“Yeah, I guess she will.” Guilt gnawed at Abe’s conscience. “We better get back on the highway.”
“We’ll only be there a little while. We’re sticking to the back roads. There’s a dirt road three miles from here that cuts south. It goes past Chaco Canyon and Crownpoint and ends up in Thoreau. They’re less likely to look for us out there. It’s kind of rough after the rains, but there’s no traffic—and it’s still Indian country.”
Though Abe had bought in to the idea of finding Corazón and somehow proving his own innocence, he still was not convinced they were going about this in the right way. The plan seemed nefarious at best. “Will, do you have any idea of the consequences? We could both end up in prison, you know.”
“Yeah, I know. I gave it a lot of thought when I sat in the sweat lodge. I know what I’m doing, Abe, but do you? You can back out if you want. This is personal for me.”
Abe had been doing nothing but thinking while waiting for Will—weighing the pros and cons of continuing on this crazy quest for a killer. It seemed like a shot in the dark, but now that Sharon was gone, he didn’t feel he had much more to lose. And the truth was, since meeting Emily and Will, he’d begun to feel more alive than he had in a long time. “No, I’ve made up my mind to see this through. When I leave I don’t want Emily thinking I’m a murderer.” He turned on the ignition. “Let’s go. You lead the way.”
The dark, moonless sky hung above Abe like an inverted colander, filled with stars. Even from the confines of his truck, he could identify the constellations: Pegasus, Draco, and, of course, Ursa Major and Minor. It was easy to see how the ancient people of Chaco Canyon relied on the heavens to help guide their way, both temporally and spiritually. He wished he could stop in this strangely haunted landscape and simply lie under those stars, but Will gave no sign of slowing down. They passed a sign that read “Entrance to Chaco Culture National Historic Park,” and he recalled that this had been his destination before everything came crashing down.
Beyond Chaco the road became a washboard, and Abe struggled to keep up with Will’s motorcycle as he wove his truck around the worst potholes. Occasionally Will would turn onto some side road invisible to Abe, as though the Navajo were guided by intuition or mere whim. Once on Interstate 40, Will veered off on another state road that led through the curious village of Pie Town near the entrance to the Gila National Forest. Will flashed the lights on the motorcycle, then pulled to a stop on the side of the road, with Abe following suit right behind him. The two men stepped down from their vehicles and stretched.
“What’s up?” Abe said.
Will muffled a yawn. “Might as well get some rest. We’ll find a place to sleep up ahead in the Gila and head on to Bisbee tomorrow.”
“Damn good idea.” Abe massaged the stiffness in his shoulders. “I’ve had enough for one night. How much farther?”
“About twenty miles more. We’re gonna stay on this road till we hit Highway 12, then we’ll cut into the Gila.”
At two o’clock on a chilly morning, the two men pulled into an out-of-the-way spot and spread their bedrolls on the ground. Abe dropped off immediately into a dreamless sleep, only to awaken in what seemed like minutes to a bright morning sun. He stirred, feeling more aches in his back, and saw Will rustling through the box of provisions.
“Better eat something.” He filled his canteen from the jerry-can in the truck and grabbed some sardines and crackers.
Abe rubbed his eyes and looked out on a dark-green world of tall Ponderosa pines, spruce, and fir. He stretched, stood up slowly, and found a tree to relieve his bladder on, then started to wash his face from the jerry-can.
Will stopped him short. “Water’s for drinking. Don’t waste it.”
Abe turned off the spigot but used his wet hands to rub his face and wet his hair, then looked around. Two mountain ranges hugged them on either side. “Looks like we’re a long ways from any desert.”
“Those hills over there in the west are the Gallos, and the Mangas Range is on the east—Apache land.” Will scooped up a pile of sardines with a cracker and shoveled it into his mouth. “Old Chief Mangas Coloradas was the greatest leader the Apaches ever had.” He took another bite and chewed slowly before continuing. “The white men offered Mangas a treaty and he surrendered. But when the soldiers had him in custody they threw him in a makeshift cell, tortured him with red-hot bayonet points, then shot him—murdered him in cold blood. Bastards chopped off his head and boiled it so they could take back the skull.” He took a long drink of water from a tin cup. “Looks can be deceiving, Abe. There’s dry land ahead.” Will shoved his canteen into his saddle bag and put his hat on. “Eat up. We need to get moving.”
Sardines and crackers for breakfast—nothing novel to Abe, another version of lox and bagels. But Will’s story of Chief Mangas left a bitterness in his mouth he couldn’t wash down. He poured some food out for Patch, and a little water, then rolled up his sleeping bag and put it in the camper. He had come to see Will as a man of few words, usually quiet and circumspect. He didn’t talk unless he had something to say, and that didn’t bother Abe. He had grown accustomed to his own counsel as well. “I’m ready when you are.”
After an hour of mountain driving, they dropped down into the semiarid lowlands of gambel oak, juniper, and cactus. Then, in the early afternoon they crossed the New Mexico/Arizona border, veered southwest, and met the desert in Douglas, Arizona, a stone’s throw from the Mexican border. Bisbee was only twenty miles away.
Outside of Douglas, Abe followed Will into a truck stop where they discussed their next move over greasy hamburgers.
“There’s a bar in Bisbee where we can start.” Will lowered his voice, looked around to see if anyone might be listening. “It’s called Dick’s,” he mumbled. “You go in and ask some questions.”
Abe gave him a quizzical look. “You’ve been there before?”
“Yeah, I’d come down here now and then. I have a few friends out this way.”
“Why don’t you go in?”
“Don’t want to go into a bar right now, okay,” he said, a stubborn edge to his voice. He picked up some catsup-drenched French fries and popped them into his mouth.
Abe finished his hamburger and wiped his fingers with a napkin. “So, what kind of place is this, Will? A beer joint where motorcycle gangs hang out? I’m supposed to walk in there and say, ‘Hey, any of you guys ever hear of a skinhead called Easy Jackson, alias Spiderman, who belongs to a motorcycle gang called Aryan Brotherhood’?” He threw his napkin down on his plate. “They’re going to take one look at me, by the way, a Jew boy from New Jersey, and beat the shit out of me.”
“I didn’t know you were a Jew boy. Well, for a Jew boy you sure got Jesus Eyes.”
Abe cringed at the reference. This was the second time someone in New Mexico had made that comment about his blue eyes. It didn’t make any sense. “For Christ’s sake, Will. I always thought Jesus was a dark-eyed Jew from the desert.”
“Maybe he was before the Anglos got hold of him.” Will smirked. “Doesn’t matter anyway. It’s not a biker bar I’m talking about.” He twisted in his seat to peer out at the trucks speeding down Highway 80, dawdled with his coffee cup, and stared at his hands before meeting Abe’s eyes. “It’s a gay bar, and if anyone has information relating to some skinhead bikers in town, they will. It’s like the old saying, Abe. Know your enemy. Know where they hang out, and keep your distance.”
12
Tombstone Canyon shouldered both sides of Bisbee’s narrow main street. The town, despite its picturesque facade, looked tired in the afternoon sun. Only six tourists walked the sidewalks, lined on both sides with art galleries, coffee bars, and souvenir shops. The once-bustling copper-mining town rode the boom-and-bust roller coaster of the mining industry until the bust became permanent. Instead of the town dying, the diehards stuck around and set up shop. Hippies, artists, and a flourishing gay community settled in. Bisbee was reborn as an arts colony and retireme
nt center for those looking to recapture the nostalgia of the Old West, or perhaps escape their humdrum pasts. Situated in the mile-high Mule Mountains, Bisbee maintained a certain kitschy charm, but seemed an unlikely spot to find a white-supremacy-motorcycle-gang member or the Mexican Mafia.
Abe looked beyond the claustrophobic street, captivated by the sight of curtains of rain falling like bridal veils over the western slopes. They seemed to have a life of their own, moving at will, leaving contrasting shades of hazy darkness and bright amber light. He snapped back to attention when he was suddenly confronted by an imposing limestone formation that appeared smack-dab in the middle of the road. In reality, the main street veered sharply around the obstruction, causing Abe to almost miss Will as the motorcycle slid onto a crooked little side street.
Dick’s Hot Licks Café and Bar sat at the lower end of the street, wedged between a tattoo parlor and an adult bookstore. Abe didn’t think he could get much information on his own since he was a stranger in town. He tried reasoning with Will that his old friend would be more likely to open up if he knew the person he was talking to. After some discussion Will agreed to accompany Abe into the bar. They found a parking place and Abe left the truck windows partially open. The street lay in shadow, and the waning afternoon air carried the scent of rain and a cool breeze from the mountain storms. Abe gave Patch a conciliatory pat on the head. “Be back soon, boy, then I’ll let you out.” He locked the truck’s door, then met up with Will on the wooden sidewalk.
As soon as he pushed open the heavy door, Abe felt a rush of cool air mixed with the aroma of cigarette smoke and stale beer. He glanced at Will, saw him close his eyes and take a deep breath as the two men entered a dimly lit rectangular room. Windows to the right of the door provided light for diners who sat at scattered tables. The windowless left side contained a long bar, a jukebox, and billiard lounge. One man racked balls at a green felt pool table, while another leaned on a cue, smoking and waiting his turn.
As his eyes adjusted to the semidarkness, Abe noticed the long, curved bar in the back of the room. Back mirrors reflected sparkling, jewel-like bottles of liquor. He heard the clink of glasses, the murmur of voices, and saw the black leather and red velvet–padded bar lined with stools, and on every stool sat a male patron. Conversation lulled as the men swiveled to check out the newcomers.
“Let’s get this over with.” Abe headed for the bar, but Will grabbed his elbow and directed him toward a small table in the corner of the dining section.
“Over here, out of the way.” Will pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. He seemed to be studying the customers, as if he feared he might see a familiar face.
Abe slid into the other chair. A strapping, pumped-up man in a muscle shirt and tight jeans appeared at their side. His bleached-blond hair stood at attention in pointy spikes, and an array of earrings encircled each ear. The waiter beamed a toothsome smile at the pair.
“Hi. My name’s Dutch. What can I do for you boys?”
Will licked his lips. “Club soda, no ice.”
“Club soda,” the waiter said, with a wink. The smile became teasing when he turned his attention to Abe. “And for you, baby-blue eyes?”
Abe wanted a beer, or something stronger, to quell his thirst and nerves, but thought of Will and said, “I’ll take the same, lots of ice.”
“You want some food to go with those drinks?” Dutch stood poised with pencil in hand, batting his eyelashes.
Abe looked around the room. Black-and-white photos of athletic young men in various stages of near nudity were backlit against the walls. Will and Abe were still being appraised by the patrons, some of whom sat at tables decorated in the same red-and-black color scheme, their heads close together. “No thanks,” he said.
“How about you, big guy?” the waiter addressed Will.
Will shook his head. “Does Paco still work in the kitchen?”
“Sure does. Makes the best chiles rellenos in town. Simply divine, with all that melted cheese oozing out. Shall I order a plate for you?”
“No. Tell him Will Etcitty wants to talk to him.”
“Righto.” He turned to go but, before he reached the bar, he looked back at Abe and Will. “I can add a cherry, make those Shirley Temples for you.”
“Bring the sodas and cut the crap.” Abe felt the heat rising in his face and wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible. Dutch’s harmless blather reminded him of childhood taunts he had endured as a youngster. He had been a target because he would rather play the piano than sports, because he was undersized as a kid, and because he abhorred violence. “Jew boy, Jew boy. Sissy, faggot, Jew boy.” Though not homophobic himself, he had remained single for a long time, and he knew many people assumed he was gay—an assumption he resented.
Dutch brought their drinks without any further fanfare and disappeared behind two swinging doors in the back. Shortly afterward a ponytailed, short, stocky man with Hispanic features emerged from the kitchen. He wiped his hands on a salsa-stained white apron, then burst into a wide grin when he saw Will.
“Guillermo. Where you been so long, compadre?”
“Hey, Paco. Long time no see, huh. How’s it goin’, buddy?” Will stood up and the two men embraced.
“Bueno, bueno. But what’s that you’re drinking? Hey, Dutch, bring a bottle of tequila over here to my friend. The best.” After giving Will a second appraisal he added, “You don’t look so good, amigo.”
“No booze, Paco.” Will shrugged and took a deep breath. “I’m on the wagon,” he said, looking ready to change his mind. “Can’t drink,” he added with a little more conviction. “I need to ask you a few questions, that’s all.”
“Okay, compadre, if you say so.” Paco waved the tequila off when Dutch brought the sodas, then gave Abe the once-over. “I see you have a new buddy.”
“It’s not like that,” Will said. “This is Abe Freeman, a friend of my sister’s. We’re working on something and we need your help.”
Abe shook hands with Paco. “How you doing, man?”
“I’m doing great. Oye, did you know I bought this place, Will? Yeah, Dick finally retired and sold it to me, but I kept the name. Keeps the customers coming, if you know what I mean.” Paco yelled to Dutch who stood behind the bar mixing drinks. “I’m taking a break. Give your orders to Manny.” He pulled a chair over to the table and sat down. “What do you need?”
“The place looks good, Paco. I’m glad for you,” Will said. Then, “We’re looking for someone.”
“Yeah. This someone got a name?”
Abe took a long drink before he spoke. At least it was cold. “We don’t have a name—we think he’s a white guy, skinhead, probably belongs to a motorcycle gang.” He downed his club soda in one more gulp. “Something else—he might have a tattoo on his arm, a spiderweb around the elbow.”
“Somebody like that—you know he wouldn’t be hanging out here,” Paco said. “I think I’ve seen his type riding through town, though.”
“It’s important we find this guy, Paco,” Will cut in. “According to our source, he lives somewhere around Bisbee.”
“Why didn’t you ask your source the guy’s name?”
“Because our source is dead,” Abe said.
Paco’s expression turned serious. “Hold on for a minute.” Then, the proud new owner of Dick’s Hot Licks left the table and disappeared into the kitchen.
Abe squirmed in his seat, saw Will breaking out in a sweat, licking his lips, and he knew they needed to get out of the bar, get moving somewhere. He didn’t feel comfortable himself, especially when a big cowboy, complete with rhinestone-studded cuff links and alligator boots, sauntered over to their table and doffed his Stetson.
“You fellers looking for company?” he drawled.
“No. We want to be left alone,” Abe snapped in answer.
“So, that’s the way it is.” The cowboy looked from Abe to Will and winked. “Well, I’ll leave you two lovebirds alone then.”
>
“Get the hell out of here,” Abe growled, feeling the heat again. Luckily Paco emerged from the kitchen to rejoin them, and the cowboy ambled off to commiserate with a group in the bar who had been watching the whole scene.
“Manny thinks he knows where that gringo might live. Says he’s heard of a guy matching the description out by Tintown. Manny’s still got family there. They’ve seen a bunch of them riding through town wearing their dumb-ass jackets with swastikas and shit.”
Will sat up straight, paying attention. “Tintown. Isn’t that a little south of Bisbee?”
“Right. Go past the Lavender Pit. Take 92 at the junction and you’ll run into Tintown. But that’s all I know, Will.” He looked from one man to the other. “It can be rough out there. Those people don’t trust strangers.”
Abe looked thoughtful. “Maybe we should call Emily.”
“No,” Will said. “We don’t want the cops.”
“They’re going to be looking for us anyway. Probably already noticed the missing motorcycle and figured out where we’re headed.”
Paco furrowed his brow, but didn’t ask whatever question he might have had. He rubbed his chin and looked at Will. “What are you driving?”
“I brought the old Chief, and Abe has a Toyota truck. When we find out what we need, Abe is heading to California.” After a moment he added, “It’s possible Emily might have called them in missing, or she will soon.”
“Bring your rides around back. I’ll put the motorcycle in the shed, and we’ll change the plates on the truck.” Paco scratched his nose, then shrugged. “Guess you two know what you’re doing.”
13
A person might easily miss Tintown. A faded wooden sign a few miles south of the Lavender Pit, a gaping hole in the hard rock landscape left behind by Phelps Dodge Mining, directed them down an unpaved road. It became immediately apparent how the town had earned its name—all the roofs and side walls of buildings were made of corrugated tin. Ramshackle houses, some deserted, a few with trucks or cars parked in dusty front yards, lined the street. The unpaved main street showed little indication of life, and most of the buildings were boarded up or falling down. A bakery with a faded sign, “Panaderia,” sat next to what must have once been a church. In its place the statue of some unknown saint welcomed visitors to a homeless shelter. But judging from the sounds of barking dogs and the sight of clothes whipping on lines, some folks still lived in Tintown. The few people Abe saw appeared to be of Mexican descent. A young boy followed them with hooded eyes as they slowly cruised the main street.
Key Witness Page 8
