The Witch's Tongue (15 page)

It was midafternoon at Angel’s Cafe, a slow time when a single waitress could tend to the few patrons. On this particular day, the hash slinger assigned to this duty had taken the afternoon off, to drive her mother to the dentist in Durango.
Or so she claimed
. Made hard and cynical by his three decades in the restaurant business, Angel Martinez did not believe his employee’s tale for a microsecond. But the harried businessman had no alternative but to act as cashier, cook’s helper, dishwasher, and waiter.

And so it was that Angel headed for a corner table where the Southern Ute tribal chairman was seated with Charlie Moon. The Ute politician had already expressed his wish for privacy; Oscar Sweetwater had even had the gall to direct the owner of the establishment not to seat other customers anywhere near him and Charlie Moon—this was a business meeting. It was mutually understood that the restaurant counted on tribal members for a large proportion of its business, so the proprietor had promised that the Utes would not be disturbed. Now, Angel signaled his approached by clearing his throat, and inwardly winced as the conversation between the Indians stopped. The hardworking Hispanic forced a bright smile, rubbed his hands on a dish towel tucked in his belt. “You fellas ready to order?”

The crusty old Ute picked up the plasticized menu, pointed his forefinger at the soup of the day. “With crackers,” he said.

“You want your usual glass of milk?”

Oscar Sweetwater nodded.

Angel smiled hopefully at the younger man, who was always polite.

Charlie Moon selected the catfish dinner with great northern beans, home fries, and coffee. And an extra side of hush puppies.

Angel inscribed each detail on his order pad with the exquisite care a nineteenth-century journalist would have used to record the Gettysburg address.

Moon pointed to the tribal elder. “And don’t bring two checks—Oscar’s buying.”

After the restaurateur had hurried away to shout instructions at a sweating cook, Sweetwater took half a minute to unwrap a paper napkin that enfolded the stainless steel flatware. He gazed with childish fascination at his distorted reflection on the convex side of a spoon. “So you went to see Eddie Ganado—what did you find out from that lazy Navajo?”

The tribal investigator watched a pretty girl pass by the cafe window. “Ganado may not be working for Felix Navarone’s lawyer much longer. He said he was thinking about quitting.”

The tribal chairman scowled at his part-time employee. “More likely, he’ll get fired for stealing stationery.”

“And I don’t think Navarone’s lawyer has any dirt on Officer Wolfe,” Moon said. “I expect she’s throwing a bluff.”

Sweetwater nodded halfheartedly. “Maybe. But if Navarone goes to trial, she’ll claim our cop shook the tree and made that crazy Apache fall off the limb.”

“Officer Wolfe didn’t shake Navarone off a limb. That cottonwood’s almost a foot thick. A nine-hundred-pound gorilla couldn’t shake that tree hard enough to—”

“I don’t care whether that
matukach
cop shook the tree or not,” Sweetwater said. He looked around the empty restaurant, lowered his voice. “What about the videotape—does that Apache’s lawyer know about it?”

Moon took his time stirring six teaspoons of sugar into the black coffee. “If she does, Ganado hasn’t heard anything about it.”

Sweetwater was fascinated by the tribal investigator’s methods. “How did you figure that out?”

“I mentioned that maybe one of the tourists at the roadblock had taken a snapshot while the Apache was up the tree. If Ganado had known about the video, I would’ve seen it in his eyes.” Moon sipped at the sugary coffee.

Sweetwater closed his eyes, massaged the lids with his thumbs. “I still don’t feel good about that tape. She’s threatening to sue the tribe big-time.”

“Oscar, you want my recommendation?”

“Say what’s on your mind.”

“Call that lawyer’s hand. Watch her fold.”

Sweetwater eyed the tribal investigator. Charlie Moon had good instincts. “How sure are you?”

Moon stared at the shimmering surface of the coffee. “Ninety percent.”

Angel brought their food to the table. As he hurried away from the secretive Utes, he amused himself with a frivolous thought:
They’re probably planning a horse-stealing raid against the Arapahos
.

Oscar Sweetwater ate his mushroom soup with considerable deliberation, taking sufficient time to enjoy each mouthful. He watched the younger man wolf down the oily catfish, gas-generating beans, and deep-fried potatoes. The tribal elder—who had a tricky gallbladder and all sorts of colonic complaints—would have given a month’s salary to be able to eat just one or two of the grease-soaked hush puppies on Moon’s platter. He waited until the tribal investigator had wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, then prepared to announce a decision he had made hours earlier. “You’re the best poker player for a hundred miles.”

A hundred?
Charlie Moon thought this faint praise indeed, but on account of excessive modesty he did not protest.

Oscar Sweetwater turned the empty milk glass in his hands, watched the blue neon script of the
ANGEL’S
sign reflect off the cylindrical surface. “So if you say the lawyer is bluffing, I expect you’re probably right.” Sweetwater heaved a heavy sigh. “But I can’t afford to get the tribe involved in a lawsuit—even if there’s just one chance in ten the Apache might win. We’re bringing in good money off the gas wells and real estate and the casino, but we’ve got every dollar allocated. The risk is just too big to take.”

Our tribal chairman is throwing in his hand before he sees what the lawyer is holding
. Moon squinted at the desserts listed on a board over the lunch counter.
Blueberry pie and vanilla ice cream sounds good
.

“I’ll going to make some calls,” Sweetwater said. “Get that troublesome Apache cut loose, but without the tribe losing face. I don’t want it looking like I caved in to his two-bit lawyer’s threats.”

Which is just what you’re doing
. “What about Jim Wolfe?”

Sweetwater’s black eyes popped fire. “What about him?”

“Wolfe was the arresting officer.”

“So?”

“So arresting officers have a peculiar habit of getting highly annoyed when they make a righteous bust—and somebody upstairs turns the bad guy loose on a technicality. And in this case, there’s not even a technicality. Wolfe got Felix Navarone dead to rights.”

“That white cop can get annoyed if he wants to.” Sweetwater banged the glass on the table, sloshing milk on his thumb. “He has a complaint, he can take it to Chief of Police Wallace Whitehorse.”

Moon had expected some such response. “Turning the Apache felon loose will make for bad morale in the whole Southern Ute Police Department. From Wallace Whitehorse down to the part-time janitor.”

“I don’t give a hooty-toot about morale,” Sweetwater snapped. “Let them spoiled cops go suck their thumbs. I’ve got a responsibility to protect the tribe.”

“I have a responsibility too.”

“Which is?”

“Advising my duly elected tribal chairman about the likely consequences of the actions under consideration.”

Oscar Sweetwater leaned forward in a mildly belligerent manner. “Okay. Advise. What would you do if you was me?”

“Keep the Apache in the clink. Report his lawyer to the state bar association.” Moon grinned merrily. “Charge her with—oh, I don’t know—slandering one of our officers. Overbearing barristry. Whatever’s likely to rattle her cage.”

The tribal chairman snorted at this. “I never mess with lawyers or rattlesnakes. The decision is made—Felix Navarone will be back on the street soon as I can make it happen.”

“You’re the boss.” Moon waved at Angel, requested a generous serving of blueberry pie à la mode.

Angel removed a fresh pie from the display case. “Quarter cut?”

Moon allowed as how this would be just barely sufficient, then smiled at the tribal chairman. “Now that business is done, why don’t you settle down and enjoy yourself. Order some dessert.”

The dyspeptic tribal elder grimaced.

“Not even a little bowl of ice cream?”

Sweetwater laid two fingers on his jaw. “Cold stuff hurts my teeth.”

“How about a slab of hot apple pie?”

“Hot stuff hurts my teeth too.”

“I’m sure Angel would be glad to bring you some room-temperature pie if that would—”

“Stop tempting me, Charlie.” The old man grinned in a most unpleasant fashion. “Besides, our business isn’t quite finished.”

“Uh-oh.”

“I want you to have a powwow with that
matukach
cop.”

“And what will me and Officer Wolfe pow and wow about?”

Sweetwater pointed his finger at the insubordinate subordinate. “The facts of life. Explain to him how I am the Big Chief. How he ain’t even an Indian.”

“That’s pretty cold, Oscar.”

“Try this for cold—just a few hours ago, Felix Navarone’s lawyer filed papers for a restraining order to keep Officer Wolfe at least a hundred yards away from her client.”

Moon assumed his poker face.
I should have seen that coming
. “It’s a standard tactic prior to a harassment charge.”

Beaming with pride at his cook’s culinary craftsmanship, Angel delivered 25 percent of a blueberry pie. Centered on a dinner plate, the succulent slab was cunningly flanked by four scoops of French vanilla ice cream.

Moon made appropriately appreciative remarks.

Angel discretely placed a check on the table, went away happy.

Oscar Sweetwater stared longingly at the dessert before glancing at his wristwatch. He mumbled something about being late for another meeting, got up with an old man’s painful groan.

“Hold on,” Moon said. “You’re forgetting something.” He pointed at the bill.

“Put it on your expense account,” Oscar said. The old man walked away stiff-legged, but with a smile on his weathered face.

THE UTE
had almost finished his pie when an old friend happened by. Father Raes Delfino leaned on the table. “Hello, Charlie. May I join you?”

Moon kicked out a chair. “Can I buy you something to eat?”

“Thank you.” The Catholic priest seated himself, bellied up to the table. “A bowl of soup would do nicely.”

The tribal investigator and the man of God discussed the comparable merits of green chili stew and chicken noodle soup. Father Raes settled on the latter. As he crumbled two crispy saltines into the bowl, the Jesuit frowned at his meal. “The bishop has approved my request for retirement. My replacement should be here within the month.”

Charlie Moon could think of nothing useful to say. “Where will you be going?”

Father Raes polished his spoon with a napkin. “Someplace remote and quiet, I hope. I am looking at a small cottage in Maine. It will need some fixing up, but it should meet my needs.”

The Ute waited while Angel filled his coffee cup to the brim. “This cottage close to the ocean?”

“Dear me, no.” Father Raes smiled. “That is quite beyond my means. I shall be deep in the inland woods.”

Moon shook his head. “Maine is a long ways off.”

“Meters and miles are illusions of the mind.”

The Indian presented another objection: “They don’t get much sunshine in the wintertime.”

“But it is very lush and green in summer.”

“I hear the mosquitoes grow big as bats. And I won’t even mention the gnats.”

“I appreciate that.” The priest tasted the soup, found it a tad too salty.

“Besides,” Moon said, “they talk funny up there.”

“I shall learn to like it.”

And so they whiled away a small measure of the afternoon.

When the retiree’s briny bowl was half empty, he could get no more past his lips.

Noting the cleric’s hungry look, the rancher suggested something more palatable. A genuine cowboy recipe.

Father Raes nodded as he listened. “That sounds rather enticing,” said he.

Jim Wolfe was seated on a chrome-plated stool; his elbows rested on a sour-smelling pine bar that pretended to be seasoned oak.

The rheumy-eyed woman on the other side of the counter pretended to be forty—the age of her daughter. She wiped away a smear of beer suds, offered the off-duty cop a painted smile. “So how come them Indians hired a white boy like you?”

Wolfe stared glumly at the small glass of amber liquid in his hand. “For the promotion of cultural diversity, I imagine.”

“What?”

“I am the token
matukach
.”

“What’s that?”

He pondered how best to communicate with the woman. “
Matukach
is to Ute as Gentile is to Jew.”

“Oh, I get it.” The drink pusher filled a plastic bowl with pretzels. “It’s some kind of religious thing.”

Wolfe helped himself to a twisted snack. “Your insight is remarkably obtuse.”

The barmaid nodded. “I was always the brainy one in my family.” She found a second bowl, filled it with salty beer nuts. “It’s just a matter of listening to what people say, then thinking things through. My daddy always said I was—” She looked up from her task. An expression of alarm pinched her pale face.

Jim Wolfe felt the presence behind him. Without knowing how he knew, he knew it was the man who cast the long shadow. He turned on the stool, gawked at the tribal investigator. “How’d you know I was here?”

“I smelled your aftershave a mile away,” Charlie Moon said. “And your Japanese horse is tied up out front.”

“Ah, yes. My trusty Subaru steed.” Wolfe raised the whiskey glass in a mock salute to the alcoholic. “Can I buy you a fizzy soda pop?”

“No, but thanks.” Charlie Moon nodded to indicate a table in the rear of the Bear Claw Bar. “How about we talk.”

It was not a question. Not even an invitation. This was a summons. A flash of irritation glinted in Wolfe’s eyes. “I hope this ain’t business.”

“Why do you hope that?”

“I’m off duty.”

“So’m I. This isn’t official—more like a professional courtesy.”

The muscles in Jim Wolfe’s jaw and neck bulged. “I already know that Navarone’ll get sprung today. And I know his shyster lawyer has filed for a restraining order to keep me away from that piece of trash.”

“I thought maybe you’d heard, that’s why I—”

Something snapped in Wolfe’s alcohol-soaked brain. “And I am plenty tired of getting pushed around by lying Apaches, slime-ball lawyers—and big-shot Utes!” The white man got to his feet.

“I only want to have a civil word with you.” Moon spoke softly. “But if you have something else in mind, I’ll do my best to accommodate you.”

Wolfe held his ground, looked the legendary Ute up and down.
I can take him. But I might need a club
. He eyed a whiskey bottle near at hand.

The woman behind the bar felt the tension in all of her limbs, wondered what was going to happen. Hoped it would be something terrible and bloody that she could tell gory stories about.

What happened was this: Charlie Moon began to unbutton his jacket.

Somewhat sobered by this development, Jim Wolfe coughed up a hollow laugh. “Hey, you want to do me a professional courtesy? Well, that’s fine with me.” He led the way to the table the Indian had selected, twirled a dirty chair backward, straddled it.

Charlie Moon seated himself across from the white man, back to the wall.

They were within spitting distance of the broken men’s room door. An ammoniac stink of urine hung in the dank atmosphere.

“Great location,” Wolfe said with a sniff. “Has a certain air to it.”

Behind the door, a leaky toilet burbled a caustic response.

Moon stared at the belligerent white man.

The Ute’s silence was unnerving. “Charlie, this conversation is highly stimulating. I’m not even sure I need this whiskey.” Jim Wolfe tossed it down anyway, slammed the glass on the table. “I guess the decision to cut Navarone loose was just standard tribal politics.”

“What’s done is done,” Moon said. “The less you know about the details, the better you’ll sleep tonight.”

“It’s my own fault. I should’ve broke that tree-climbing thug’s neck when I had the chance.”

Moon shook his head. “That is not the right kind of attitude.”

“Sure it is,” Wolfe said with an air of unassailable logic. “If I’d of terminated Navarone when he jumped outta that tree on me, it would’ve been a clear and unequivocal case of self-defense. There’d be one less felon on the streets.”

“You’ve already threatened to kill Felix Navarone,” Moon reminded him. “And in front of a half-dozen cops. Cops who would be called to testify against you if Navarone’s case went to court. And any one of those witnesses would be compelled under oath to repeat what you said.”

Wolfe glared at the tribal investigator. “Including you?”

Moon nodded. “If I was in the witness stand, I’d tell the truth.”

The SUPD cop rolled the glass between his hands, took a deep breath. “Is that what you dropped by to tell me?”

“I wish it was.” Moon tried to think of a way to present the truth so it wouldn’t look quite so ugly. But that would be like smearing lipstick on a warthog’s snout. So Moon told Wolfe straight-out: “The chairman has been getting threats from Navarone’s lawyer, and he’s taking them seriously.”

Wolfe glared at the man who was trying hard to help him. “What does that mean?”

“Here’s the bottom line—from the tribe’s point of view, you have become a liability.” Charlie Moon took the empty shot glass from Wolfe’s hand, turned it upside down on the filthy table.

The white cop stared at the thing.

Moon watched the man’s bloodshot eyes. “You got any change in your pocket?”

Officer Wolfe attempted a grin. “You want to play the juke?”

The Indian waited.

The puzzled SUPD cop found a few coins, dumped them onto the table.

The Indian selected a shiny nickel. He balanced it on the upturned bottom of the shot glass.

Jim Wolfe squinted at the aristocratic profile of Thomas Jefferson.

Moon nodded at his construction. “You know what this is?”

The subject of the inquiry studied the display. “Well, this is just a wild guess—but it bears a striking resemblance to a nickel on a whiskey glass.”

Moon shook his head.

“No?”

“The nickel is your job. Maybe even your future in the law-enforcement business. One careless little bump from you…” He left the rest to the white man’s fertile imagination.

Mesmerized by the delicately balanced coin, the SUPD cop held his breath. Finally, he exhaled. “So how’ll it fall, Charlie…heads or tails?”

“Don’t matter,” Moon said softly. “Either way, you lose.”

“Then I guess I better be careful not to shake the table.”

Moon smiled at his pupil. “You’re beginning to get the gist of the situation.”

Jim Wolfe watched the Ute get up, walk across the barroom floor, and disappear through the swinging doors. He muttered a curse, banged his fist on the table. In that agonizing slow-motion where pink roses blossom and wither, billowing clouds form and vanish, the off-duty cop watched the nickel roll off the inverted shot glass. Onto the filthy table. Off the edge. By the time it bounced onto the floor, Wolfe had emerged from the spell.

The waitress yelled, “Hey, you—what’s wrong over there?” Getting no answer, she hurried to the dark corner.

The off-duty cop was under the table, clawing at the floor like a starving dog scratching for a buried bone.

This one’s had too much to drink
. “Whatta you think you’re doing?”

Jim Wolfe found a folding knife in his pocket, flicked out the blade. “My nickel—it went in a crack.”
And if I don’t get it back…

“Well, don’t go cutting up the floor for it.”
Cheap bum
. The hardworking woman reached into her apron pocket, where her tips jingled. “I’ll give you another nickel.”

“No!” He hacked wildly at the half-rotten wood. “I gotta have
this
nickel.”

He’s
drunk
and
crazy
.

MUCH LATER
that night, when Charlie Moon should have been in bed, he was not. He was hunched in front of a television screen. He pressed a button on the VCR remote control, advancing the videotape frame by frame.

In the slowest motion imaginable, Felix Navarone spread his arms in tiny, jerking movements—and launched himself from the limb. There was no room for doubt. He definitely did not fall, he
jumped
. The Apache’s leap from the cottonwood branch amounted to a deliberate physical assault on SUPD officer Jim Wolfe. Having been an eyewitness to the event, Charlie Moon was not surprised.

It was what happened
after
Navarone landed on the white man that fascinated the tribal investigator—there was something about this wrestling match that did not look quite right. For the most part, it was a regular rough-and-tumble, grunt-and-gouge, give-and-take battle where each of the combatants seemed to be doing his level best to obliterate his opponent. But for just a moment—and in a most peculiar fashion—one man was either doing all the taking or all the
giving
. Charlie Moon could not decide which. Or why.