Zuni Stew: A Novel (5 page)

He walked across the creaky floorboards past a black potbelly stove in the center of the room over to an old wood and glass counter. The cases weren’t heavily stocked, nor were the shelves above. A few cans of lard, Spam, corn, hominy, salt. A hand-painted sign read:
BUY. SELL. TRADE. LIVESTOCK. PAWN.
It was obvious that despite all the natural beauty of the reservation, the lack of jobs kept the Zunis in a state of poverty.

Jack’s mother, an aristocrat by birth, had immigrated with her new husband to the United States before WWII. Nic, her first-born, was conceived in Italy but born in America. Despite her pedigree, Rose knew all about rationing and poverty during the war in northern Italy. Especially Piedmont, the family estates.

Her younger brother, Danielle, was a member of the Resistance. Formerly an officer in the Italian Army, he refused to join Mussolini’s ‘Republican’ army. A long-time anti-Fascist, Danielle learned the hazards of guerilla warfare: hit and run attacks from alpine hideouts, constant fear and hunger in the severe winters of 1943-45.

Jack read the letters: hunger governed all. Forced to live like animals. Only food mattered. Food for the children. Food for his wife. Food for himself. Food at the cost of depravity and human debasement. Could this be happening here? In the United States? What the hell happened to Johnson’s war against poverty?

A grey-haired man with a long ponytail approached. Weathered skin, deeply tanned. Only the skin exposed by his unbuttoned collar was pale by comparison. He wore a plain two-inch-wide silver bracelet on his wrist. No attempt to greet Jack, nor did his rheumy eyes blink.

Finally Jack said, “Could you tell me how to get to your hospital?”

“Three miles back, at Black Rock, by the lake.”

Outside, in the blinding sun, Jack looked at the trickling stream and the pollution. The Zunis have us white doctors segregated, he thought, miles from the pueblo.

10

F
our-thirty. He par
ked in front of a rock building bearing a small sign:
U. S. Department of Indian Affairs.
He spotted a windsock a short distance away, and suspected an airstrip must be nearby. The sock was limp, the dirt streets empty. A dark stone building at the center of the square turned out to be the U. S. Public Health Hospital, but it looked deserted, definitely not a hotbed of activity. Why the rush-rush in Albuquerque?

Houses encircled the plaza, adobes or rock, in general, a tacky hodgepodge. Jack parked the Willy in front of a pink adobe and walked back to a newer-looking home where he had seen an Indian woman standing outside. As he got closer to her he realized that the grass in front of the house was strewn with dirty dishes.

She wore a long pleated purple skirt, a denim jacket with a corduroy collar and a pork pie hat, and was holding a garden hose. She looked up and said, “Too nice to work inside.”

He introduced himself. Continuing to blast the dishes with freezing water, she replied, “I work for the top doc. This his house.”

And those were his dishes.

There were no patients in the waiting room. A nurse, a pretty, young Native American wearing a white cap was on the phone, speaking in her native tongue. He waited, taking in the blue-grey walls, peeling trim, the yellowed wax on linoleum floors. He was familiar with the antiseptic smell, but the place also smelled of Pine Sol. The florescent lights blinked, then buzzed, aggravating the tinnitus in his ears. He shut his eyes for a full minute.

A clipboard hit the countertop. “Can I help you?”

“Doctor D’Amico reporting.”

“You’re late. Follow me.” She escorted him down a hall to an office crammed with three government-issue grey metal desks. The first was occupied by Dr. Bill Newman, who was busily signing a foot-high stack of forms.

Newman looked up. “Thank God, I’ve been worried ‘bout you, thought you’d be here by noon.”

“A little trouble on the road, Sir. Jack D’Amico, reporting for duty.”

“None of that ‘Sir’ shit. I’m Bill.” He pointed to a chair. “I’ll give you a quick rundown on the place.”

Bill’s words were drawn out in a slow twang, making for a relaxing conversation, whether you wanted to relax or not, definitely not Chicago rat-a-tat-tat. About Jack’s height, over six feet, and lanky, handsome in an aw-shucks sort of way. He had grown up on a West Texas ranch outside Marfa. Bussed into town for school in the winter. Cowboyed every summer. University of Texas grad, and proud of it.

Basic rules. Night call rotation—flexible. Mornings—open clinics, first-come, first-seen. Rounds—in-patients before lunch. Usually six to twelve patients, mostly new moms. Afternoons—specialty clinics.

“Broken bones, cast changes, eye injury follow-ups, obstetrics and so on. You’ve got to be more than a good doctor out here. You have to be part-sociologist, part-historian, even part-genealogist. You better know who’s related to whom. Complications like some guys status in the tribe might...” They both heard the sound of screeching brakes at the emergency entrance. “Been expectin’ this. Pun intended. Sure glad you’re here.”

Before they made it to the ER, Bill let him know about a big pow-wow coming up in Gallup. Tomorrow, highlight of the year. Fathers of near-term mothers drove their pregnant wives across rough terrain to induce labor.

“Consider this your initiation to Zuni. Work fast—we only have three delivery rooms.”



Albuquerque. Mario talked to anyone who would speak to him at the Public Health office, Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Indian Hospital. What did he learn? Zuni Pueblo was remote compared to other pueblos. And huge—four hundred square miles. Extending into Arizona.

No one heard of Dr. Jack D’Amico. Mario pressed the issue at the PHS and was stone-walled. Talk about body language. He was used to being the intimidator, not on the defensive. But he kept the shit below his shoelaces. Did the job and got out.



Lori May Wilson remained behind as the other mourners, all FBI and/or Chicago police, left the graveside service. Gabriel D’Amico dressed in a dark suit and looking shattered, cried openly, and kept his arms wrapped tightly around himself. He was the only family member present; there were no restaurant staff, no friends, only law enforcement.

Five fresh graves.

Lori took Gabriel’s hand. “I’m so very sorry.”

Gabriel shook his head and pulled his hand away. His cheeks were wet with tears. An officer waited discretely by an unmarked police car to take him home.

“Can I help you to the car?”

“No, thank you, you are very kind.” Gabriel slowly walked away, turning his head back repeatedly as if he couldn’t bear to leave.

Lori wondered if the killer or killers were watching. Only two bouquets of flowers, one anonymous (actually the FBI), the other from Gabriel. As instructed, the funeral director placed them in the holes where Rose and Pasquale’s caskets lay at rest. She watched workmen fill the graves with soil, but her mind was far from the cemetery.



Thirty-six hours earlier, Lori had been called to the Chicago FBI Field Division in the Loop. The new Dirksen Building on Dearborn Street. Dressed in her FBI uniform—black suit, white blouse buttoned-to-the-top, high heels that she hated. Getting off the elevator at the eighth floor, she wiped her palms on her very short skirt, drew a breath and walked down a long hallway of identical office doors and past the requisite portrait of in-hot-water Richard Milhous Nixon. The desk of a private secretary blocked the entrance of the office of the Special Agent in Charge.

The secretary was on the phone, and after saying repeatedly, “Yes, sir. Yes, sir,” she looked up at Lori and smiled. “If you’re here to interview as my replacement, you’re one floor off. Agent Scott’s office is on nine.”

“No, actually I’m here to see Special Agent Brooks,” said Lori, introducing herself.

“I expected a man, Agent L. M. Wilson. But, you’re a pleasant sight. The big boys don’t allow many women up here. After thirty years of testosterone and arrogance, I’m glad to be returning to a more hospitable world outside the Service.”

Lori guessed the woman to be in her early fifties, maybe older. She couldn’t tell by her dark skin and large brown eyes, which were carefully made up. Dark hair cropped short, bound by a black and red scarf. The spot of red being the only real color in the beige office. Her name, according to the plastic plate on her desk, was Yolanda Cervantes, CPA.

“You certainly don’t look like you’ve been here for thirty years,” said Lori.

“And you,
mí niña,
look like you’re too young, too petite,
y muy chica
to be an agent of the FBI,” Yolanda replied, blowing her nose and apologizing. “He keeps it so blasted cold in here, I’m constantly fighting a cold. I don’t know why I feel compelled to give you some advice, Agent Wilson. Maybe it’s because I’ll be out of here soon and he can’t do anything else to belittle me. You’re about to enter the bullring where that man will find your weak spots, open them like wounds, pour salt on them, eat you up and spit out your tiny bones. He’s chewed my skinny butt so many times, I have to sit on a hemorrhoid pillow.”

Standing, Yolanda was tall, barely one-hundred-twenty pounds. Quite stately. Long, beautiful legs. By her candor, Lori wondered if she had been drinking, but decided she was high on indignation and using her as a vent, an outlet.

“Forewarned is....”

“Es cierto,
Agent Wilson. Allow me to escort you. Scream if you need help. I’d love to have the opportunity to catch him brutalizing a female agent and press charges.” She took Lori by her arm as if she was going to guide her down the aisle to her own wedding. “I’m a fifth generation American, but he treats me like his maid.
Cuidado, mí niña,
with him. My Grandmother,
gracias a Díos
, used to tell me to squeeze my buttocks tight enough to hold a dime. Then stand up straight and look at my foes in the eyes.” Yolanda raised a bronzed hand, tapped at double doors, opened them slightly, and said, “Special Agent Wilson to see you, sir.”

“You’re on time, Agent Wilson,” said Special Agent Brooks, instructing her to take a seat at the table at the end of his corner suite. Next to where the blue and gold flag of the bureau flanked the stars and stripes. Blinds closed, lamps dim. Conservative furniture—leather sofa and matching chairs in front of the desk. A pair of Chinese vases on the conference table. Her first time she had been in the hallowed office. She had no idea why she was there.

“You collect oriental antiques?”

“My wife does. She’s Chinese; she has a small shop on Rush Street. Are you interested in oriental stuff?”

“Not at my pay grade.”

Brooks held a plastic cup filled with ice. He tossed a few cubes in his mouth. Crunch. Another crunch, like fingernails on a blackboard. His face was as white as his buttondown shirt. Red lips, greying temples.

He swallowed. “You’ll be serving the Bureau only on this case. You will answer to me. Everything I say to you is confidential. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

He slid a large manila envelope to her. “Photos of a recent homicide.”

She shuffled through the stack of horrific pictures. “What kind of motive or need would the killer possibly have to do this?” Brooks ignored her query. She arranged the photos on the table side-by-side. “Who are they?”

“Wealthy Italians, Pasquale D’Amico, his family, the maid and dog. There is one son not accounted for—he wasn’t at home.”

One family member at large. A problem for someone. “Who found them?”

“Pasquale’s half-brother, Gabriel D’Amico. He says he went by to talk to Pasquale around eight o’clock in the morning. When no one answered the front door, he went around back and found the door unlocked. He called Winnetka police immediately. The chief up there knew the family.” Brooks paced the floor, shaking the ice cup, speaking as if she wasn’t there. “The chief’s a friend of mine from college; he got hold of me right away.”

He slid another photo in front of her. “This is Gabriel D’Amico. At this point, he’s the only member of the family who knows about the massacre. I told him not to tell anyone anything. There will be no obituaries, nothing.”

“He agreed to keep quiet?”

“You bet he did—he knows who I am. He’s taking this pretty damn hard. He’s rich, I’m told, seems to keep to himself, just a maid and him in a big house. He’s not as flamboyant or well known as his brother.”

“You said half-brother.” Why was the FBI involved? This is a police matter. What did his police friend know? Why the hush-hush? It didn’t make sense.

She ran her hand through her long red-brown hair, mahogany in the glow of the indirect lighting. “May I read Gabriel’s statement to the police?”

“Basically, it contributes nothing. He described the scene. Gave us a timeline. He was way too upset to make sense.”

“I suppose it’s too early for the autopsy reports?” asked Lori.

“Right. Now, look, you’re going to be square in the middle of this one. This baby is yours—if you’re up to it.”

“Why me?” She didn’t like to be played with. Spit it out, man, what’s this all about? Brooks leaned forward, arms crossed. She could smell his cologne. Aramis.

“You’re new here, you’re not familiar with our ongoing cases, and you don’t look like the law. I know you were given the Director’s Leadership Award by former-director L. Patrick Gray, not long before he resigned and Director Kelley stepped in.” He paused before adding, “You are also very attractive, and your performance package underscores the ability you have to get into places, and close to people...with apparent ease.” There was a very pregnant silence between them. “Somehow you gain people’s trust.”