He flashed his eyes at me across the front seat, smiling. “Crazy, huh?”
“Are you serious?”
“My dad is a hero there,” he said. “His picture is everywhere. His other kids don’t try to hide who they are.”
“So, what? You just drove over to their house and knocked on the door?”
Hector rolled his eyes. “They do have telephones.”
I made a “go on” gesture, impatient.
“I called ’em up, told ’em who I was and what I had, and they invited me over. Fidel was there when I arrived.”
“Jesus.”
“Apparently people show up claiming to be related to Guevara on a pretty regular basis. Castro asked me some questions, gave me a good going-over, and pronounced me legit.” Hector fidgeted, looking out his window at the cool blue darkness. “I think he’s been a little bored since his retirement.”
Sensing that he might be getting ready to launch into a political tirade, I made haste to keep him on track. “Then what?”
“Well, after I gave them my father’s remains, they wanted to do a whole thing—throw me a parade, state dinner, stuff like that. I asked them not to, but the news still got out.”
“I bet Castro was pissed you were coming back to the States.”
Hector looked over at me again. “I wasn’t. I didn’t.”
We were approaching a better-lighted section of road, and I could see some buildings up ahead in the distance, beyond another wire fence, so I got my question out fast. “When did you decide that?”
“After I saw that newspaper article,” Hector replied, keeping his eyes on the road. “The U.S. monitors all the Cuban media. Someone who could make trouble for me has seen it. You can bet money on it.”
“I was watching the news like a hawk,” I said.
Hector snorted. “You think they’d let that just go out on the airwaves uncensored?”
I wasn’t in the mood for conspiracy-theory talk, so I nudged things back to the personal. “You know, they have phones here, too.”
“I couldn’t risk it.”
“So send me a postcard,” I said. “Something.”
Hector sighed. “It’s not like I was on vacation, Julia. If I’d known I was gonna attract enough attention that I’d have to stay out of the States, I’d have made arrangements ahead of time, but I had to play the whole thing by ear.”
“You kept in touch with Maines.”
“I couldn’t not,” Hector protested. “He was with me the whole time.”
“That lying sack of shit said he didn’t go in with you.”
Hector shrugged. My chest did that funny flexing thing again as I thought about Maines. His kids would know by now; the family would be at the hospital, having those heartbreaking talks with the doctors, watching everything they’d planned for the future go up in smoke. Because of me.
The guilt was almost more baffling than it was painful. I’ve done plenty of devious, destructive things in my life and lost no sleep; in fact, where I come from, that skill is a point of pride. Maines had done me some favors, but he’d also gotten me kicked out of WITSEC and nearly driven me insane trying to manage my life ever since. By the standards I habitually apply, what happened to him was just one of those things—an accident of circumstance, collateral damage caused by his own stupidity. So why wouldn’t my conscience shut up?
The border fence at the United States entry looked slightly more official—three strands of barbed wire stretched between steel bollards that alternated in height from about five feet to about three feet—but the only other difference was a sign telling us we were entering the country. It was just as deserted as the Mexican border had been.
Hector shook his head as we crossed, and something kicked up in my brain.
“Is the official border fence up everywhere else? I mean that big one, the panels?”
“Not yet, but that’s the plan.”
“If the O’odham don’t do something before then, illegal traffic through their lands is going to ramp up significantly.”
Hector nodded. “As I recall, that was kind of the point. Funnel people toward certain areas, and then concentrate border patrol in those areas.”
“OK, but that’s not going to happen here,” I said, waving at the fence. “The O’odham have never let border patrol on their land. Why would they start now?”
“I dunno,” Hector said thoughtfully. “They already have problems—theft, trash, dead bodies found in people’s yards—maybe the U.S. figures that if those problems were to increase significantly, the O’odham would be more open to letting border patrol in here.”
I laughed. “Is it just me, or do you see the irony in intentionally increasing the likelihood of illegal immigration in order to force the O’odham to accept something meant to curb it?”
“No, I feel you,” Hector said. “Even more ironic, the O’odham have actually discussed sealing up their Mexican border, which they are legally entitled to do, but they can’t get the resources because the U.S. won’t authorize it.”
I laughed again.
“Well,” Hector qualified, “that’s not really the whole story. Some tribal members object to the idea of borders on principle.”
That made sense to me. As far as the eye could see in all directions had once been open range, home to hundreds of tribes who’d managed to thrive on it without any concept of land ownership. In fact, the people Hector and I were referring to as “illegal” had ancestors who’d been members of those tribes. The O’odham were more “American,” culturally and genealogically speaking, than most people who claimed the nationality.
“It’s almost like the U.S. wants to split the reservation in half,” I remarked.
“Can’t blame ’em,” Hector said, putting on a mocking white-man voice. “Let these injuns congregate, next thing you know they’ll be bitching about all those broken treaties.” He returned to his normal voice. “Divide and conquer, baby.”
A cluster of faded-orange stucco buildings appeared up ahead on the left. Hector flipped the turn signal, and we pulled into the parking lot of a neat little shopping center. There was a corner store open at the end closest to the street.
“You want anything?” he asked me, unbuckling his seat belt.
“Lots of things,” I grumbled.
“I’m currently limited to foodstuffs.”
I ordered some iced tea and watched him amble into the store. My phone jingled again, and I reached back and grabbed it. My contact had arrived and was asking where to meet. It had been a long time since I’d been on the O’odham, and I’d only visited once or twice, so I texted her back to pick a spot and we’d see her there shortly.
CHAPTER 27
Like most of the architecture I’d seen on the reservation so far, the cafe where my contact had said to meet her was relatively new, and the cedarwood table the hostess led us to looked like it had been handmade. Subdued lighting and sisal carpet gave the place an expensive and sophisticated air. The menu was a surprise, featuring things like cholla-bud salad, nopalito sandwiches, and drinks made with saguaro syrup. I’d grown up on traditional suburban poor-kid fare and wasn’t sure how this stuff would go down, but I was starving. I ordered the tepary bean-and-short rib stew. Hector went out on a limb for the ha:l enchiladas, made with a local squash.
“Nice,” I remarked, after the waitress had gathered our menus and disappeared. I’d asked for a table well away from other diners, so that we wouldn’t be overheard, and she’d seated us next to a big window that looked toward the west. The contrast between the quiet, neutral interior of the cafe and the brilliant dark-blue sky with its scattering of early stars was exhilarating.
Hector nodded, glancing around nervously. “You gonna tell me what the hell we’re doing here?”
“I’m hungry,” I said.
“So let’s hit the drive-through,” he growled. “We’ve got shit to do.”
“Shit that’ll be harder on an empty stomach.”
He gave me a withering glance. “Seriously. This is stupid. Someone might remember seeing us here.”
A slim young Native woman had just come in. She wore big tortoiseshell glasses with gold accents, and her stick-straight black hair was cut in an ’80s shag. It had been fifteen years since I’d seen my cousin Norma, so I wasn’t completely sure it was her, but I took a chance and lifted my hand. The woman came over, a smile growing as she neared the table.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” she chuckled softly, pulling out a chair. “It really is you.”
Her black eyes, magnified behind her enormous lenses, ran quickly over Hector and lit with pleasure.
“Yeah, he’s pretty,” I told her, “but he’s a pain in the ass.”
“Aren’t they all?” she laughed.
Hector looked like he was about to blow his top. I took pity on him. “Hector Guerra, this is my cousin, Norma Tafoya. She lives up in Salt River.”
They shook hands, Norma giggling a little, then she said, “So what are you doing here? I heard this crazy rumor you went into witness protection after Joe was killed.”
I held my hand toward her. “Julia Kalas.”
She stared at me for a short minute, then breathed, “Oh, my God! It’s true?”
I glanced around the cafe, motioning her to keep her voice down even though we were well away from the handful of other diners. “Yeah, but they kicked me out last year. I’ve got nowhere to go if those Aryan Brotherhood guys find me. So, please, OK?”
She started to laugh, saying again, “Oh, my God. Oh, my God.”
I waited for her to get a grip, which took a good five minutes and involved some snorting. She’d always had trouble with her adenoids.
By the time she’d gotten herself under control, I’d relaxed a little. When the widow of a known mafioso’s son disappears from the face of the earth after her husband is gunned down in the street, she’s either gone into protection with the feds or with the family, so if you take a guess you’ve got a fifty percent chance of being right. It’s not a given that your cover has been blown. The rumor she’d heard about me could easily be just idle speculation. Still, I didn’t waste time with the customary family niceties.
“Listen, the reason I contacted you is because I seem to remember some O’odham in-laws on your side of the family,” I said. “You think you could put me in touch with them?”
“Maybe,” Norma allowed. “Why?”
“I’m trying to find an O’odham woman by the name of Rachael Pestozo. She’s been living in Texas for a while, but had recently re-established ties here and was moving back.”
“Why do you want to find her? Does she owe you money or something?”
I glanced at Hector. “Could we just leave it at ‘or something’?”
Norma pushed her glasses up the bridge of her nose with her pinky, a gesture I recognized, and my old affection for her creaked awake. She’d been the nerd of the family, an A-making, socially awkward, straight-arrow solace to my aunt for her brother, who’d been destined for prison and the streets from day one. I don’t know why Norma and I gravitated toward each other, given that I always identified more with Joachin, but we did.
We all shut up as the waitress approached and set down our food, then Norma said, “There’s a Bronson Pestozo who lives down by the river. He and my ex used to go fishing together. Could be the same family, but you know how that is.”
I did. There were only a handful of surnames on the reservation, and even those who shared one didn’t necessarily associate with or know anything about the outer limbs of their family tree.
“Would you be willing to ask him about Rachael?”
Norma made a reluctant gesture with her head. “I’d rather not. It wasn’t the prettiest divorce in the world.”
“I can pay you.”
She made an offended noise. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“OK, then,” I said. “How about just as a favor to a cousin?”
Norma had always been romantic about family. She was the kid who shacked Barbie and Ken up and birthed them a litter of kids. She kept up with all the cousins and uncles and in-laws and sent out Christmas cards every year. There were high-minded claims about wanting to preserve the culture, but it always felt distinctly personal with her. Which baffled the shit out of me. I consider my relatives cosmic accidents and treat them accordingly.
She looked at me in silence for a couple of breaths, then said, “You should go see your mom. She talks about you all the time. You’re on her amends list.”
“Her what?”
“She’s been going to A.A. You know, the steps and everything. They have to make amends to people, and you’re on her list.”
“I’m on some other people’s lists, too,” I said. “The ones who are probably camped out in her front yard, waiting for me to stick my head up.”
“I’ll bring her down here. No way those Aryan guys try to follow us onto the rez.”
“Hector and I got in without anybody clocking us,” I pointed out.
Norma’s eyes went sly. “You think so, huh?”
I remembered the carload of women going by us.
“Don’t you remember how things were on the Gila?” Norma said. “It’s the same here. I pity the white supremacist trying to go unnoticed around these ’skins.”
The idea made me laugh, recalling the shameless curiosity and quiet observation of the locals whenever I went over to hang out with Norma and Joachin. Nobody was rude about it, but I had never had to stop and remind myself that I was in a foreign country.
“I’ll go talk to Bronson right now if you’ll promise to hang around until tomorrow,” Norma said. “I can bring your mom down in the morning.”
I looked at Hector. “We weren’t really planning on staying overnight.”
Norma pushed her thin lips forward, not saying anything. I looked at Hector again.
“It’s a bad idea,” he said, picking up his fork.
“OK, we can just hang out on the curb and wait for Rachael to walk by,” I said. “Or we could start going door-to-door. That shouldn’t raise any eyebrows.”
Hector took a bite of enchilada, shrugging angrily. “I’m just the wheel man. What the fuck do I know?”
Norma got up. “I’ll call you in a bit.”
I nodded, and she hurried out.
Hector and I ate in silence for a few minutes. I could feel his temper looking for a release valve, and didn’t feel like taking the job. I focused on my stew and the scenery.
My wandering eye, running over the other people in the restaurant, stopped on a couple of women near the front. They were both fortyish; one was quite rotund, with short salt-and-pepper hair, and the other was taller but slimmer, with long dark hair trailing down her back. They both wore Huichol blouses over tiered cotton skirts, and a flat-brimmed hat lay on the chair next to the long-haired woman. They were looking directly at me and Hector.
When they saw me catch them at it, they went back to their dinner. The other diners had given us the usual politely curious look all strangers in these parts typically receive, and then turned away; these two seemed a lot more interested. I withdrew my gaze, but kept my attention focused in their direction.
“Those two women are watching us,” I told Hector, shifting my eyes to the right to indicate who I was talking about. I kept my voice down so it wouldn’t travel.
He glanced over, then returned a grim gaze to my face. “I hate to say I told you so.”
“No, you don’t,” I said, “but you’re entitled. I won’t hold it against you.”
“You think they heard us?” Hector murmured, making it look like he was commenting on the meal.
I shook my head. “No way. I mean, I can’t hear them, and neither of them is wearing an ear trumpet.”
There was a quiet pause while Hector bisected an enchilada and got it on his fork. He raised it to his mouth and said, “So, do I get to meet your mom?”
I gave him a look. “You want to
meet my mother?”
Hector paused to chew, smiling, then swallowed and said, “I’m curious about her, knowing you.”
“Save yourself the agony,” I said, picking up my spoon. “Garden-variety alcoholic. They’re not that interesting.”
“Don’t you want to see what she’s like sober?”
“Not particularly,” I replied.
“Not even for her benefit?”
I put the spoon down. “Listen, I spent eighteen years cleaning up puke and used condoms and getting the emotional and physical shit beat out of me for my trouble, so don’t try and tell me what I owe my mother, all right?”
Hector pursed his lips and kept quiet. I went back to keeping a surreptitious eye on the two women at the other table. After a while they got up to pay their tab at the register. The one with the long hair had put on her hat, which shaded her eyes, but I could tell that she was still looking at me. Her companion started for the door, but she turned and came over to our table.
“Where you from, girl?” she said, putting her hand flat on it, near the edge. It wasn’t threatening, but it had a proprietary air.
“Texas,” I said, looking up at her. I wanted to add, if it’s any of your business, but didn’t want to make myself any more memorable than I already was.
She met my gaze, her eyes steady. After a few seconds, she looked over at Hector. “And what are you? The chauffeur?”
He was busy eating, but spared her a negligent glance and a mild chuckle. “I wish. I might get paid, that way.”
Her upper lip lifted. “It’s always about money with you guys, innit? Money or pussy.”
Hector kept looking at her, chewing. He didn’t say anything. I kept my teeth together, too. It wasn’t easy.
A couple of the other restaurant patrons were watching us. The silence started to stretch out, then the tall woman’s companion came over and muttered something unintelligible in her ear, and they moved off. I watched them mosey out into the parking lot, get into a nondescript panel van, and drive off.
“Dang,” Hector breathed.
“Yeah,” I said. “So much for blending in with the locals.”
South of Nowhere: A Mystery (A Julia Kalas Mystery) Page 11
