information that might come your way down the line.” He turned even more serious when he said, “I know how things get around on the reservation and would hope you might let me know first before taking any action on your own.” This last thought seemed to conclude what he had to say and looking at his watch, Agent Smith called the meeting to a close. But as they were on their way out he touched Charlie on the arm and pointed to his office.

  The Legal Services Investigator caught Thomas’s eye, indicating he and Billy should go on without him. He saw Billy frown as he followed Thomas out.

  In his office the FBI man, glancing toward the reception area, shut the door behind them, and once in his chair reached across and turned off the intercom. He raised his eyebrows at Charlie as he did so. The precaution gave the investigator pause, putting him slightly on his guard.

  Charlie took a seat across the desk, where he waited for the Senior Agent to take the lead.

  “There’s something else I would like to discuss with you, Charlie, on a more personal level. Something off the record, but possibly even more important than what we discussed earlier.”

  Fred’s manner changed imperceptibly as he leaned across the desk and lowered his voice. “Charlie, for the last month or so the Bureau has been involved in a joint effort with the DEA. Drug Enforcement is spearheading a multi-agency push targeting the Sinaloa trafficking cartel.” He paused, rolling his pencil across one finger and under the next. “Their agency has turned up information which may have implications for the reservation. Given the increased drug problems we’ve been experiencing, both on, and off Indian land, I’m sure this doesn’t surprise you. For whatever reason, DEA seems to think you may be able to help.

  Charlie pulled his chair closer to the desk, but didn’t say anything.

  “In fact,” the agent went on, “the Drug Enforcement folks have enquired as to any information we might have regarding your involvement in a past murder case on the reservation. They seemed most interested in anything to do with a Tressa Tarango, wife of one Luca Tarango, the suspect in a string of killings on Indian land. I’ve taken the trouble to go over the files here. From what I can gather from my predecessor’s rather sketchy notes—the previous Senior Agent, Eldon Mayfield, considered you to be directly involved in the death of Luca Tarango. He also had reason to believe you might later have corresponded with his widow?” Fred raised both hands in such a way Charlie knew he expected an answer.

  “Fred, it’s common knowledge what my part was in the apprehension and death of Luca Tarango.” That day was probably the closest Charlie had come to dying, and even now he had a hard time dealing with the memory of it. “As far as my correspondence with his widow goes, it consisted of a single letter notifying her of her husband’s death, less than two short paragraphs as I recall.” Charlie put his hands flat on the table. “Eldon and I never got along well. You know that yourself, Fred.”

  The agent nodded to the truth in that and went on, “I also took the trouble to contact Tribal Police, thinking their account of the incident might offer some additional information. Eldon Mayfield wasn’t the most thorough person when it came to filing reports. I’ve been aware of that fo
r some time.” The FBI man frowned and shook his head. “Tribal somehow couldn’t locate their case file, saying it may have been misplaced and they would get back to me. I’ll have Billy Red Clay look into that.” Fred rocked back in his chair. “Here’s the bottom line: We may need your help on this one, Charlie.”

  Now, the FBI needs my help, after all the times they asked me to butt out of an investigation. Charlie saw the humor in this and, looking across at the FBI Agent, saw Fred knew exactly what he was thinking.

  Smith smiled. “I know…I know…”

  “Well, the funny thing is, Fred, I did have a letter from Tressa Tarango just a few days ago. That’s after two years not hearing a thing from her.”

  Smith looked down at his notes. “That’s interesting; the County Coroner had a letter from her, too—also about two weeks ago—she wanted to know where her husband was buried and if their office still had his personal effects.” Fred brought his chair back upright and emphasized his next words with a lifted finger. “Drug Enforcement asked the Coroner’s office to notify them should anyone enquire about Tarango’s remains.” Agent Smith had been trying to put all this together in his head, but it wasn’t adding up, until now. “Drug Enforcement has their own way of doing things, Charlie. The DEA said the coroner finally did call, saying Tarango’s wife had been in touch, and asked if it would be all right if they released information to her. The suggestion was not to write her back at all.” Fred shook his head and frowned. “I believe now I know why, too.”

  “Oh, and why would that be, Fred?”

  “The DEA wanted her to have to go to you Charlie. They think you can do something for them. They obviously know something we don’t, and they’re looking for a plant.”

  “A plant?” Charlie was smiling and looking for Fred to smile in return, something signifying the agent was kidding him.

  Fred didn’t smile. “You know, Charlie…a mole…an undercover guy.” The FBI man nodded, saying, “That’s the first thing these people usually come up with, it’s the primary way they do business; it’s their stock in trade, you might say. You’re their guy. Now it’s making sense.”

  Charlie sat there attempting to keep a straight face. The two men looked at one another for nearly a full minute, each waiting for the other to say something.

  Charlie was the first to cave. “I’m not their guy, Fred. You better dial those boys up right now and tell them that—I’m not their guy! I’ve got a job. I’m a lawyer and a legal department investigator. I’m the exact opposite of what they want.”

  Fred didn’t say anything for a moment but when he did, he had a set to his jaw. “Okay, Charlie, I’ll call them…but I know these people. They’re not going to give a damn what you think you are. They’re very good at picking people who can help them—they’re building a case—and they don’t give up easy. You’ll hear from them, all right.”

  “Where are they?”

  “The people I’ve been talking to? They’re in Denver…at least they were at the time we spoke.”

  “Good, I doubt they’ll make a trip all the way down here then.”

  Fred Smith raised an eyebrow and shrugged.

  ~~~~~~

  When the Legal Services Investigator went back outside, Billy Red Clay was nowhere in sight. His uncle Thomas, however, lounged against the Tribal logo on Charlie’s white Chevy. “My nephew got a call on the radio, said he had to leave, but I have to tell you, he’s pretty anxious to hear what happened in there. He didn’t like being shown the door—him being the Liaison Officer and all.”

  “Yes, well, then you can tell him his name didn’t come up in the conversation.”

  Thomas grinned. “Then, I expect he’ll like that even less.” He waited for Charlie to fill him in on what had happened, but when he didn’t, Thomas just shrugged it off and turned back toward his truck. He knew he’d get it out of his friend sooner or later.

  ~~~~~~

  It was almost noon by the time Charlie Yazzie looked up from his desk and considered the hour. The morning stack of work had been reduced, but not by nearly as much as it should. The FBI conference had put a damper on his usually keen work ethic. The idea that a federal agency might have the temerity to approach him to go undercover was unsettling. He’d had dealings with the DEA before—minor cases, mostly—involving local people there on the Rez. Drugs were a major problem on the Diné Bikeyah, as they were on most Indian reservations, and Legal Services did sometimes get involved one way or another. Drugs were now a close runner-up to the rampant alcohol addiction, still the leading cause of mental and other health disorders, and a major contributing factor to growing criminal activity.

  The irritating beep of the intercom interrupted Charlie’s already meandering train of thought. He considered not answering and waited out the three-beep series, only to be left with the equally insistent pulsing red light. It was a new system and Charlie was having a hard time getting used to it. He tapped the button, but before he could adjust the volume the new receptionist’s voice filled the room. She was a loud talker, as the Navajo say.

  “Yes, Gwen?” He hoped it was still Gwen—receptionists seemed to come and go almost on a weekly basis. The office staff had nearly doubled over his years there, but at the same time, employee commitment had (in his opinion) declined. That problem, too, would eventually appear on his plate…another thing to sort out.

  “It’s never easy at the top.” That’s the advice his old boss left him when he stepped down and handed over the reins, adding in his usual cryptic manner, “Especially when you are dealing with a People in transition.”

  Transition to what? That was the question and was it a transition forward? Charlie watched as the indicator lights jumped back and forth from phone to phone. Gwen—if that was her name—had apparently dropped the connection and wasn’t sure exactly which button to push, so she was pushing them all.

  “Is that you, Mr. Yazzie?” Her voice reminded him, vaguely, of a small donkey’s bray.

  “Yes Gwen, it’s me…what can I do for you?” Charlie partially covered the speaker before she could blast an answer.

  “I have a Mr. Begay here, who says he has an appointment, but I don’t see it in the book?”

  “That’s all right Gwen, send him on back…uh, is there anyone with him?”

  “Yes, there is, sir, another gentleman is with him. Um… a Mr. Ponyboy, who says he has an appointment, too.”

  Charlie sighed and shook his head, “Send them both back here, Gwen.” The investigator closed the file he’d been working on and putting it on top of the others, shoved the stack in a drawer.

  As usual, Thomas Begay was first through the door. Grinning at the Legal Services Investigator, he said, “I see we are all now a ‘Mister’ this morning. Where’d the new girl come from?”

  “Secretarial school.” Charlie made a face. “Temp Services sent her over last week.”

  “Well, she doesn’t seem very good at recognizing important people when she sees them.”

  Harley Ponyboy chuckled at this and offered, “She’s my cousin from Todalena. She knew who we were, all right.” Then Harley remembered why they were there. “Thomas thought it was about lunch time—you know he likes ta be early on Friday.” The two stood, waiting to be offered a seat. They could see Charlie was busy.

  “How was the dig, Harley?” Charlie ignored the comment about lunch, hoping to avoid that trap, but was curious as to what the professor and crew were up to. He missed being involved in the digs.

  “It wasn’t much. George was just hired ta do a preliminary evaluation for right now. It might turn into something later, I guess—if they cut a new service road; if they do that, it will have ta go right through the site. Right now, we are trying to line out the paperwork, “just in case,” at least that’s what it looks like ta me.”

  Charlie motioned them to sit down and sighed as he watched the two jostle for the same seat. Harley Ponyboy shouldered his taller companion aside and settled himself in the padded
leather chair nearest the desk. He grinned at Thomas Begay and made a rude gesture.

  Charlie wiped a hand across his face looking as stern as possible. “What’s up, guys? I’ve got a ton of work this morning.”

  Thomas pointed a finger at Harley. “He got paid and after he filled up his truck, he still thinks he has enough to buy us all lunch. You don’t wanna’ pass that up.”

  “It’s the fried chicken special over at Café Diné Bikeyah,” Harley crowed. Charlie could tell he’d been hanging out with Thomas all morning.

  “Isn’t George coming?”

  “He said he had to get the reports in the mail first, but he might drop by if he finishes in time. That don’t look likely ta me. I told him, ‘that special won’t last long, George.’ …You know how he likes his fried chicken.”

  Charlie knew it was probably useless trying to argue himself out of the early lunch, but determined to make it a quick one. There was a good likelihood of running into Billy Red Clay at the café and there were a few questions he had for the policeman. He thought that alone might justify the time spent. He’d been concentrating on setting a good example for the new employees, and being careful not to take long lunches seemed important.

  They all three went in Charlie’s truck, and pulling into the parking lot at the Diné Bikeyah. Thomas, was first to spot his nephew’s Tribal Police unit. “Looks like Billy’s here.”

  Billy Red Clay and a new recruit had taken the big table by the back window, but when Charlie’s group worked their way back there, Billy informed them he had two more people on the way and pointed to the empty, but smaller, booth in the rear of the room. Thomas, frowning, led the way. He thought his nephew was acting like he had a burr under his blanket about something.