by Don Travis
“I’ve got to get outa here, man,” Jazz said. “Somebody’s bound to tell him I’m here.”
“Nobody gonna tell a white cop nothing. Don’t worry about it. At least we know what your real name is.” Klah looked at the picture critically. “Man, you are one pretty dude.”
“Shut up. You think it’s safe to go back to camp now?”
“Yeah. The cop headed off down the road back toward I-40. He’s halfway to Albuquerque now. Let’s go.”
“I can find my way. You go look up Mai.”
“She’d have come out by now if she was home. They mighta gone to Albuquerque.”
They were silent on the ride back to the hogan, but for a different reason this time. Jazz was wrapped up in his thoughts. They were looking for him. How did Wings even know he was alive? The bastard thought he’d gone out the plane door with Kim. What happened? How had he given himself away? He let out a grunt. Crap, he’d peed all over the man’s plane. And he’d stolen the bicycle.
Then another thought struck. They were killers… or at least Wings was. If they found him here, would they kill Klah too? And Gad? And Dibe? He didn’t share this last thought with the Hatahles when he and Klah arrived back in camp, even though they told the others all about the incident. Despite his fears, he allowed Klah to convince him nobody on the reservation would tell a white cop nothing.
ALMOST A week later, a stocky, burr-headed man drove up to the camp and waited in his vehicle until Gad went out and invited him in. The stranger’s gaze went straight to Jazz when he came through the hogan entrance, but he went through the usual routine, greeting Gad and Dibe respectively and then shaking hands with Klah and uttering the name Jazz learned everyone on the reservation used for Klah except for his family. “Howdy, Left-Hand. You got your leg back yet?”
Klah bent his left knee and flexed his foot. “Damned near. Be back riding them toros before you know it. Like you to meet a friend of ours. Jazz, this is Milton Atcitty.”
Milton took his hand and said, “Jazz, huh?”
Jazz thought it odd that there was no exchanging of clans, something that always took place when Navajos met other bloods they didn’t know. Of course a man traced his lineage from his mother’s clan, and Jazz’s mother wasn’t even a Navajo. Children were born to their mother’s clan and born for their father’s. To marry within one’s own clan was forbidden, as it was considered incest. Jazz smiled inwardly. Whatever else he and Klah were doing, they weren’t committing that crime.
Dibe interrupted to offer coffee. Soon they all sat on blankets on the floor of the hogan chatting about life at To’hajiilee. But there seemed to be an undercurrent. After a few minutes of this, Gad asked their guest what brought him to the camp.
Milton stuck out his thick lips a moment before answering. He seemed to stare off into the distance midway between Left-Hand and Jazz.
“I got a uncle up on the big rez. You might know him. He goes by the name of Julian Nesposito but everybody calls him Hard Hat.” Milton squirmed on his blanket, making it clear he wasn’t comfortable. “Uncle Hard Hat got himself in some trouble over some pimps—you know, some traffickers—in the outside world. Not saying there’s anything to it, but then he shows up asking about a fellow that went missing up there. Me’n my dad figured you oughta know.” He scrambled to his feet. “Anyway, that’s what I come to say.” With that, he left so fast he was hardly polite.
Dibe spoke from the doorway where she’d gone to watch their guest leave. “Now we know why you run into that Albuquerque policeman last week.”
“Why?” Jazz asked, halfway afraid to hear the answer.
“Here’s the way I figure it,” Gad said. “Word got around a stranger showed up down at To’hajiilee, so the cop comes nosing around. Don’t take him long to figure out nobody’s gonna tell him spit. So they get ahold of old Hard Hat and have him ask the questions. Been rumors for donkey years the old goat’s been shilling for the sex traffickers. Surprised nobody’s shot the bastard between the eyes ’fore this.”
“He got powers, that’s why!” Dibe said, rejoining the rest of them on a blanket. “He used to be a holy man.”
“Gone over to the other side,” Gad snapped. “Anyways, while nobody’s gonna talk to the white cop, there’ll be somebody who’ll talk to Hard Hat, either because they’re afraid of him or maybe just because he’s one of the People.”
“I need to get out of here, right now.” Jazz started to rise, but Klah caught his arm.
“Not so fast. We gotta figure out what we’re gonna do.”
“Gad and me can take you to the big rez when we go up for my ceremony later today. Can drop you anywhere you want along the way.”
“No,” Klah said. “That won’t work. We gotta think of something else. Albuquerque, maybe.”
“That’s where Silver Wings is,” Jazz said. “But maybe I need to face him down and settle this.”
“No!” Klah said again, emphatically this time. “We need something else.”
Gad stared in his nephew’s direction a minute. “My brother was a good man, but he decided to live down at Alamo with the Enemy Navajo. We brung you up here when him and your mother got taken in that car wreck six years back. You still know anyone down there?”
“That’s it,” Klah said. “I’ll take him to Alamo.”
Dibe snorted. “That place is littler than To’hajiilee. How long you think it’s gonna take for word to get back to the big rez?”
“It’ll give Jazz time to figure out what to do,” he said. “He knows his real name now. Maybe the rest of it will come back to him.”
“How’ll you get down to Alamo?”
“Horseback. We’ll do a moonlight flit while everybody’s sleeping.”
“Bones can’t carry you both all the way to Socorro County,” Gad said.
Klah rubbed his nose. “I’ll see if I can talk Mai outa her horse. She might lend him to me.”
“And then tell everybody about it,” Dibe said. “Hosteen Abbo covets my grandma’s squash blossom necklace. He’s about to get it.”
“I can’t let you do that,” Jazz protested.
“Don’t see how you can stop me, boy. We need some money anyway for our trip up to the big reservation. Was gonna pawn it, but I’ll get more from Abbo. That gewgaw will bring lots more’n it takes to buy a horse. You boys get ready to leave while I go dicker with that old thief.”
Jazz could not believe how difficult it was to leave what most of the world would consider a primitive dwelling but which to him was the most comfortable place he could remember. Nonetheless, after Gad and Dibe returned with a roan tied to the back of the truck and some worn tack gear in the bed, he and his companion waited until dark before setting off to the southeast. In fewer than ten miles, he knew one thing for certain. He was going to be one sore son of a bitch by the time the sun came up.
Chapter 24
HAZEL BUZZED me on my office phone. “BJ, Henry Secatero is on the line.”
I hadn’t heard from him since he called to say Nesposito claimed Jazz’s fingerprints were found on a stolen bike. That was a week ago. Nothing since then. I punched a button and called a greeting.
“That old man the Navajo cops arrested is dead,” he blurted. “The news is all over the rez.”
“Nesposito? How? When?”
“Dunno exactly when, probably sometime Wednesday or Thursday. But the how’s clear enough. Shot in the head.”
“Where?”
“You remember Big Hole Canyon?”
“Where we found that murdered California PI?”
“Right. You remember there’s a landing strip up on the mesa?”
“Remember it well.”
“Right there. They found his pickup with him laid out in the bed, covered by a tarp.”
“Anybody know who he went to meet out there?”
“No such luck. He was a tight-lipped old bastard.”
Henry said a friend in the tribal police told him persistent winds in the
area pretty well erased any physical evidence of a plane landing or taking off, and while people in a couple of distant hogans heard a low-flying craft, no one admitted to seeing it. Since that strip was used to bring in contraband, most folks didn’t want to know about the comings and goings of mysterious aircraft.
When we had first found the makeshift landing spot, I assumed it was someone shipping in drugs. Given what I now knew, I suspected it was contraband coming in and human victims going out. My blood surged at the thought. “Any reason for me to come up?”
“Don’t see why. Don’t think you’ll learn anything.”
“Okay, I’ll let Lonzo Joe know.”
“He already knows. I saw him at the chapter house. The locals called him in because of his interest in Jazz’s case. I did learn one thing. That old man took a run down to To’hajiilee Wednesday, maybe the day he died. Matter of fact, he probably stopped at Black Hole on his way home and met his maker.”
“Why To’hajiilee?” I asked.
“Remember I told you he had relatives down there. Guess he went to see them.”
“He wasn’t supposed to leave the reservation, was he? A requirement of his bond.”
“To’hajiilee’s part of the rez.” Henry paused. “Well, part of the Navajo Nation, anyway. Maybe he just wanted to say goodbye before they hauled his ass off to prison for the rest of his life.”
“You know the man, I don’t. Was he that sentimental about family?”
“All the Diné got strong family ties. But I see what you mean. No, I wouldn’t peg him as caring about anybody but himself.”
“Tell me about that stolen bicycle with Jazz’s fingerprints on it again.”
“Not much to tell. My dad said Nesposito told him they found a bicycle in a ditch beside I-40.”
“Where on I-40?” I asked.
“Vague. Maybe twenty miles or so west of Albuquerque.”
That confirmed my recollection of things. “And To’hajiilee is about thirty miles, right. Think I’m gonna take a run out to To’hajiilee.”
“Nobody’s gonna tell you nothing,” Henry said with certainty. “Maybe I oughta take a run down to Albuquerque and go with you. Today’s Friday, and this is Labor Day weekend. I’ve got three days off. Maybe I’ll have time to sneak in a visit to the state fair. With any luck, Jazz can go with me. You gonna wait for me to get there before you head out?”
I didn’t respond to his optimism. “Makes more sense than going alone.”
“Gotta finish my shift, so it’ll be late. You got a pad for me?”
Paul and I took in a movie called Green Zone but were home when Henry rang the doorbell at 10:00 p.m. We talked the case over for half an hour before he went to bed, pleading exhaustion. He’d worked a full day before driving down to Albuquerque.
A few minutes after that, Paul flopped over in the bed beside me. “I’ll swear, every time Henry’s around or Jazz is even mentioned, you get horny as hell. I’m gonna get jealous again.”
“But you’re going to cooperate, aren’t you?”
He snapped on the table lamp and gave me a wicked grin. He left the light on so I could watch Pedro prowl while his master performed.
SATURDAY MORNING was a big day at the country club pool, so Paul worked while Henry and I headed for the reservation to the west. He directed me to drive to the Laguna exit. I’d always associated the name with the Laguna Indians and was surprised to learn the To’hajiilee chapter house was located not far outside that community. I waited in the car while he went inside.
A quarter of an hour later, he came out clutching a poster and looking sour. He thrust it at me. “Took this down off the bulletin board.”
“Damn, Jazz takes a good picture.”
“The girl inside said this white cop was passing around the poster and asking questions. My guess is nobody told him nothing. But she told me there was a stranger on the rez staying with a family named Hatahle somewhere southwest of the village. Shit, it’ll take us the rest of the day to run them down. So close. So damned close.”
“You know what this tells us, don’t you?” I asked.
“Why that old man came down earlier this week. They might not talk to a white cop, but they’ll talk to another Navajo. Especially one they’re afraid of.” He thought that one over. “I dunno. What he was accused of doing might put him on the far side of the arroyo from most folks. Come on, let’s find the Hatahle camp.”
When we started asking questions, Henry mostly talked to young women. Almost without fail, they all but fawned over the handsome man. Why hadn’t I had a magnetic personality like that when I was a buck?
Eventually we found ourselves traveling down a faint dusty road with Henry at the wheel. He claimed people considered the driver as the one in control of the situation. Before long, we got directions to the camp.
We drove for four miles before a hogan off to our right caught our attention. He turned into the clearing before the log dwelling and waited. Eventually a weathered man came out and waved to us. Henry, motioning for me to stay where I was, got out to exchange a few words with the man. The old fellow first motioned down the road and then, after a few more questions, pointed to a black stock horse in a pen beside the hogan.
Henry got back in the car and let out a sigh. “We’re a mile short of the Hatahle camp. But the fellow says nobody’s there. That’s their plow horse he’s taking care of while they’re gone.”
“Gone where?”
“Window Rock or maybe Crownpoint. Some ceremony. Apparently the Hatahle woman’s a hand trembler.”
Somewhere in the back of my head, I knew a trembler was a sort of diagnostician in Navajo medicine. “Did he know anything about Jazz?”
“Little cagy about that. Said somebody was staying with them but claimed not to know a name. I told him we’d drive on down anyway to see if anybody stayed behind. He knows they didn’t because of the horse, but he didn’t make any objections.”
A mile down a kidney-jarring road, we came to a hogan with a small shack beside it. After hollering and honking to no avail, we got out and checked the buildings. Vacant, although somebody obviously lived at the camp. We found nothing that gave us a clue Jazz had been here.
“What do you think?” I asked.
“I think he’s back on the big rez with the Hatahles. Maybe he’ll get ahold of Louie or his mom.”
I took out my phone. “You got any bars?”
“Nope.”
He drove two miles back up the road before we got phone service. He called his father while I dialed the Penrod home. A minute later we both hung up and shook our heads. No one had heard from Jazz.
Henry smashed a fist into his palm. The noise was startling. “Crap. He was here. I feel it. Seems like we’re always coming up with more heat than light.”
“Hold your horses, guy. Believe it or not, we’re closing in on him. A couple of weeks ago we had no idea he was even in the country.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“I hate to think bad thoughts,” I said, “but what if Nesposito collected him and delivered him to the cartel—or more likely Silver Wings—at Black Hole Canyon? It makes a crazy kind of sense. If Silver Wings has Jazz back, he wouldn’t need Nesposito any longer. In fact, the old man would present a threat instead of an opportunity. After all, they tried to kill him once. He was probably still alive because he promised to deliver Jazz.”
“Shit!” he said. Then he straightened and looked me in the eye. “Let’s go find Nesposito’s kin. His brother lives here.”
“Why would he tell us anything?”
“Might have to lean on him some.”
“How about taking some of the tribal authorities with us?” I suggested.
“Naw. You’n me’ll do the job.”
Finding the Atcitty camp—apparently Nesposito and his brother were from different fathers—wasn’t an easy chore either. After two false starts, we ended up at the right place. The brother—Fred—wasn’t home, but one of the sons, Mil
ton, was. Once again I remained in the car, but this time Henry and Milton walked over beside me to make conversation. After the clan greeting, they switched to English.
Milton looked at the poster of Jazz Henry handed him and turned pensive. “You know my uncle?”
“Met him,” Henry answered, preserving the reluctance to mention the recently dead—especially one said to have powers. “Didn’t know him real good. He was spooky. Sorry, man, didn’t mean to—”
“That’s all right,” Milton said. “I thought he was spooky too. Especially the last few years. You ain’t here ’cause he sent you before…?” He let it dangle to avoid mentioning the murder.
Jazz poked his finger at the flyer. “I’m here because that man is my brother. My little brother. Somebody took him, and I aim to get him back.”
Milton nodded and turned to look in my direction. He was one of the Navajos who wouldn’t look directly at you. An eye avoidance thing. “Okay. But who’s he?”
“He’s a friend me’n Jazz helped out once. Now he’s paying back. He’s an ex-cop who’s a private investigator. We’re just looking for my brother, that’s all.”
Milton held up the poster and nodded again. “Yeah, that’s him. He’s staying with Gad and Dibe. Said his name was Jazz.”
“You know where they are? Nobody’s at the camp. Neighbor’s taking care of their plow horse.”
“The plow horse? What about Klah’s pinto?”
“Who’s Klah?” I asked.
“Klah Hatahle. He’s Gad’s nephew. They raised him ever since his folks got killed in a car wreck down in Socorro.”
Henry scratched his chin. “The man didn’t say nothing about a pinto.”
“I heard Dibe sold a squash blossom she’d been hanging on to forever. Maybe bought another horse.”
“You know where Gad and Dibe went?”
Milton looked uncomfortable for a minute and then apparently decided to come clean. He told of going to the Hatahle hogan and warning them his uncle was asking questions about somebody named Jazz. “I got the feeling that put a burr under their saddle,” he finished.
