Land of Burning Heat

by Judith Van GIeson

  “Welcome to my new home,” he said.

  Claire had been to John’s home and knew it to be a dark cave of a town house bearing no resemblance whatsoever to the elegant and expansive Tamaya.

  “How do you like it?” John asked.

  She admired some oversized prints of horses’ heads on the wall. “It’s beautiful,” she said.

  “Warren’s not here yet. Get yourself a drink and we’ll sit outside.”

  Claire ordered a glass of Chardonnay and they took their drinks to the deck, sat down and looked across a field to the cottonwoods on the banks of the river and the jagged gray Sandias beyond. The further north Claire traveled in the Bosque, the steeper the peaks of the Sandias appeared. She liked the way the branches of the cottonwoods curved and rambled like country roads. It was a lovely place to sit, watch the light change and make small talk with John, but she didn’t like to be kept waiting. When fifteen minutes had passed she got annoyed. Fifteen turned to twenty and even laid-back John glanced at his watch.

  “He’ll be here soon,” he said. “You can count on Warren to be twenty minutes late and twenty dollars short. That’s how he lets you know he’s an important guy.”

  “Do really important people have to do that?”

  “Nah, but they get in the habit and sometimes they do it anyway.”

  A child on the deck jumped up and down and cried out “Look.”

  A coyote trotted across the field. Other people on the deck stood up to ooh and aah. The coyote loped along ignoring its audience and the fuss it had created with an indifference so complete Claire found herself admiring it. Warren Isles chose that moment to show up at the table. He was a large, plump man with soft skin and a sliver of a smile that appeared to have been pasted on. Doughboy wasn’t a bad description. Neither was Michelin man. Warren’s skin had a rosy glow, and his hair was damp as if he had just stepped from the shower or the sauna. Had he been enjoying the spa while they waited? Claire wondered. Taken a sauna on their time?

  John saw it differently. “You get stuck in traffic?” he asked.

  “I never see any traffic between here and Santa Fe,” Warren replied, oblivious to John’s sarcastic innuendo. “Traffic picks up at Bernalillo. One reason I never go south of here unless I have to. I came down this morning, had lunch at Corn Maiden, spent the afternoon. You must be Claire Reynier.” His smile curved a little higher.

  “Claire, meet Warren,” John said.

  Warren signaled to a waiter and ordered a glass of ancient Scotch, the oldest Scotch likely to be found anywhere in the state. He sat down in the empty chair and said “Howdy” to Claire. “John told me you’re interested in the history of Bernalillo.”

  “I became interested when Isabel Santos told me about a document she found under her floor.”

  “The last words of the Jewish mystic?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was very kind of May Brennan to give her my name. I would have been quite interested, but unfortunately I never heard from Ms. Santos. Lieutenant Kearns questioned me about the document she described. I told him that given the age and the scarcity of documents in New Mexico pertaining to the crypto Jews, it could be very valuable indeed if it turns out to be authentic. I told him that no one had offered such a document to me, but if anyone did I would let him know immediately.”

  “I’m glad that you agree with me that the document is valuable,” Claire said. “Peter Beck at Berkeley told Lieutenant Kearns that it wasn’t.” Claire herself wondered whom Kearns was more likely to believe. Both men seemed to be quite impressed with their own knowledge.

  “I can’t speak for Peter Beck, but Kearns seemed to think I was the expert in the field,” Warren said with a self-satisfied glow. “I pointed out that I am not an expert in the Inquisition, but I do have one of the finest private collections of historical documents in the state of New Mexico.” His aged scotch arrived and he sniffed delicately before taking a sip. “Excellent,” he said.

  John grinned at Claire from across the table while Warren savored his expensive scotch.

  “I am very interested in the story of the crypto Jews here and collecting documents pertaining to that subject. There is nothing rarer. The subject is so secret, documentation is very hard to find. I have tried to talk to some of the old families, but they won’t open up to me. If the document Isabel Santos found turns out to have a connection to New Mexico’s Jews I want it.”

  Claire supposed that what Warren Isles wanted, Warren Isles got, but if she had knowledge about ancient and secret family traditions, the acquisitive Warren Isles was the last person she would want to share it with. She didn’t trust his soft hands with their fat, greedy fingers. She didn’t trust the practiced half smile used to coax valuables from women who might do better taking the long view and holding onto what they owned rather than entrusting it to Warren.

  “I have the same problem with the Penitentes. They are very secretive,” he said.

  “John said he sold you some ephemera that implied the Penitentes allowed the Jews to practice in their moradas.”

  “It was an obscure article published years ago in a historical journal. John sold it to me for an outrageous price.”

  “Now Warren,” John drawled, “you know I never sell ephemera—or anything else—for more than the market will bear.”

  “Right, and I am the bear market.” Warren laughed at his own joke.

  “Are you still in the investment business?” Claire asked.

  “I’ve been cutting back, but I haven’t retired. If you’re looking to invest, I can do right by you. Women don’t pay nearly as much attention to their investments as they should, often holding on when they ought to be selling.”

  Claire felt she gave her investments no more or no less than their due. When she inherited money she studied, analyzed, consulted, invested and forgot about it. She didn’t need the money now. She didn’t want to be buying, selling, trying to time the market and paying a broker a fee for every transaction. Warren Isles was the type of broker she avoided, one who took advantage of women who didn’t pay as much attention to their investments as they should.

  “If you’re looking for investment advice, I have a very good track record.”

  “I’m content with my mutual funds,” Claire said.

  “Well, if that ever changes, call me.” Warren took a card from his pocket and handed it to Claire. “Call me, too, if you should come across the original Joaquín Rodriguez document. That’s something I would be very interested in.”

  “All right,” Claire said, thinking the last place she would want to see that document end up was in Warren Isles’ doughboy hands, although she was encouraged that he believed there was a document. It was more encouragement than she’d gotten from the other men she’d talked to.

  John took out his briefcase to show Warren the articles and journals he had brought, the unbound material known to dealers as ephemera. Claire was reminded that she happened to be sitting at the table with a couple of dealers who had come to Tamaya to buy and sell. They began to discuss the quality and haggle over the price. John loved to deal and negotiate. His ears picked up; his eyes had the keen wariness of a coyote’s.

  But the negotiations soon bored Claire, and she turned her attention to the natural world, scanning the field for another glimpse of the coyote. It had vanished. The child who spotted it had gone inside with his family. The brilliant sunshine and sharp shadows were fading. She looked toward the sky and saw clouds moving in, hazy, ephemeral, wisps—not the towering thunderheads that promised rain but clouds that hung in and obscured the horizon. They had crossed the Bosque and were climbing the Sandias when Warren and John finished making their deal.

  They all stood up, shook hands and left the deck. Warren now had a briefcase full of ephemera, and John’s was empty. They walked through the living room and the families playing board games made Claire think of an elegant country home on a summer weekend.

  “Can we walk you to your car?
” John asked. “Or do you get a ride in that golf cart?”

  “Neither,” said Warren. “I have a dinner engagement.” They shook hands and said good-bye at the hotel door.

  Chapter Sixteen

  JOHN WALKED HER ACROSS THE PARKING LOT to her truck. The time of day, or the hazy weather, or the deal he’d made with Warren—something had put him in the mood for confidences.

  “I’m not seeing Sandra anymore,” he said to Claire as his feet crunched the gravel.

  “What happened?” she asked.

  “She wanted a different kind of man. Somebody who would make a lot of money and take care of her.”

  “Unrealistic to expect that of a book dealer.”

  “True.” John laughed. “But I did well today. It’s the Warren Isleses that keep the wheels of this business turning.”

  One reason that Claire stayed out of it. She felt a refreshing moisture in the air. “I was in touch with an old boyfriend of mine over the Internet,” she said. “I met him in Europe when I was in college. He teaches at the University of Florence.”

  “Oh?” said John.

  “His wife has breast cancer.”

  “Why did he get in touch with you?”

  “He didn’t. I contacted him. I didn’t know about his wife.”

  “Spending years watching a person die of cancer is a sad and lonely business. You don’t want to be disloyal, but you’re ready for some love and companionship when it’s all over.”

  Claire didn’t know that Pietro’s wife was dying, but she knew that John’s wife had died a lingering death. “Is that what happened to you?”

  “Not according to Sandra. She says I’m still thinking about my wife.”

  “Are you?”

  “To the point where I couldn’t love someone else? I don’t think so, but that person isn’t Sandra.” It was more open than they had ever been with each other. When they arrived at Claire’s truck, she didn’t know what to say until the sky took charge and left her speechless. She pointed toward the Sandias.

  The sun had set beyond the golf course. The departing rays illuminated the clouds embracing the mountains and turning them into a radiant pink mist. Claire had never seen a sunset so fluid and mysterious. The Sandias were rarely shrouded in mist.

  “Exquisite,” John said.

  There was nothing left to say. They waited for the light to fade and the clouds to turn gray again. Then they got in their respective vehicles and drove away. As she negotiated the narrow road out of Tamaya, Claire felt that the thoughts she and John had just shared had taken them ever deeper into friendship and even further away from romance. Once a man became too good a friend, once she started confiding in him about other men, it became difficult to think of him as anything but a friend, although in this case a very valuable one.

  ******

  After a few miles on the Tamaya road she returned from the sublime to the commercial and was back on the strip that housed nearly every fast food restaurant known to man as well as the Santa Ana Star Casino. Wondering why Chuy Santos had never called her back and if she might find him there, she pulled into the casino parking lot and walked to the building. As soon as she opened the door she was assaulted by smoke and layers of noise. The bottom layer was background music with an unidentifiable beat and lyrics. Above that a repetitive ding, ding, ding emanated from the slot machines. That sound was punctuated by the clang of coins dropping into a metal receiver. Change? Winnings? Claire didn’t know. If it was winnings, the clang should have been followed by exclamations of joy instead of more dings. There was hope in this casino, but little joy.

  She walked up and down the rows of slot machines searching for Chuy. Most people played alone with a cigarette in one hand and the other on the machine. Many were older women who had little to lose. Women who were put off by Las Vegas felt welcome in New Mexico’s more intimate casinos. They sucked their cigarettes and pushed the buttons like automatons. One woman appeared to be linked to her slot machine by a chain. It only took a few minutes for Claire to long for escape. If she still believed in hell, this would be it.

  She gave up on the slot machines and went to the tables. A bunch of men were clustered around one table tossing dice, laughing and joking, adding human sounds to the mechanical noise. She found Chuy hunched over a green felt blackjack table while a dealer prepared to deal him a new hand.

  “Hey,” he said. “What are you doing here? You play?”

  “I called you a few days ago and the woman who answered told me you were at the casino. You never called me back. I happened to be at Tamaya, and I stopped here on my way home.”

  “That was Grandma Tey you talked to. I’ve been staying at her house. What the hell.” He signaled “no more cards” to the dealer. “I’m on a losing streak anyway. You want to go somewhere and talk?”

  “Yes,” said Claire.

  Chuy’s cell phone was on the table. He picked it up and led the way to the cafeteria with a shuffling walk. The restaurant was open to the casino and offered little relief from the smoke and noise.

  “You want anything?” Chuy asked. “I’m getting a soda for my Dr. Pepper jones.”

  “I’d like a lemonade if you can find one.”

  Chuy went through the cafeteria line and came back with a lemonade and a Dr. Pepper.

  “Sorry I didn’t get back to you sooner,” he said, lowering himself into a chair. “I’ve been busy.”

  Doing what? Claire wondered. “I thought you had stopped gambling.”

  “I did, but then I got lucky and I started up all over again.” He put his cell phone on the table. “What was it you called me about?”

  “Have you heard anything new about your sister’s death?”

  “Nada.”

  “Is Tony Atencio still in jail?”

  Chuy shrugged. “Far as I know. I haven’t seen him around anyway.”

  “I’ve learned a lot since I last talked to you.”

  “Yeah? Like what?” The light in his eyes reflected the gambler’s belief in endless possibility.

  “Lieutenant Kearns talked to the two experts May Brennan recommended to Isabel, and so did I. I don’t know exactly what they told him, but Peter Beck, who is the leading Inquisition scholar, told me he doesn’t believe that the Manuel Santos who witnessed the Inquisition of Joaquín Rodriguez is your ancestor.”

  Chuy slurped his Dr. Pepper. The bells in the casino continued their pounding, relentless beat. “Why not?”

  “He said there was no incentive for an Inquisitor to leave Mexico at that time. This particular Inquisitor became a corregidor and was involved in other executions after your ancestor arrived in Bernalillo.”

  “That ought to make my brother, Manuel, happy now that he’s the great brown hope of the Republican party. But our ancestor could have been Manuel Santos, the Inquisitor’s son, if he had a son.”

  “It’s possible, but that expert doesn’t think so.”

  “Do they know how old the skeleton was when he died?”

  “Early thirties I’ve been told.”

  “Who’s the other expert?”

  “A man named Warren Isles, a wealthy collector from Santa Fe, who buys historical documents. I just had a drink with him at Tamaya. I thought he might have heard something about Isabel’s document, but he claims he hasn’t.”

  Chuy’s cell phone rang and the sound was barely audible above all the bells and whistles in the casino. It was the rare place a cell phone could ring without being annoying. “Hey, bro,” Chuy said. “I can’t talk to you now. I’m busy.” He paused to listen. “What do you care what I’m doing? I’ll have to call you later.” He hung up.

  “Did Lieutenant Kearns tell you that the Smithsonian has gotten involved in dating and identifying the skeleton?” Claire asked.

  “Kearns don’t tell me nothin’ he don’t have to tell me. That’s cool that the Smithsonian is getting involved, isn’t it?”

  “I talked to Harold Marcus, a forensic anthropologist at the
Smithsonian. The skeleton has been dated to the early 1600’s. It might or might not be your ancestor.”

  “Hell, it could be an Indian. No one in my family likes to admit that we don’t have limpieza de sangre, but why couldn’t we have an Indian ancestor?”

  “If you do, it’s more likely be a woman.” Claire knew that Spanish men were more likely to marry Indian women than the reverse.

  “I guess.”

  “Marcus will do more tests. He told me that by testing the tooth enamel he can tell where and when the skeleton grew up.”

  “Is that right?” Chuy said.

  “Yes.” Claire was getting to the difficult part. She wished she were in a quieter place where she could concentrate and get the phrasing of her question right. “The one way to establish for sure whether or not you are related to the skeleton is by DNA testing and comparison. Would you be willing to do that?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “Your brother said no.”

  Chuy laughed. “When my brother says no it means nunca if you know what I mean.”

  Claire knew.

  “Maybe you ought to talk to my grandmother,” Chuy said. “If she says yes Manuel might go along with it.”

  “Would you mind?”

  “No. I don’t mind. Let me give her a call.” Chuy dialed a number. “Hey,” he said. “It’s me Chuy. I’m at the casino. I got a lady here from UNM who wants to talk to you. The same lady Isabel talked to.” He listened for awhile then said. “Okay. I’ll send her over. I’ll be home later.” He put the phone down. “She says come on over.”

  “It’s not too late?” Claire asked. It would be convenient to stop on the way home but she didn’t want to keep an elderly lady up.