The Bible Seller: A Navajo Nation Mystery (Navajo Nation Mysteries Book 7)

by R. Allen Chappell

  “I’ll clean this up while you’re gone,” she said, with a wave of her hand at the kitchen.

  “I shouldn’t be gone too long, Eileen, I’ll try to pick out something good for supper. Is there anything special you had in mind?” He thought this the polite thing seeing how she was paying. He found it pleasant having so congenial a conversation, and with a woman who was obviously better educated than he. Anita had not been inclined to small talk; her reluctance sometimes causing her to come off as querulous or hard to please.

  “You do that, Harley. I guess I wouldn’t mind having some pork chops if you happen to run across any nice ones.”

  Harley smiled agreeably and tried not to sound obsequious. “I like pork chops, too, Eileen. I’ll see what I can find, and if not, I’ll get what does look good.” Harley, for the first time in weeks, was showing some consideration for another person––even if it was only what he should make for dinner. He had already guessed he would probably be the one doing the cooking.

  3

  The Quandary

  Back at Legal Services, Charlie Yazzie still couldn’t get his mind off the murder of the old man. There was something about it that stuck in his craw––leaving him determined to keep abreast of any new developments in the case. This, though he still hadn’t been invited to take an active part.

  About noon, he called home to see how his friend, Thomas Begay, was coming along with their new tractor project. Charlie and his friends had been looking to go in on a small tractor for some time now, and when Harley Ponyboy found a machine the right size in an upcoming farm auction, the three decided it might just be the one. They had missed a similar tractor the week before in Aztec and didn’t intend to let this one slip by. Thomas thought this machine might prove even more of a bargain considering it was being offered at auction in Bloomfield.

  The auctioneer’s stickman told the crowd the previous owner assured them the tractor ran fine last season. But, when it came time for the machine to sell, a vigorous session of cranking left the tractor stubbornly refusing to start. Employees were forced to call on the owner to pull it into the ring with his Jeep. The man continued cursing the tractor as he unhooked it. Charlie and Harley Ponyboy stood with their arms folded, now convinced the previous owner had expected the tractor to start. They took this as a good sign. Thomas, having surveyed the machine prior to the start of the auction, nodded wisely but kept his own council.

  It was agreed the three would go in as partners––more of a theoretical partnership as Charlie was the only one with any money. Thomas, on the other hand, was the one with expertise in mechanics and in charge of getting the unit operating. He was quick to assure the others there was nothing seriously wrong with it. He pointed to the fact that there were no leaks in the hydraulics; he’d checked the radiator for oil in the water; the crankcase for water in the oil and, finding none of these to be suspicious indicators, encouraged Charlie to start the bid. He went so far as to guess the tractor would now go even cheaper––what with it not starting.

  Most of the other bidders were, in fact, cautious of a tractor that wouldn’t run, and the competition quickly faded, leaving Charlie Yazzie the winning bidder and at a very favorable price.

  Thomas, stroking his chin, assured his partners it was a steal and he would have the little diesel running in no time.

  Harley Ponyboy’s input was slight during the process, as he had neither expertise nor money to offer, but he took solace in the fact that he did at least know how to drive a tractor, something Charlie Yazzie was, as yet, unskilled at.

  Later in the day, Charlie’s wife, Sue, went to the window and called Thomas Begay to the phone, telling him her husband wanted to speak to him.

  Only a few minutes into the conversation Thomas was forced to admit, “No, I don’t have it running yet…” thus betraying his original assertion of an easy fix.

  Charlie was not happy with this development. “You said that tractor would be no problem to get running.” All the while, knowing Sue was apt to be listening to the conversation. She had been against the idea of a tractor, for so small an acreage as theirs, from the very start. They had a new baby girl, she had reminded him, and bills to pay. She was of the opinion she should have been consulted before Thomas came dragging the thing into the yard on a flatbed trailer.

  Sue edged over closer to Thomas and the phone. “This sounds like another one of those grown-boy toys someone can play farmer with.” She offered this in a voice calculated for Charlie to hear. Then in an even louder tone, added, “We haven’t even done our taxes yet…” indicating the hoped-for refund was little more than imaginary at this point.

  Thomas held the phone in such a way his friend could better hear what they were up against.

  Charlie sat silent on the other end of the line–– weighing the fact that he had put up all the money for the machine­­––at least until the other two could afford to pitch in on it. He then sighed and decided to let the issue lie until evening by which time he hoped to mount a proper defense. Before he hung up, he did, however, ask Thomas Begay to drop by his office on his way home.

  Thomas sheepishly replaced the receiver and, still not looking at Sue, wondered out loud if she had a phone book: there were some parts he might need.

  Sue thought this an additional cautionary indicator and glared out the window with folded arms before finally saying, “Humph!” and passing him the directory.

  In the meantime, little Joseph Wiley came out of a bedroom where he had been playing quietly with his baby sister, Sasha. The five-year-old boy silently considered his mother from a distance, and then wisely decided against asking for cookies.

  ~~~~~~

  Thomas arrived at Charlie’s office just past quitting time. He’d planned it that way in case the conversation grew heated…something he thought likely. The two had been friends since their days at the BIA boarding facility in Aztec and were prone to tell one another exactly what was on their minds. He slipped into the outer office as the last of the office personnel were leaving. When he knocked politely at the glass window of Charlie’s office––a rare form of etiquette for Thomas, and one he seldom employed––he could see Charlie on the phone; chair swiveled toward the window. The investigator apparently hadn’t heard him and he knocked again, more forcefully this time. Charlie turned his head, looked over his shoulder, and ushered him in with a flip of a hand.

  Thomas stood quietly for a moment, listening to the conversation. Charlie was doing most of the talking and obviously didn’t care who overheard. From what Thomas could gather some old man’s truck had been found in Farmington, parked on a side street, behind a bar frequented by Indians. When he heard the name of the place mentioned he had to chuckle––he was familiar with the establishment––was, in fact, an old customer before he quit drinking. It was the sort of dive he and Harley Ponyboy favored back in those times and he could recall several unpleasant experiences there––at least one of which led to jail time. The specifics of that incident were now unclear, as were so many things from his drinking days. It made him uncomfortable now, to think back on those times, knowing he had often been the instigator and responsible for both he and his friend Harley spending time as guests of San Juan County. The charges were never very serious, in his estimation, but enough to make them both fairly well known to local law enforcement.

  Charlie Yazzie whipped his chair around, with a loud squeak, interrupting Thomas’s trip down memory lane. Thomas watched as the investigator clunked the phone down in its cradle; he frowned as he watched him sift through a stack of papers.

  Neither man spoke: each thinking he had a pretty good idea what the other would say, and usually that would have been the case, but not this time.

  Charlie raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have some clan up around Teec Nos Pos?

  This threw the tall Diné for just a moment. He had been concentrating on excuses for why the tractor wasn’t fixed and now had to rearrange his thinking. He paused to consider
, before saying, “Naw, that would be Harley. I think there’s a little knot of Reed People up there, somewhere, he’s related to. Those people move around a lot.”

  Charlie chewed on this for a moment. “Tribal Police have a homicide on their hands…well, I guess the FBI have it by now. An old man named Benny Klee…from around Teec Nos Pos. His body was found just past the New Mexico state line.” The investigator shifted in his chair and pulled a paper closer to him. “I was up there this morning with your nephew, Billy Red Clay. Apparently, someone killed this…Benny Klee… and stole his pickup. The county cops just found the truck in Farmington with the keys still in the ignition. Whoever took it knew not to keep it very long. The interior had been wiped down, too, and the license plate was so muddy you couldn’t read the numbers.”

  “Sounds like it wasn’t the guy’s first time out of the chute.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking. I figured maybe you and I could slip into town and talk to a few people who hang out at that bar.”

  Thomas smiled broadly. “FBI be damned, and off the record, you mean?” He studied his friend’s neatly pressed shirt and shiny boots. “No one’s going to talk to you down there, college boy. Those people can spot a cop a mile away.” Thomas then looked down at his own greasy Levi’s jeans and diesel stained shirt. “Now me… I might have a chance. It’s been a while since I was a part of that bunch, though. I might have to get my credit re-established.” He grinned at the look on his friend’s face. “Just kidding, Charlie. I’m good with the way I’m living now…drinking’s not part of who I am anymore.” He stopped and narrowed one eye at the ceiling. “I wish I could say the same for Harley. I haven’t seen him in a couple of days now and I’m a little worried. Last I saw of him was at the Co-op, buying more stuff to fix up that old trailer of his. He said his money was about gone but he might as well use what he had left fixing up the place. Just something for him to do until we go back to work for George, I suppose.”

  “What’s Professor Custer up to? I thought he had work lined up for you two, through the summer at least.”

  “We thought so, too.” Thomas smiled. “The work is there, all right; the professor just took a few days off. He’s up in Cortez trying to talk Aida Winters into marrying him.” He chuckled, “Apparently it’s turned into more of a chore than he thought.”

  Charlie sat back in his chair, uneasy at the thought of his old friend setting himself up for so likely a disappointment. “George mentioned he had been thinking about making a final run at that situation, but I didn’t think he would actually do it.” He shook his head and turned back toward the window. “He and Aida didn’t part on the best of terms last year, at least that’s what I hear from Sue…who heard it from your wife by the way.” Charlie didn’t quite know what to make of his old professor: the man seemed to be at loose ends despite his new business.

  “I suspect George has been lonely.” The investigator stood and stretched, then turned again to the office window where he watched what was left of the afterhours traffic trickle past. He canted his head and smiled. “Harley came by the house two or three days ago…said he was there to drop off that ladder I loaned him. He stayed to wrangle dinner; I think he’s lonely, too. That boy needs to find a woman.”

  Thomas chuckled, “Well, you know Harley’s never been lucky when it comes to women; he don’t have a clue how to go about it.”

  Charlie couldn’t argue with that. “I thought for a while things might be different, now that Anita’s been gone as long as she has. But I’m beginning to lose hope he’ll ever find anyone.”

  “I know…Lucy tried to line him up with one of our neighbor women from the chapter house. Nice young woman with a good job at Child Services. She just bought a new pickup truck, too.” Thomas sniffed. “Harley said she wasn’t his type.” Then snorted, “When Lucy got a little huffy with him and asked what he thought his type was, he would only say, ‘I’ll know her when I see her.’ Which is about what I would expect him to say.” The tall Diné shook his head. “Lucy told him he’s going to wind up an old maid, if he’s not careful.” Both men laughed at this, but privately, each wondered if Lucy might be right.

  ~~~~~~

  The red, faded-to-pink, neon sign read, San Juan Social Club. A painted banner across the window was lettered, Bar and Lounge, and beneath that, a fly specked placard in one corner declared––Indians Welcome. Thomas parked his diesel truck well up the street from, what he referred to as, The Establishment. When he turned to Charlie, it was with a serious tone. “I really think you ought to stay in the truck. No offense, hastiin, but I expect I can learn more in there without you.”

  Charlie glanced again at the placard, and with a tentative smile, asked, “Are you saying I can’t pass?”

  “Pretty much…” Thomas wasn’t smiling when he said it either. “Some of those old boys in there are the real deal when it comes to rough and tough, and we didn’t come down here to scare the hell out of ourselves.”

  Charlie thought it unlikely there was anyone inside the bar that could scare the hell out of Thomas Begay, but could only nod and agree, “Whatever you say hastiin, we’re in your bailiwick now.”

  When Thomas got down from the truck, he paused, one hand still on the handle. “Of course, if you see a big dust cloud come boiling out the door you can come a running. I doubt you’ll need a gun, but that badge might come in handy.”

  A low bank of clouds was moving in from the northwest making for a somber and humid end to a day that started out bright and sunny. Even so, Thomas had to give his eyes a moment to adjust to the dimly lit room as he threaded his way through a scatter of round tables dwarfed by a massive bar: a leftover relic of Farmington’s early boom days, when the place was considered exclusive, meaning Indians were not welcome. Back in those days, the oil field elite stood watch over the sanctity of Farmington’s exclusive watering holes. Clientele included oil execs, engineers, and suddenly wealthy scions of the emerging energy industry. But then was then, now was now. The drilling had slowed considerably over the intervening years leaving mostly work-over rigs and fracking units to ply their trade through the isolated vastness of the Four Corner’s gas fields.

  Over the bar, now, was a life-size painting of an Indian chief in full feather headdress; one hand held up to the patrons. At the bottom of the picture was the pronouncement, “We have Reservations!”

  Thomas had seen the picture a number of times and in each instance a different interpretation came to mind. Every one of them made him smile.

  Behind the polished mahogany bar a familiar figure leaned on both elbows watching silently as Thomas approached. A smile flickered across the woman’s broad features causing her black eyes to dance. She was huge, dark, with one long braid down her back. A squash-blossom necklace fell nearly to the bar; it was clear she remembered Thomas.

  “Well, Begay, I see you have finally come back to us after all. I guess those stories I heard about you quitting were wrong?” The woman grimaced as she lifted her bulk away from the bar to stand up straight––all six feet of her. She slammed a trucker-size fist on the bar. “You owe me money!”

  Thomas held up both hands, stepped back and grinned. “I can’t owe you money, Big’un; you never give me any credit.”

  “No, but that last time they hauled your ass off to jail you left owing me eight dollars––you and Harley Playboy.” She glared. “Harley came by a long time ago and paid his part. Didn’t he give you the message I sent?”

  “Not that I recall Rosie…but that’s when Harley was drinking…he might have forgot.” He smiled, “What was the message?”

  “The message was, ‘I’m going to kick your ass up between your shoulder blades the next time you show up in here.’ ”

  Several nearby patrons turned, attracted by this rough talk. They had often seen Rosie transform such a statement into action and that most always proved entertaining.

  Rosie Johnson glanced down the bar and waved a warning hand at the eavesdroppers,
causing them to immediately turn their attention elsewhere. Not one was willing to become a part of the entertainment should the situation turn ugly. The big Ute woman smiled thinly at Thomas and softened her tone, “…but I expect that’s why you’ve finally dropped by…ain’t that right, Begay?”

  Thomas dug in his pocket and produced a crumpled five-dollar bill and held it out to the woman. “That extra dollar’s a tip Rosie.” When she didn’t smile he ignored it with a straight face. “I’d have settled this before now but I was probably too drunk to remember owing it. I haven’t been handy to town lately any way…I been working a camp job.”

  Rosie plucked the bill from his hand and smoothed it on the bar. “Those past warrants starting to stack up are they, Begay?” She grinned and beckoned for him to come closer, then leaned back across the bar and in a conspiratorial tone assured him, “I always knew one day I’d look up and see you coming to pay me––you were always good for your word––we go back a long way, me and you.” She winked and nodded in such a manner as to make Thomas nervous, thinking there might be something else he didn’t remember.

  “Now, what can I get you?”

  “Only a little information, Rosie. There was an old man found dead, just this side of the state line this morning. They located his truck parked across that vacant lot behind the bar––cops already towed it now, I guess. I just wondered if you might know anything about that…or maybe seen someone in here today, someone you didn’t know, or a person acting funny; you know what I mean, Rosie?”

  The big woman inclined her head even closer and then, closing one eye, she whispered, “You wouldn’t be pimping for the cops would you, Begay?”