Day of the Dead

by R. Allen Chappell

  When the Dispatch Duty Officer notified Billy Red Clay of his visitor, he had the woman buzz him right in then sat back in his chair with an air of expectancy. He was confident Drug Enforcement would already have talked to Charlie, and was more than a little interested in how that went. When he spoke to the two DEA agents the day before they were, in his estimation, quite thorough; their recent background checks with the FBI had turned up only favorable reports on Charlie Yazzie despite the few conflicting notations made by the previous Senior Agent. For Billy’s part, they were mostly interested in Tribal’s personal experience with the investigator—his credibility, and how he dealt with other agencies on the reservation. But they wouldn’t say why, nor would they divulge their purpose in the inquiry. FBI Agent Fred Smith had already made him aware this would be the case, even before he set the meeting up, but that didn’t make their reluctance to share information any easier for the policeman to swallow. In Billy’s estimation, transparency among the various law enforcement agencies on the reservation was becoming a hard commodity to come by.

  The office door was open and, as Charlie walked in, the thought crossed his mind that Billy’s “office” might well have been a supply closet before Tribal Police repurposed it for the fledgling officer’s workspace. There were several people at Tribal who thought the Liaison Officer too young and inexperienced for such a position. Professional jealousy was, as in agencies everywhere, not unknown at Tribal.

  Billy motioned for Charlie to take the only other chair in the room nodding his head in such a way Charlie thought it a sign the officer was aware of the reason for his visit. His guess was rewarded when Billy launched the conversation with, “It’s pretty much a one-way discussion with those boys, isn’t it?”

  Charlie smiled and rubbed his forehead—he was feeling a headache coming on and he didn’t often get headaches. “I don’t suppose you know anything that might be even a little helpful here, do you, Billy?”

  “Not me. I’m pretty much out of the loop on this one. Fred Smith said I shouldn’t ask, either. Those boys mainly just wanted my personal take on you. You know, Charlie, your character and all. I also gave you an A plus in deportment, and another one in your dedication to duty. They seemed satisfied enough with that when they left. No one’s looking into any malfeasance on your part, Charlie.” Billy made the big word sound as though it was a regular part of his vocabulary. He grinned at his one-time mentor. “I don’t suppose you’d care to let me in on what’s going on, would you?”

  “Can’t.” Charlie didn’t change expression as he said this, just waited to see how his young friend would react.

  Billy expected this before he asked and nodded, knowing better than to press him. Charlie didn’t tolerate coercion well, not in any form. The policeman had known and respected the investigator, since he’d joined the force. Both his Uncle Thomas, and his first boss, the late Lieutenant Samuel Shorthair, had the highest regard for the Legal Services Investigator, and their view of the man continued to color Billy’s perception.

  “I hear Tribal can’t find the file on the Luca Tarango murders?” Charlie hadn’t really meant to bring this up, but decided it was time he and Billy got a few things straight between them. In that regard he wanted Billy to at least know something of what went on in his meeting with FBI the day before. “Fred said you were looking into the matter of the file and he seemed pretty confident you’d come up with it.” He looked at Billy, and then away as he could see this was not the case.

  Billy, shaking his head, sighed audibly letting his frustration show. “Charlie, we’ve ransacked this entire building, that file is simply gone. Disappeared. Some of my own reports on the case were in that folder. The last time it was officially checked out was nearly two years ago. That was long after the case was closed. It might have gone missing most any time after that.”

  “You’re saying someone took it?”

  “Looks like it. We’re still searching, but by now I don’t have a whole helluva lot of hope we’re going to find it. As you can imagine, the Captain’s not happy. We’ve had files misplaced before—they eventually turned up—but that’s not the case this time.

  Charlie interrupted, “Your files are kept in a secured area, right?”

  “Secured as far as outsiders go, yes, but nearly everyone here has access. Of course, nothing is allowed to leave the building. That’s what I’m doing down here this morning, going through personnel files. I don’t know what I’m looking for, just hoped something would jump out at me, I guess. So far I’ve got nothing.” Billy sat back in his chair. “I’m not saying a file couldn’t be switched, which would be the smart way for someone to go about it, I suppose, but apparently someone, somehow, just took this one without regard to consequences. I even thought it might have been taken with the intent to copy it and then return it. I have even considered the possibility it might still be here somewhere. None of it makes any sense to me.”

  On his way home Charlie ran the thing around in his mind a time or two, but it only became more confusing the longer he mulled it over, Why would anyone want that file in the first place? Most of it was originally released to other agencies and some of it was already public knowledge. As he thought back over the events leading up to the death of Luca Tarango he realized there was one thing that hadn’t been made public, something few knew, even now: who had actually killed the man. That part of the proceedings had been sealed by court order. That might explain it.

  The Trap

  Tressa Tarango opened the kitchen door just a crack and looked to see if the old vaquero had taken his usual seat at the end of the bar.

  Sancho Mariano had a small place in the hills just outside town, and drove his ancient pickup to the cantina on a regular basis. He would nurse a beer and commiserate with the young Mexican waitress. She was from that area in Sonora he remembered, and he considered her, as one would family, because of it. Sometimes, when business was slow, the young woman would spend a few idle moments talking with him, engendering forgotten feelings of his youth.

  Tressa liked the old man and later took pains to befriend him. She thought her situation might someday become so desperate as to require outside help, and possibly even refuge should it come to that. Over time she let slip how things were there at Espinosa’s, and how sad her situation had become. The old man was so sympathetic and understanding that she couldn’t help divulging what brought her to be in such a mess, and other things, too, things probably best kept to herself.

  Old Sancho, for his part, seemed genuinely concerned, and after a while Tressa began confiding more and more in the man, who now seemed almost like a father. She went so far as to tell him she planned to leave the Espinosa’s, and take her husband’s bones back to Mexico for a proper burial in the red dirt of their village. This information seemed to affect old Sancho in some strange manner and he finally admitted he hoped his own remains could be taken back to his old home place in Sonora. He had already made arrangements for it, in fact, and informed his son of those wishes.

  Sancho Mariano was not at his usual seat that night, but in his place a tall Mexican hunched over a drink—watching her in the mirror. The discovery made her shiver. There was something vaguely familiar about him but nothing she could quite put a finger on. A long puckered scar ran down one cheek and his eyelid on that side drooped slightly, injuries she thought most likely the consequence of a knife fight. She came from a country where such scars were not unusual—knives being the most common cause. Tressa Tarango had a good bit of experience in sizing up the sort of men found in bars, men she was now expected to be nice to, even persuading them to buy her the occasional drink or two. This man was not that usual sort. There was something far more sinister, dangerously so, she thought. Tressa hesitated before exchanging glances with the bartender, whose job it was to vet such clientele, a duty the man seemed somehow reluctant to perform this night. The big man behind the bar only shrugged back at her and stayed polishing the glass he was working on. He did,
however, move a little farther down the bar to occasionally wipe down the polished surface in front of the stranger, which caused that one to frown and lift his glass each time to avoid the bar rag. It was clear from the sharp-toed boots, and bracero style hat that the man was not long out of Mexico.

  The barman, not so much concerned for Tressa’s welfare, as he was to know this newcomer’s game, finally concluded the man would bear watching and studied him more carefully; he noticed the man had hardly touched his drink in over twenty minutes. Only the week before there had been someone else lingering over a drink, looking the place over. It was decided he was from a familia in their same business; possibly one entrenched nearby and perhaps there to check out the traffic, discover some vulnerability in their operation that might be exploited. There was another family, originally from Chihuahua but more recently of Sonora state, which now controlled the bulk of such business in several of the neighboring towns. The Espinosas were ever on their guard to protect their interests, always on the watch for interlopers, and suspicious of any outside interest in their own newly-established territory. Truth be told, they themselves were the interlopers, and that gave them all the more reason to be cautious.

  It didn’t take the barman long to decide this latest person might be one of the competition’s local spies, but if he was, he was new and poorly trained for such work. The stranger was tall—knifelike in the manner of a switchblade that might suddenly come un-sprung. In any case, there could be no doubt he was trouble. The barman moved back to his position near the cash register and pressed the hidden button to alert the back office. He would rather be a bother to his cousin, the bouncer, than have El Escuche think ill of him should this customer prove to be other than what he pretended. His cousin had been somewhat touchy of late and wouldn’t like having his dinner interrupted. But that couldn’t be helped. That other person, from the week before and nearly certain to be a spy, had wound up in a dumpster at the other edge of town. The morning news reported him lucky to have survived so severe a beating. The man would not say a single word to police as to what brought him to such a poor pass. No, the barkeep thought, it is better to take a scolding should I be wrong, than suffer my own trip across town to a dumpster.

  No more than a minute passed before Tressa, now sitting at a small out of the way table nervously folding napkins and wrapping silverware, saw the bouncer sidle into the room wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and with a nod from the barkeep, he moved quietly to the side of the outsider. The enforcer leaned close to the stranger and whispered something in his ear. The man slowly turned on his stool to look the bouncer up and down before coming to his feet. He was the taller of the two and clearly capable. Without even speaking, however, he allowed the big man to take him by one arm and direct him outside. The barkeep smiled as he watched the pair leave. This impostor would rue the day he thought himself man enough to spy on their organization. As time wore on, however, and still his cousin didn’t appear, he became more worried, and after a while longer grew suspicious. He frowned at the door and hoped his cousin hadn’t killed the man outright; that was strictly forbidden and might cause more trouble than good. The stranger did not return, but neither did the bouncer. Ten, then twenty minutes passed and the barkeep, not a small man, and certainly one accustomed to seeing to such things himself when necessary, went at last to find what had become of his primo.

  There was no one outside and the barman, now thinking a bit of caution to be the better part of valor, peered through the darkness lit only by dusty neon signs. He could see no sign of any trouble. Wiping his hands on his apron he moved to the back of the building, staying in a circle of light shining from atop the one lone utility pole. He was alert for any sort of movement and careful not to stray off onto the dark edges of the property. The bartender was inherently more cautious than his cousin whose job this was. After watching a few minutes, he still saw nothing he thought suspicious, but felt increasingly aware of being watched and a chill went to his very bones. Finally, with a dismissive shake of his head, he went back inside to his warm, safe place behind the bar only shrugging his shoulders at Tressa as he passed. He turned once, frowned, and looked back at the door. He figured to wait a while longer before reporting the incident. His cousin was a little strange, even as a boy, and was known to take his time about a chore, but in the end most always made a good job of it. Perhaps he had dragged the stranger out to the far edge of the field bordering the river—maybe he had left him out there in the brush. If he had killed the man, surely he had enough sense to throw the body in the river where it would drift downstream and not be associated with their place of business.

  It was some time before the bouncer came staggering in the back way, badly beaten, and with a knot the size of a small tomatillo on the side of his head. He had regained consciousness in the field behind the bar, he said, and then dragged himself nearly to the kitchen before regaining his feet. He came holding both hands to his middle, covering what later proved to be a shallow stab wound to the stomach. He begged Little Abe not to let word of it reach El Escuche. And when the barman was informed of his cousin’s condition, he, too, thought they should keep the incident to themselves. It was decided the injuries were not serious enough to require reporting and in truth, thought the man might find himself even worse off should the patron think him incapable of handling his duties. He was actually rather a genial sort when not at his trade, and was generally well liked. No one wanted to see such a person come under the unpredictable judgment of El Escuche.

  It was near closing time before things settled down; the bouncer’s wounds being dressed by Little Abe, whose past experience in Sinaloa allowed him to take a workmanlike stab at it. As Tressa helped Abraham clean up the mess, she thought the young man strangely complacent as he recounted the result of the beating the bouncer had suffered. The man himself still wouldn’t speak of it—but no matter—the fear in his eyes told them all they needed to know.

  Little Abe could feel a darkness shutting in on him. It was starting. Just like in Sinaloa.

  ~~~~~~

  Tressa helped Abe close down the kitchen, her mind occupied with the ominous events of the evening, she felt for the first time an almost palpable fear and became even more determined to escape her chancy existence, the sooner the better too. Still she did not intend leaving without her just due. She was determined to extract some sort of financial compensation for the Espinosas’ many injustices, and if things went as planned, Carlos and his Uncle might pay the ultimate price. Later, worn out and with her mind still in turmoil, she made her way to the shabby room at the rear of the building. Passing the partially open door of Hector Espinosa’s office, she saw the old man arranging stacks of bills on his desk, ticking off figures on a sheet of paper, obviously pleased with the results.

  She thought how easy it would be to slip in and hit him in the head…but no, this is not the night for it, Saturday night will bring more money. A small but popular mariachi band had been engaged for the next evening—they would draw a good crowd—even though Carlos Espinosa would, as usual, be the featured performer. It would be loud and noisy. Yes, Saturday night would be best…we can wait a little longer, she thought.

  It was some hours after midnight when a scratching at the window woke her, and Tressa, thinking it was Little Abe, decided to ignore him, confident the twist latch was secured. Perhaps there was no one there at all. She tried putting the noises down to anxiety…or paranoia, but when the sound came yet again, louder this time, she knew there was definitely someone there. She waited, hoping against hope it could be Little Abe and that he might eventually give up and go away. When the sound was heard a third time she had no choice but to leave her bed mostly for fear someone might hear and grow curious. The last thing she needed was some sort of incident when so close to freeing herself of these people. She put on her threadbare robe and clutching the wretched thing together at the throat, felt her way to the window just as the scratching came yet again. A voic
e, barely above a whisper, reached her, and she quickly stood to one side, not daring to look out.

  “You and I have things to talk about, Señora. I have information for you.” The voice was deep and like velvet. She knew instantly who it was though she had never heard the voice in her life.

  The next morning, at the small table where the help took their simple breakfast, Tressa looked about to make sure they were truly alone, then leaned across the table to Little Abe as he sat buttering a piece of toast. Since coming north he had become fond of toast and now preferred it in lieu of his usual tortillas con mantequilla. He thought the toast made him appear more sophisticated in the eyes of the help—most of whom thought him only putting on airs, laughing at him, but only behind his back. He was, after all, from Sinaloa and those people had a reputation.

  Tressa kept her voice low as she beckoned him closer. “Last night a man came to my window, Abraham.”

  “A man?” Abraham drew back in his chair puffing out his chest in indignation, and then gesturing with his toast, he demanded, “What man? What man would come to a woman’s window in the middle of the night?” Actually, he could think of several who might do such a thing but feigned outrage nonetheless. He was well aware he had no real hold on this woman and felt it behooved him to appear jealous in order to strengthen whatever tenuous bond they might have forged.

  “It was that man from last night, the tall Mexicano who did such a beating on Miguel.” She sat back and watched this register. Abraham dropped his toast and put a hand to his chin in surprise.

  “Really, Tressa? Really?” Now Abe was the one leaning forward. “What did he want?” He said this expecting the worst, and was almost relieved to hear it was only information the man brought her. “What did he say?” and then, as he listened to the answer, immediately regretted asking.