The Witch's Tongue

by James D. Doss

  “I am pondering about something.”

  “I am trying to enjoy my free breakfast.” She pointed her fork at a dark corner of Angel’s Cafe. “If you must ponder, do it over yonder.”

  He appeared to be hurt by this remark. “You don’t wonder about what I ponder?”

  “Not one-millionth of a minuscule.” She took a dainty bite of whole-wheat toast. “I would much rather know why moss prefers to grow on the north side of trees.”

  “Very well, if your feminine curiosity must be satisfied.” He pushed his breakfast plate aside. “I am pondering about whether my partner is an extraordinarily smart cop—or just plain lucky. Or,” he added with a sly expression, “something else altogether.”

  She smiled at his homely face. “You know what they say.”

  “I think I did once upon a time, but it has slipped my mind. Please remind me.”

  “It is better to be lucky than smart.”

  “This remark does not address my question.”

  “Technically speaking, Stan—you have not asked a question.”

  “May I?”

  McTeague shook her head. “I would strongly advise against it.”

  “Okay. Fair enough. But let’s pretend that I pose you a question.”

  “If you must indulge your masculine fantasies.”

  “What if I was to ask, ‘Would Lila Mae McTeague hold out on her partner?’”

  She gave him a frosty look. “Is this some sort of veiled accusation?”

  Newman threw up his hands. “Oh heavens no, it is more like a hypercritical question.”

  “Hypothetical.” She frowned. “At least I think that’s what you mean.”

  “Whatever. But here’s the deal. What if I was to ask if you knew—before you got to SUPD headquarters this morning—that the ignition key to Jacob Gourd Rattle’s van would be in Officer Wolfe’s coat pocket.”

  “Raincoat pocket.”

  He ignored this. “If I was to ask such a direct question, I wonder if you would give me a straight answer.”

  “Here is a hint—your life is destined to be overbrimming with titillating mysteries.” She dipped her toast in his coffee cup, spilling dark liquid into the saucer.

  Newman watched this assault on his beverage with minimal amusement. “Then you wouldn’t tell me?”

  “Tell you what?”

  “The answers to my hyperthermal questions. Did you got a tip from an informer? And if you did, how did this anonymous tipster know the key was in Wolfe’s coat pocket? Answer me that.”

  “I do not entertain hyperthermal questions—they tend to give me a fever.” She avoided his gaze. “Now let us cease this dawdling about, and finish our morning meal.”

  “Okay.” He consumed the soggy remains of the pancakes. Finished off the remaining sausage link. Drank his tepid coffee. Belched. “That was a fine breakfast. But I can’t help wondering how Charlie Moon knew the ignition key was in Wolfe’s pocket.”

  She dropped her fork.

  “Hah—I saw that!”

  “Saw what? The thing just slipped out of my hand.”

  “Then explain why you blushed like a beet when I mentioned the tall, dark, conniving tribal investigator?”

  “Well, pardon me.” She tossed the toast away. “Maybe it was because I am embarrassed that my partner is such a…a goofball!”

  “Goofball—is that the best you can do?”

  “For the moment.”

  “We both know you blushed because you’re being deceptive with your partner, who is loyal and true and faithful.”

  “That sounds like a description of a long-eared hound.”

  “That’s right—try to change the subject. But I got a nose for this sort of thing.” He touched his ear. “So you don’t need to tell me nothing.”

  “I am highly impressed, Stanley. Your knowledge of anatomy almost equals your uncanny grasp of the English language.”

  “Go ahead—laugh if you want to.”

  “Ha-ha.”

  “It was Charlie Moon, wasn’t it?”

  Her face burned. “I will not respond to your feeble attempts to learn the identity of any confidential source which I might or might not have.”

  Stanley Newman slapped his thigh. “I knew it! I bet he started being your ‘confidential source’ that night when you two was on your front steps.” Oh no—why did I say that!

  She got up from the table. “What—you were spying on us?”

  Me and my big mouth. “Hey, it was just a lucky guess.”

  “Stanley Newman, you are a disgusting man.”

  “That may be.” He grabbed the check, shook it at his partner. “But I’m right, ain’t I—Charlie Moon is your source?”

  “Let me get this straight.” She put her hands on her hips. “You think I am so incompetent that if I just happen to show up at the right place at the opportune moment, it must be because…because…” Because Charlie Moon pointed the way.

  “I never said you was incompetent.” He assumed his most earnest expression. “In fact, I think you’re very competent. And pretty smart.”

  “Call me ungrateful, but I do not choose to accept this as a compliment.”

  “Okay, Miss Ungrateful.” He jabbed a thumb at his syrup-stained tie. “Hey, I’m the dumb one. If I lean on Charlie Moon, he clams up. I should know better, but I keep doing the same stupid things year in and year out. But you—you are a cat of a different stripe. You blink the big eyes at poor ol’ Charlie, he gets a serious case of testosterone poisoning, spills his guts to you.” He chuckled. “With my good looks and your brains, Lila Mae—we could make one terrific team.”

  Special Agent McTeague made her right hand into a fist. Took a hard look at her partner’s nose. It would cost me my job. But it might just be worth it.

  He backed up a half step. “Don’t do it.”

  “Give me one good reason. Even a so-so one.”

  “Try this: It would look really bad if a tough guy like me got decked by a lady.”

  “What kind of lady?”

  “A really good-looking lady?”

  She shook her head.

  “A really good-looking lady who is a first-rate cop?”

  Lila Mae relaxed. “That’ll just barely get you off the hook. For now.”

  “Charlie’s sweet on you, ain’t he?”

  Despite herself, she smiled. “If he was, what’s it to you?”

  “D’you like him?”

  She turned away. “Do you? Like him, I mean.”

  He thought about it. “Yeah. Sure I do.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve known Charlie Moon for goin’ on fifteen years.” Newman gave his partner a strange, almost fatherly look. “Ol’ Charlie, he’ll kid you from here to the Pecos and back, and he’ll do his level best to swindle his best buddy in a bet—but he’ll never flat-out lie to you. Matter of fact, that skinny Indian is a real straight arrow.”

  “Is that so?”

  “You bet your garters, McTeague. And he’s peaceable, too—Charlie’ll avoid a scrap if he can. But just last year, that Ute took on two of the meanest drug-running thugs you ever saw—whipped both of ’em half to death with his bare hands. But if Charlie finds a little teensy moth in his house, fluttering around a candle, he won’t swat it.”

  She smiled at this. “He won’t even kill an insect?”

  “Nope. He’ll take that little bitsy moth outside, say some encouraging words—and turn it loose to fly away.”

  “He sounds rather gentle for a lawman.”

  “Charlie, he’d rather raise alfalfa and cows than be a cop. But in a pinch, there’s not a man alive I’d rather have backing me up. And from time to time, he sees things most of us can’t. But for some reason, he don’t like to tell me about it.”

  There was a long silence.

  She took a deep breath. “Just for the record: If it should happen that I get a tip from a source who prefers to remain anonymous, I will do my very best to do the right thing. W
hich is to say I wouldn’t tell you in a hundred million years. Not if you got down on your knobby little knees and begged me.”

  He patted her on the back. “You’re a good cop, McTeague.” Newman smirked. “But if a Ute tribal investigator whose name I won’t mention should ever offer you any under-the-table information—”

  “You would expect me to take advantage of him.” Which is exactly what I’ve done. “Squeeze the source dry so the Bureau can take all the credit. And I should not feel the least bit guilty if this helps my career along.”

  “Of course you shouldn’t. Feel guilty, I mean.”

  “Not even if using the informant makes my sleazy partner look good?”

  “Goes without saying.” Newman laid a fifty-cent tip on the table, removed a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet.

  “Thanks anyway, Stan, I will pay for my own breakfast.”

  He snorted, pointed in the general direction of Washington, D.C. “Look, McTeague—it’s a slash-and-burn world out there. Full of ruthless felons, sleazy politicians, and do-nothing bureaucrats. You and me, we’re federal cops. It’s up to us to get the job done for the taxpayers. And from time to time, that means breaking some eggs.”

  Her smile was brittle. “You know what you are, Stan?”

  “Yeah. I know.” He straightened his soiled tie, buttoned his jacket around a slightly bulging midriff. “But I am also the senior agent on this here team, so don’t you even think about saying it out loud.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  SATISFACTION

  Charlie Moon parked the F-350 on a weed-choked dirt lane that terminated within a few yards of Felix and Ned Navarone’s home. A crude sandstone chimney supported one end of the unpainted structure, the outstretched limbs of a blighted elm appeared ready to catch the other. Over the years, a garish assortment of red, blue, and silver steel panels had been nailed onto the peaked roof, which capped the shack like a party hat on a corpse. The metal shingles rattled in a sudden gust of dusty wind.

  A well-worn path cleaved a way through sage and chamisa to an outdoor privy that was only a dozen steps from a side door. A mud-splattered Jeep was parked under a dead pine, parts of a disassembled Honda racing motorcycle were scattered about on the front porch. There was no sign of Felix Navarone’s 1957 Chevrolet pickup.

  The tribal investigator considered how pleasant it was to make a call with no weighty goal in mind. From time to time, a man needs to get out and do something that won’t accomplish a thing. Just for the fun of it.

  Half-rotten porch steps squeaked and sagged under his step. A coyote hide was nailed on the wall; it was still green enough to attract a swarm of tiny wasps. The door was decorated with a chalky steer skull. The Ute rapped his knuckles on the unpainted birch.

  There were creaks as someone of considerable bulk walked across the floor. One of the toughest-looking human beings Moon had ever seen opened the door. Outfitted in tire-tread sandals, soiled green corduroy pants, and a brown felt shirt—the flat-nosed, square-headed man was six and a half feet tall. The behemoth had arms like elephant legs, a torso the size of a fifty-five-gallon drum. Matted black hair hung well past the Apache’s broad shoulders. He was chewing a mouthful of meat, had a greasy butcher knife in his paw that evidently served as an eating utensil. He scowled at the man on his porch, who looked vaguely familiar. “Who’re you?”

  “A dedicated public servant.” Charlie Moon smiled. “It would be a total fabrication to tell you that I am here on behalf of the CCPCC.”

  He stopped chewing. “See-see-what?”

  “Colorado Citizens for the Preservation of Common Courtesy.” Moon tipped his hat to demonstrate the art. “I allegedly have the honor to be the chairman for the south-central region, which includes Archuleta County.”

  The massive fellow swallowed his food. “I never heard a any such outfit.”

  “Then you might want to fan through our monthly newsletter—the CCPCC Review. It is complimentary to paid-up members, seven dollars a copy to the general public.”

  The heavy brows curled into a suspicious scowl. “You here to sell me some magazines?”

  “We can discuss the CCPCC Review later, and the unlikely possibility of enrolling you as a provisional member of our organization. But first I must verify that you are the person I am here to see.” Moon checked a blank page in his pocket notebook, looked at the beetle-browed monster. “Are you Mr. Ned Navarone?”

  A puzzled nod.

  “Take some time to think about it—you absolutely sure?”

  A thoughtful pause. “Yeah. That’s my name.”

  “Then I have business to conduct with you.”

  Ned rubbed the butcher knife across the belly of his shirt, leaving a trail of grease. “What kinda business?”

  “Mr. Navarone, it pains me to bring this up, but I am obliged to inquire—did you recently threaten physical harm to a lady who came to your door?”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you say you would break the woman’s head?”

  The bruiser, who threatened citizens at every opportunity, frowned at the sky as he tried to recall the particular event. His attention was diverted by a small cloud that resembled a pork chop.

  “It was within the past two days,” Moon said. “She’s a long tall Sally. Works for the government.”

  The huge man grinned, exposing a mouthful of teeth the color of ripe corn. “Oh—that white FBI Nazi broad?”

  You should not have said that.

  Ned pointed the butcher knife at the alleged regional chairman of the CCPCC. “She wanted to know where Felix is.”

  Moon’s face radiated childlike innocence. “Felix who?”

  “Felix Navarone—my brother. That FBI Hitler’s Sister was here looking for him.”

  You’ve gone and done it again. “I am not here about your immediate family, Mr. Navarone. It is your lack of courtesy to Agent McTeague that brings me to your door.”

  The massive man stared blankly at the visitor.

  “But the CCPCC does not rush to judgment—our organization takes into account the various reasons and root causes for unseemly behavior. We realize that there may have been mitigating circumstances.”

  “What?”

  Moon explained, “It’s possible you were in a bad mood when you threatened to break the lady’s head. Maybe you were suffering from acute indigestion. Or a bad toothache.”

  “Nah.” Ned waved the butcher knife. “Wasn’t nothin’ like that. She just ticked me off.”

  “Even so, I expect you would welcome a chance to make amends. So look upon this as an opportunity to make things right between you and that nice lady who works so hard for Uncle Sam.”

  The man’s dark eyes narrowed. “This some kinda joke?”

  Moon shook his head. “We of the CCPCC never jest about the need for good manners. This is very serious business indeed.” He produced a one-page document from his jacket pocket. “For your convenience, I’ve brought a typewritten apology for your signature.”

  The Apache cocked his head. “A what?”

  “A sheet of paper. You sign it to say you’re sorry.”

  Ned was not a subtle man. His glanced at his butcher knife, then at the tall man’s throat.

  Moon pressed on. “It is written is simple English, suitable for a person who has completed the third grade with a D-minus average. Shall I read it to you?”

  He pointed the ten-inch blade toward Moon’s red pickup. “You get offa my place before I slice your—”

  The Ute cleared his throat and recited the single sentence: “‘I, Mr. Ned Navarone’—that’s you—‘wish to apologize to Special Agent McTeague for my rude behavior.’” He pointed to the bottom of the page. “There’s a place for you to sign—right there on the dotted line. If you don’t know how, just make your X and I’ll witness it for you.”

  A low, dangerous growl began to rumble somewhere deep inside the huge man.

  Moon tried to look disappointed. “Shall I take it that yo
u refuse to sign the formal apology?”

  The outraged knife wielder launched into a series of loud and vivid obscenities.

  Moon waited until the verbal storm had abated. “I am forced to conclude that you are not sufficiently repentant.” The tribal investigator fixed the Apache with a flinty stare. “So you might as well forget about a membership subscription to the CCPCC Review. You will have to purchase it by the copy, at seven bucks a pop.”

  Ned Navarone brandished the butcher knife under the Ute’s nose. “I am gonna cut you up into little chunks and feed you to my hog.”

  The Ute shook his head. “You are not allowed to do that.”

  “What?”

  “It is strictly against the CCPCC rules to feed a paid-up member to a swine,” Moon explained. “I admit that this is not common knowledge, but I keep it under my hat.” He removed his John B. Stetson, offered it to the Apache for a close inspection. “See if you can read the fine print on the sweatband.”

  Ned Navarone was holding the hat, staring deep into the dark well of black felt. This is why he never saw it coming.

  WHEN THE sun had gone to rest in the west, and a silver moon was sailing along the crest of Plum Ridge, Ned Navarone regained what passed for consciousness in one of his limited capacity. He was in a sitting position, his back propped against the front door. A half dozen of his corn-yellow teeth had been shucked and were scattered about the porch; a bloody eye was swollen shut. He was wearing the chalky steer skull for a hat. With the orb that still functioned, he looked through the bovine eye socket, saw something protruding from his shirt.

  It was the butcher knife—sticking out of his chest. I’ve been stabbed right in the heart—and I can see my head bone from the inside. He stared in rapt wonder. I must be dead. He made a gurgling sound, gingerly touched the knife handle—it fell off in his lap. There was no blade. It must still be inside me. He rubbed at his chest. Funny, though—I don’t feel nothing there.

  Charlie Moon had snapped the blade off in a crack between the planks.

  Ned closed his eyes, tried to remember what had happened. Bits and pieces of the confrontation began to come back to him: Some guy knocked on the door—tried to sell me a magazine prescription. I guess when I wouldn’t buy, he must’ve hit me with a sledgehammer or somethin’. There oughta be a law against pushy salesmen.