by Betty Webb
***
Like most of the town’s buildings, at first glance Walapai Gas-N-Go looked like it had been built in the late eighteen-hundreds, but on closer inspection, I saw two islands of gas pumps half hidden by a wall of plastic designed to look like logs. Since my rented Trailblazer was jonesing for some high-octane, I pulled alongside a full-service pump and waited, my digital recorder already turned on. Within seconds, a rangy, dark-skinned Indian strode out of the building and over to me. The script above his left pocket identified him as EARL.
“Fill her up, Ma’am?”
“Yes, please.” Indians value good manners, and since I’d already irritated one Indian this week, I introduced myself politely and eased into conversation while the Trailblazer drank deep of Saudi Arabia’s finest.
“Sure is pretty country up here, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Hot, though.”
“Yes.”
“Worked here long?”
“Yes.”
“I understand that you know Ted Olmstead.”
“Yes.”
Gee, we were getting along like a house afire. “How well do you know him?”
Two Horses stared at the gas pump. He hadn’t yet looked me in the eye, a habit Anglos consider essential for polite conversation but many Indians construe as rude. Then he surprised me by volunteering, “Ted Olmstead did not kill Ike Donohue.”
“But he hit him, right?”
“No, he did not. Mr. Donohue was so busy looking at Mrs. Tosches that he did not see some spilled oil on the ground and he slipped.”
Before I could ask anything else, a silver minivan pulled up to the pump behind me. In it were several yelling children and two young women who looked like they’d rather be anywhere other than where they were. Without another word, Two Horses walked toward the van, but halted midway when one of the women jumped out and said, “Let me get it, Earl. Anything to get out of this damned van.”
He came back, smiling faintly at the ground.
I hated to intrude upon his Laugh of the Day, but I had a job to do. “The newspaper article said Mia Tosches saw the whole thing, and that Ted most definitely hit him.”
“Ted grabbed at him, trying to keep Mr. Donohue from falling, but Mr. Donohue fell anyway. That is what Mrs. Tosches saw.”
“She was confused, then?”
His eyes flickered. “Maybe confused, maybe not.”
Well, well. Another person who didn’t like Mia Tosches. “Do you know of any reason she would make up that story?”
After a silence long enough to grow uncomfortable, he finally answered, “You need to talk to Ted Olmstead about that.”
I was about to ask another question when the silver minivan’s pump gave a loud click and the sound of gushing gas stopped. The second woman in the van climbed out. Her hair was awry and she looked even more crazed than the first.
“Hey, Earl!” she called. “You got any Valium in that store?”
“We did not receive our regular shipment of mind-altering drugs this week,” he answered with an Indian-straight face.
“Aw, shit.”
Pump Woman reattached the hose to the pump while the other fiddled with the gas cap. “We have to get back in that van,” Pump Woman said.
“Aw, shit.” Gas Cap Woman repeated.
When they left, their kids were still yelling and fighting.
“Was something going on between Ted and Mia Tosches?” I asked Earl.
His eyes still on the departing van, he answered, “Not that I am aware of. In the meantime, Miss Jones, you have a nice day.” With that, he walked away.
When an Indian signals that he’s through talking, he’s through talking. With nothing else to be gained at the Walapai Gas-N-Go, I drove off thinking about young Indian men and blondes with elderly husbands.
Chapter Ten
July, 1975: Northwestern Arizona
After saluting the autographed photograph of John Wayne hanging over the sofa, as he did every time he entered the house, Gabe locked up his rifle in the gun cabinet. He’d clean it later, but right now he smelled sausage frying. As upset as it made him, he had to admit he was starved.
Black nose twitching, Blue Two followed him into the kitchen.
Abby was sick again, not just sad over all the dying, but sick in a way that scared Gabe half to death. Tired all the time, bones hurting, throat swole up so bad she could hardly swallow, ignoring everything the doctor said about taking things easy. Yet she paid no mind to her pain and worked as hard as any ranch hand, spent the cool mornings milking the cow, feeding the chickens, tending her garden—growing fat tomatoes, red-tipped lettuce, onions the size of a man’s fist—then, when the sun began to sizzle the day, she’d come in and start cooking.
Made him furious, it did.
“Girl, you sit down! I’ll finish cooking, do the dishes, too.”
Mule-like, she shook her head. “Don’t you tell me what to do, cowboy. You need to be minding your own store. Wasn’t you and Blue Two supposed to go look for that heifer disappeared yesterday?”
“Already found her. While you was messing around in the garden.”
When Abby smiled, she looked almost well. “Don’t keep me in suspense. Where was she and what was she doing?”
“Dying in that cottonwood grove by the river, that’s what she was doing. I put her down. Coyotes gonna be happy tonight.”
The smile disappeared. “That’s the third one lost in a month. If this keeps up…” She didn’t finish. A rancher’s granddaughter, daughter, and wife, she knew dead cattle meant money trouble. Their little herd, once a hundred and climbing, now stood at sixty-three, and half of them didn’t look much better than the dead heifer.
Bad news delivered, Gabe decided this was a good time to tell her what he’d been thinking. “Uh, Abby, I thought I’d drive over to Miller’s spread this afternoon, see if he could use an extra ranch hand.”
Her face crumpled. “Miller’s? Surely he has all the help he needs! Besides, if you start working for him, how are you going to get anything done around here? Not unless you can figure out a way to make two of you, like they do in them crazy science fiction movies. Oh, it’s my fault, all my fault. If I’d been able to give you babies, they’d be old enough now to help and…” She trailed off again.
Gabe fixed a smile, pretended he was happy about the way things had worked out. “Why, they’d do nothing but take my mind off you, girl. Can’t have that, can we? You’re all I want, and haven’t I told you a thousand-plus-times how much I…”
“Love don’t mend fences or milk the cow.”
She’d braced herself on a chair back to stay upright, so Gabe decided it was time to lay down the law. “Worry-wart, that’s what you are, Abby, and worrying never got nothing done. Now I don’t want no arguing, ’cause you’re going back to bed whether you like it or not. Can’t have you fall on your pretty face, can I?”
He followed his tough talk with a grip around her ever-narrowing waist and shepherded her down the hall toward the bedroom, with Blue Two close behind. Abby was too weak to struggle, just leaned against him and whispered, “I’m so sorry I let you down.”
At that, he halted their march and turned her to face him. She looked ten years older than she should have, lines trenching her face, gray growing through lusterless hair, shoulders hunched from pain. But still his Abby.
He pressed his lips to her hair, smelling sausage and Evening in Paris. “Ain’t nothing you could do would let a man down. Don’t know what I’d be without you.”
“Happier, probably.” But she managed a smile.
“My silly girl.”
Chapter Eleven
The meeting with Earl Two Horses—unsatisfactory though it was—finished, I headed toward the Covered Wagons Inn to transcribe my interviews and make a few follow-up phone calls from the comfort of my motel room. Given what Ted Olmstead and Earl Two Horses told me about the altercation at the Gas-N-Go, Mia Tosches’ version made
me wonder if she held a personal grudge against Ted.
I would have given the disparity in their stories more thought, but as I neared my motel, something I saw made me pull my Trailblazer over to the side of the street. A large crowd had gathered in front of the billboard that announced the upcoming mine-opening celebration. The hand-painted picket signs proved that Victims of Uranium Mining weren’t giving up their fight against the opening of the Black Basin Mine. BAN URANIUM MINING NOW! and DON’T POLLUTE NATURE’S MASTERPIECE—THE GRAND CANYON, screamed the signs lofted by a group of long-haired youths who wouldn’t have been out of place on any college campus. YELLOW CAKE = DEATH said the sign carried by a middle-aged woman who appeared to be Navajo. REMEMBER FUKUSHIMA said one, carried by a little girl who looked to be around eight years old. An elderly woman in a wheelchair held a shaky sign that mysteriously asked, HASN’T WALAPAI COUNTY SUFFERED ENOUGH?
Olivia Eames stood at the edge of the group, scribbling in her reporter’s notebook. Walapai Flats might have been a small town, but this was a big city-type demonstration, complete with bullhorns, the media, and gawkers on the sidewalk. The only thing missing was cops in riot gear.
I started to pull away from curb, but stopped again when I saw a counter-demonstration bearing down on them from the other end of the block. This new group’s signs had been professionally printed. The majority proclaimed either MINES MEAN JOBS or SCREW THE ARABS! AMERICA NEEDS NUCLEAR POWER! These were carried by muscular young men—prospective miners, I supposed—as well as women in dresses accented by red, white, and blue sashes, and a few cowhand-clothed individuals who probably worked the town’s souvenir shops. Among the latter I recognized the barrista from Cowboy Cal’s Espresso and the clerk at my motel. Behind them marched a phalanx of middle-aged men in business suits. Their signs declared THE WALAPAI FLATS CHAMBER OF COMMERCE PROUDLY SUPPORTS THE BLACK BASIN URANIUM MINE.
I stepped out of my car to see what would happen when the opposing groups joined up. I didn’t have long to wait. They met in the middle of the street, but other than the exchange of a few angry words, the encounter was peaceful enough. Gratified that civility still reigned in the wild, wild West, I started to climb back into the Trailblazer when a small group of men ran out from between a Colonel Sanders and a car wash. They were waving baseball bats.
I could have grabbed my .38 out of the glove compartment and fired a warning shot into the air, but what goes up must come down and I personally knew of two deaths resulting from falling bullets. Instead, I took a more conservative course of action: grabbed my cell phone from my carry-all and called the cops, wondering why none had been dispatched to monitor the demonstration in the first place.
The strongest anti-mining demonstrators quickly formed a human wall between their weaker numbers and the bat-wielders, but some of the thugs made end runs around them. Screams erupted as blows were struck. Despite the danger, I grabbed my .38 and rushed across the street to where I saw the elderly woman lying on the ground, the arm on her wheelchair smashed. But she still clutched her “Hasn’t Walapai County Suffered Enough” sign.
“Get away from her!” I snapped to the goon who stood grinning down at her.
“Make me, bitch.” He raised his bat again.
“That can be arranged.” I aimed at his torso, always the best shot. Then I rethought the situation and aimed at his balls.
At that point, sirens sounded in the distance, and with a final curse, the man fled back in the direction he’d come from.
Some of the other bat-wielders weren’t as swift. Within seconds sheriff’s deputies were piling out of their cruisers. As they truncheoned some of the men and tasered others, I helped the woman back into her wheelchair. “Are you hurt?” I asked
“Not even my pride,” she replied.
Before I could ask her the meaning of her sign, she and her chair were scooped up by several anti-mining women, and hustled into a van. They sped off, tailgated by Olivia Eames driving a black Ford Explorer.
I was left standing in the middle of the street, watching the final roundup of thugs next to one of the Chamber of Commerce marchers. A prosperous-looking man in his forties, he smiled at me benignly.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen,” he said, tsk-tsking. “Don’t judge our town by this little dust-up. We’re normally very peaceful folks.”
“Oh, I’m sure of that. But do you know what that woman’s sign meant: ‘Hasn’t Walapai County Suffered Enough?’ Regardless of how a person feels about uranium mining, the Black Basin hasn’t even opened yet, so I don’t see how any suffering could have happened already.”
“Enjoy your stay in Walapai Flats,” he responded. Then he handed me a ten-percent-off coupon at Big Hoss’ Western Emporium and walked away.
***
Back at the Covered Wagons Inn, I put the demonstration out of my mind and busied myself with phone calls. After several hours of frustration, I gave up. No one I called had answered, including Mia Tosches, Nancy Donohue, the purple-haired Elizabeth Waide, and Olivia Eames. Determined to track Mia down, I tried Katherine Dysart at the Sunset Canyon Lakes leasing office and was transferred over to voice mail, which informed me that the office was closed for the day. Fortunately, she’d given me her cell number, which she answered on the first ring. No joy there, either.
“Sorry, Lena,” Katherine said, “Mia left the pool hours ago and I have not seen her since. She might be playing golf. Or tennis.” A long pause. “Or something. If she drops by again, I’ll tell her you want to get in touch. She’s on the curious side, so she might be intrigued. Now if you’ll excuse me, Trent and I must finish setting up for the wine and cheese mixer at the clubhouse tonight. It’s mainly for the tenants, but if you want to attend, you’ll be my guest. I’ll leave word at the gate. Come to think of it, Mia will be there, too. Some of our recent hires are going to attend, and she never misses the chance to check out new talent.”
After accepting the invitation, I hung up. Katherine couldn’t have signaled more strongly that Mia Tosches fooled around on her husband, which increased my curiosity about Katherine and what had inspired her antipathy toward Mia. Maybe she had a good-looking husband. Whatever the reason, I’d soon find out. While I wasn’t looking forward to a return to the Emerald City, alcohol did loosen lips.
I spent the rest of the afternoon transcribing my interviews and surfing the Net, but in the end, learned little more than I already knew. Health experts attributed the spike in cancer among the Navajos to the Moccasin Peak Mine, and the federal government had subsequently awarded a hundred thousand dollars to some of its victims. As for the contaminated water supply, the Feds levied only a minimal fine against Tosches, and the poisonous runoff from the Moccasin Peak continued. Because fines for environmental crimes were so low, the Feds had actually made it cheaper to ruin the nation’s water than keep it clean in the first place. Did Tosches plan to handle the Black Basin runoff in the same manner? If so, no wonder the locals were pissed.
I finally pushed myself away from my laptop and called Jimmy. As expected, he was still working. “Hey, guy, how’s the hacking coming along? Hope you’re having better luck today than I am.”
“I prefer the term ‘research,’” he said, reproof in his voice. “Actually, it’s going fairly well, considering. Several hits, several surprises. For starters…”
Glancing at my watch, I said, “That background noise you hear is my stomach growling. After being stuck in this motel room for so long, I’m desperate for fresh air, so why don’t I pick us up a bucket of chicken and we can have ourselves a little picnic in the park across from the government complex. Once you’ve filled me in on everything, we can walk over and visit Ted.”
“Fried chicken?”
“Okay, Mr. Clean Living. Fried for me, grilled for you.”
“Bring napkins.”
***
By the time I arrived at Walapai Flats City Park with my arms full of take-out, the sun was thinking seriously about setting. It hung low
in the sky, flirting with the streaky red, orange, and yellow clouds that puffed around it. What appeared to be half the town’s population had turned out for the show. I recognized a few bandaged survivors of the demonstration. The bat-wielders were a no-show: they were somewhere else, torturing puppies.
A flock of screeching starlings had taken roost in the mesquite trees. I waded through the sunset-gawkers and piles of bird crap to the picnic table where Jimmy was tapping busily on his laptop.
“Still working, partner?”
He turned the laptop around so I could see the screen. Two kittens on pawnation.com were playing with a guinea pig large enough to eat them both. “Busman’s holiday.”
When the kittens grew bored, I handed Jimmy a bag. “Grilled with side of slaw. Large iced tea, no sugar. Other than the revelation that kittens are cute, what’d you find out?”
“First things first,” he mumbled, fishing out a thigh.
While we ate, I told him about the demonstration and how it had ended. “Can you believe there were no cops there to begin with? Is law enforcement in this town completely lacking in common sense?”
“Budget cuts,” he explained. “Terry, that deputy you met this morning, told me all about it. Late last year the town council laid off the town’s entire police force, including the police chief. Now the sheriff’s department not only has to cover the outlying county but the town as well. Frankly, I’m surprised the place is as law-abiding as it is.”
With the town being that financially strapped, no wonder the opening of the Black Basin was such a hot-button issue. Not that it excused taking a baseball bat to an old lady.
For the next few minutes we ate silently, watching the action in the park. The day cooled faster than in Scottsdale’s low desert, and in addition to the protestors nursing their wounds, entire families were taking advantage of the lower temps. Some lounged on blankets on the park’s grassy berm while others barbequed dinner, every now and then sneaking looks at the Technicolor sky. Most families had taken up residence at the picnic tables nearest the crowded children’s playground, outfitted with the standard attractions: slide, swings, monkey bars, and several big metal animals mounted on springs. All were being swarmed over by a collection of children ranging from toddlers to tweens. The presence of the middle-schoolers surprised me until I remembered that, due to its lack of size, the town had no mall.
