Adios Angel (5 page)

The sand-colored Toyota Camry had been easy to steal. 
The man had simply driven his pickup truck to the base of Mount Graham.  He had
hidden his truck in the dip of a small wash behind a large boulder.  From there
he had walked a mile or so along a low mountain trail to the parking lot used
by day hikers.  Just in case someone called in the car as stolen during the
short time he was going to be using it, he had quickly switched the license
plates for a stolen set.  If all went well, the hikers would not be back until
after his job was completed. 

Using the same screwdriver he had used to change the
plates, he popped it into the ignition and was gone.  The whole operation had
taken only three minutes.  It was a seven minute drive back to town.  The clock
on the dashboard read 12:15 as he pulled onto the street in front of Diamond
Gun & Ammo.  His timing, so far, was impeccable.           

He stopped a half block before the gun shop and parked
on the opposite side of the street.  This gave him a clear view of the gun
store and any movement inside.  No one could come or go without his immediate
awareness.  The tinted windows on the Camry were another reason he had chosen
it.  He opened a map and set it on his lap as cover in case someone should walk
by.  They would assume he was a tourist, probably checking directions.  Slouching
low, he pulled the brim of his baseball hat to the top of his sunglasses.  He
stuffed some Copenhagen chewing tobacco between his cheek and gums.  His
reconnaissance had paid off in spades.  He knew the movements and habits of
Josh Diamond, Proprietor, Diamond Guns and Ammo as well as anyone could have,
right down to the fact that he would be working alone today.  The inside layout
of the store and where specific guns were kept was etched into his brain. 

In the next fifteen minutes, one lone truck passed by.
An old woman was driving, likely on her way to the grocery store three blocks
down the street.

At 12:25 p.m. he sharpened his focus on the front door
of the gun shop. If things went as planned, the owner of the store and his two
dogs would soon be racing out the door and into a pickup truck parked at the
side of the building. The gun shop had only one additional employee.  A
caricature of a man in a small boat catching a whale in the front window of the
gun shop wished ‘Gabby’ good luck in an annual fishing contest over the next
three days in nearby Rocky Point, Mexico.  The thief knew this was the worker
who was out of town. 

As the clock switched to 12:34, Josh Diamond and his
dogs zoomed out the front door.   Josh stopped only for a brief moment to make
certain the door had locked behind him.  He kenneled the dogs in the back of
his truck, popped a flasher on his roof, and tore off in the direction of the
grade school.

Twenty minutes, the man figured, twenty minutes to get
what he needed; get in, get out and then get the hell out of town.  As the
owner’s pickup truck made the first available left turn, the man in the Camry
put the car in gear and drove into the alley behind the building that housed
the gun shop.  He parked behind the abandoned, boarded up building next door. 
As he stepped out of the car, small gym bag in hand, he eyed the alley up and
down--nothing.  The only sound was a slight wind flapping a forgotten, tattered
old advertising banner that had seen better days. 

At the back door the man went right to work.  First
things first.  The electrical box that fed the building and controlled the
alarm system and surveillance cameras was padlocked shut.  He was prepared for
this.  He grabbed his cutters, sliced it off, and put the padlock in his
pocket.  Reaching inside the box, he flipped off all power to the gun shop.  He
shut the electrical box cover and slipped a duplicate padlock in place.  No
sense arousing suspicion if someone wandered by.  The gym bag was on the
ground.  In went the metal cutters and out came a thin piece of metal.  He knew
there was enough space to slide the metal tool through the small crack between
the door and the jamb.  In it went.  He felt for the resistance of the wood
that sat in the U-hooks.  With a quick, hard, upward jerk of the instrument he
dislodged the two by four piece of wood.  He heard it crash to the floor.  If there
was a secondary alarm system, it either hadn’t been triggered or was a silent
one. 

He returned the tool to his gym bag and grabbed
another tool of his trade.  This one was more sophisticated and perhaps even
one of a kind.  The man had made it himself.  It was also a thin piece of metal
with a small hinge six inches from the end.  When a trip mechanism at the
opposite end was pushed, the hinge flipped to ninety degrees and the
self-locking mechanism made it rigid.  It slid through the narrow space.  He
pressed the end and heard it click into place.  He maneuvered the tool,
something he had practiced hundreds of times, to precisely where he wanted it. 
With a simple twist of the wrist the dead bolt flipped open.  He pushed on the
door and was inside.  No alarms sounded.  He smiled victoriously.

He dropped his tool into the small gym bag, picked it
up and carried the tools of his trade inside.  The door behind was quickly,
noiselessly shut.  Making his way from the back of the store to the sales room,
he kept his eye on the street.  Much to his satisfaction there was no movement
out there.  He walked deliberately to the front door and flipped over the open
sign.  With the lights off and closed sign showing anyone passing by would
assume the owner was still at lunch and likely not lean against the glass to
peak in.

He made a bee-line to the case that held handguns.  It
was locked.  He knew smashing it might cause an alarm to go off.  Reaching into
the large outer pouch of his pack he grabbed a glass cutting tool.  Placing the
suction cup on the countertop, he arced a perfect circle, clicked the release
and removed a six inch diameter piece of glass.  His shopping took a matter of
seconds as his gaze fell upon his personal preference, a .38 Colt Diamondback. 
He grabbed four of them, fondling the first for a few seconds.  He then wrapped
each, before carefully placing them into the small gym bag.  The .22 was a no
brainer, a Walther P22.  It was for his partner.  It needed to be small for his
little hands.  He turned to the case that held the ammunition, grabbed what he
needed and stuffed that into the gym bag.  A display rack held some gun
cleaning kits.  The Otis Elite was an easy choice.  He eyed a wide variety of
holsters.  One grabbed his attention.  It was a special military style that
held two guns.  It was perfect for a man who might get into a shootout.  It
disappeared into his gym bag too.   He glanced at the clock.  Eighteen minutes
had passed since he entered.  Two minutes to spare. 

With one last look around he headed for the back
door.  Something on the owner’s chair in the back office caught his eye.  It
was a Kevlar flak jacket that appeared brand new.  Grabbing it, he chuckled, “Frosting
on the cake.”  With that he was out the door.  On his way to the Camry he
hurled a glob of tobacco laden spit at a board that covered the window of the
abandoned building.  It hit dead center, precisely where he had aimed. 

The chemicals in his brain lit up.  Just one more
thing he did perfectly.  Life was great and it was about to get a whole lot
better.  Self-congratulations were in order.

Almost two days later Delbert had yet to regain
consciousness.  Doc Yackley said his vitals were stable.  Other than that he
told the sheriff all they could do was wait.

“Delbert?  Delbert can you hear me?” Little could
Sheriff Hanks know that his voice
landed
on deaf ears and a badly damaged brain.  Nothing was registering.  The
hodgepodge of signals coming from the command center of Delbert’s brain was
functioning only enough to keep him alive.

“Delbert?  Delbert, can you open your eyes?”

It seemed like such a simple request.  All Delbert had
to do was flip up his eyelids.  But somewhere between Zeb’s directive to
perform such a basic task and the reality of putting it into action laid an
unseen barrier. 

“Jesus, Doc, his eyeballs are fluttering beneath his
lids.  That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

Zeb’s voice seemed to stir a reaction from Delbert.

“Look, Doc.  Look at that damn silly grin he’s got on
his mug.  I’d be willing to bet you lunch that he knows I’m standing right here
by his side.   Hell, yes. He knows it.”

Doc Yackley looked glum.  “Say something else to him.”

“Delbert?  Delbert, it’s Zeb.  Just relax and open
your eyes.  Come on, Del, old buddy.  You can do it. 

Delbert’s eyelids may as well have been cemented
shut.  He could not produce a single voluntary action.  Frustration flooded
every inch of the sheriff’s being.  He felt tremendous guilt, as though
Delbert’s injury was totally his fault.  Somehow this seemed even worse because
the injured man was not only his deputy but also a longtime friend.

Mrs. Corita Funke, Delbert’s mother, stood helplessly
by, watching her son.  

“Corita, why don’t you stand on the other side of the
bed and hold his hand?  Grip it tight,” said Doc.

“What are you going to do, Dr. Yackley?  Is it going
to hurt my boy?”

“Don’t worry, Corita.  I am going to use a bit of
horse sense.  It’s nothing I learned in medical school.”

Doc Yackley placed his thumb and first finger over his
patient’s shoulder muscle and bore down with the power of a vise grip. 
Nothing.  Not even a reflex reaction.  The expression on Doc’s face, if anyone
had been looking directly at him, turned from glum to downright dour.

His mother tried again.  “Delbert, honey, you are
lying in a hospital bed.  Just keep your eyes shut and listen to me.  You have
suffered a concussion.  You were hit in the head by a flying brick.  You have
been unconscious for two days.  Del, my son, did you hear what I just said?”

Nothing. Not even a single muscle twitched on the
injured deputy.

The attentive doctor watched closely for the smallest
of reactions from his injured patient.  A signal from Delbert’s injured brain
moved his eyes making the eyelids appear to flutter by some purposeful act. 
His mother and the sheriff felt a ray of hope.  Doc Yackley knew better than to
be optimistic.  Corita Funke placed her cool hand over her son’s forehead.  She
caressed it with all the love a mother has to give her only son.  She was
certain her calming assurances would quell his pain, help heal his damaged
brain and bring him closer to consciousness. 

“I’m staying right by your side, Del,” said Corita. 
“You are going to be better real soon.  I can feel it in my bones.” 

Delbert did not move a muscle.  Delbert could not move
a muscle.

“I’d say you have a lucky star shining over your
head.  Maybe even a guardian angel or two.  For sure the Ga’an are keeping
their eyes on you.”

Eskadi Black Robes, tribal chairman of the San Carlos
Apache Reservation, shut the door to Deputy Kate Steele’s office and wrapped
his arms tenderly around her.  The blunt truth of his comment about the Apache
Gods keeping an eye on her sent a peaceful awareness through her.  A flying
brick had missed her head by inches.  Broken pieces of brick had struck her
face causing a small cut over her right eye. Her uniform had been splattered
with dust and shattered bits of concrete and clay.  Both she and Sheriff Hanks
had only minor injuries. 

“You are right, Eskadi.  Someone or some greater power
was looking after me.”

Josh Diamond was not quite so lucky.  Now, almost two
days after the explosion, Josh was fresh out of the hospital with three
fractured ribs, a broken wrist and enough cuts and bruises to make him look
like he had been sucker punched in a street fight.  Doc Yackley had made him
stay the extra day as he was concerned about possible internal bleeding and
organ swelling.  Deputy Funke, according to Doc Yackley, took a direct hit from
a ten-inch brick to the base of the skull and has a skull fracture, a severe
concussion and maybe worse. 

“You must have the luck o’ the Irish, eh, lassie?”

Eskadi’s attempted Irish brogue left more than a
little to the imagination. 

“I don’t know what it was, the Ga’an or leprechauns or…”  
Kate patted her left shirt pocket.  Inside was her inherited good luck charm, a
baseball card of Lefty Mathewson, the great New York Giants pitcher from the
early 1900’s.

“Whatever it was that saved you, I, for one, am
awfully glad about it.  What do you hear about Deputy Funke?  Is he doing any
better?”

“The sheriff just called from the hospital.  Delbert’s
the same. Dr. Yackley didn’t give the sheriff any good news.  Sheriff Hanks
said Doc sounded uncertain as to any progress Delbert might make any time
soon.”

“How about the other guy?  The one with the
bloodhounds?  What’s his name, Jim somebody?”

“Josh Diamond.” Kate was sure Eskadi knew Josh’s
name. 

“Josh Diamond,” cackled Eskadi.  “Now there’s a White
man’s name for you.”

“Josh is okay.  He just got released from the hospital
according to Helen.  I guess they wanted him to stay one more day, but he
wouldn’t have it.”

“Tough guy, eh?”

“Independent might be a better word for it.”

“He’s new around here, isn’t he?”

“He’s an old border patrol friend of the sheriff’s. 
They worked hard to bring in some very bad people who were trafficking both
humans and drugs across the border.  You sound like you don’t like him?”

“He’s just another White man living in Indian
Territory as far as I’m concerned.”  

Kate knew it was time to change the subject.

“Can we get down to business?”

“What?  It’s not good enough for me to come into town
just to see you?” asked Eskadi.  “We have to do some business together?”

“What’s with you?   You come in sounding like an
Irishmen and the next thing I know you’re sounding like a Jewish banker.”

“Good one, huh?  I’m just getting in some practice for
the Morenci Rodeo Days talent contest.  I’m going to mimic as many different
tribes of White people as possible,” laughed Eskadi.

“You never let up do you?”

“A guy has to have his shtick.”

“Okay, funny man, let’s have a listen to the tape.  I
want to know if you recognize the voice.  I know it’s a long shot, but everyone
around here seems to think the person is at least part Mescalero.”

Eskadi Black Robes stood silently staring out the
window, hands clasped behind his firm muscular back, as Kate played the tape. 

“Play it again, please.”

Kate admired Eskadi’s physique.  His shiny, black hair
traveled over his broad shoulders, stopping near his waist and firm buttocks. 
The sleeves of his black tee shirt stretched tightly over his upper arms
exhibited perfectly formed triceps. 

“It’s definitely not the voice of a San Carlos
Apache.  The man does speak like a Mexican, excuse me, Hispanic, who spent more
than a little time conversing with Apaches.  He has stolen a little inflection
from our dialect.  I do have to say, he does have a Mescalero accent.”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me you recognize
the voice?”

“I can’t help you with that.  That is going to take
real police work.  That is the reason you make the big money and the rest of us
just scratch out a living.”

“You’re a laugh a minute,” chided Kate.

“I’ll bet you anything he speaks Hispanic with a Mescalero
accent, just like he does English,” said Eskadi.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Kate.  “You also
mentioned you might know something about the stolen cars?”

“I’ve heard some talk that might interest you.  It’s
one of those little stories one person mentions to another and another until
finally it passes through enough people it make its way to the tribal office. 
Sometimes I feel like I live in gossip central.”

“That’s the way the whole world works.  Please tell me
what you have.”

“By the time the story reached me it went like this. 
Eugene Topy was fishing for small mouth bass over at the big lake.  He fell
asleep and dreamed of wild animals.  In his dream he heard a coyote howling. 
Naturally he woke up and looked around.  After he realized it was a dream he
noticed his rod and reel were missing.  To hear him tell it, some big fish
nabbed it and took it right to the bottom of the lake.  Hannah Udom, his
cousin, told me about it.  She claims it serves him right because he was
probably drunk anyway.  I talked with Eugene.  He says he only had two beers
and was as sober as a White man at work.”

The absurd human details of Eskadi’s stories were
endearing to Kate.

“It started to rain pretty hard and Eugene decided to
go home in case a big storm was coming in.  He moseyed over to his truck and
took a back road home.  He wasn’t in any particular hurry because his wife’s
twin sister and her five kids were staying with them.  He knew he would catch
holy heck from the both of them when they found out he lost his fishing gear. 
Eugene had been bragging earlier about all the fish he was going to bring
home.   Now, not only was he empty-handed, he had to find a way to scrape
together a few dollars to buy some new fishing equipment.  His wife controls
the money, and Eugene says she’s pretty tight with a buck.”

Kate knew Eugene Topy.  He and his wife ran a little
burrito stand at community gatherings on the reservation.  He was a big man,
four hundred pounds and six and half feet tall.  His wife, Melina, couldn’t
have been five feet tall and was as thin as a reed in a dry lake. 

“When Eugene pulled up to the house, they figured out
pretty quickly that he had been skunked at the lake.  They put on an act like
they were practically starving to death and ready to eat any old bottom fish he
might have been able to drag up.  Melina, her sister and all those kids were
sitting there at the table with a knife in one hand and a fork in the other. 
They were pounding on the table, making a great big scene.  When he told them
he didn’t have any fish, they chased him out of the house.  He said they were
screaming that they were going to cut off his leg, cook it up with some sour
greens and eat it for dinner.  Poor old Eugene hopped back into his truck,
rolled up the windows and locked the doors.  He was sure they had gone crazy. 
He started honking the horn and shouting at them.  Finally, he got up enough
courage, opened the window just a crack and asked them if they had eaten
locoweed.  When those sisters heard that, they started laughing so hard they
fell down on the ground and started rolling around. That’s when Melina noticed
it.”

“Noticed what?” asked Kate.

“When she was rolling around on the ground, she looked
up and noticed the license plate on the truck was missing.  Eugene bought the
truck over in Tucson.  He never bothered to get new plates when the old ones
expired.  Maybe he didn’t want to pay for them.  Maybe his wife wouldn’t give
him the money.  Who knows?  He never got arrested because he only drove the
back roads from his house to the lake.”

“But now without any plate at all, Melina figured he
might get pulled over?” asked Kate.

“Exactly,” said Eskadi.  “I guess she scolded him so
bad it didn’t take him long to make the decision to come into the tribal office
and tell me about it.”

“What did he think you were going to do?”

“He figured if he told the tribal police he had been
driving the truck for over three years without legitimate reservation plates,
they might run him in.  He asked me what to do.  He wanted me to straighten out
his mess for him.”

“What did you tell him?” asked Kate.

“I told him if he brought me the truck’s registration,
I would help him get some valid plates.  He didn’t have the registration card. 
I don’t think he even knew what it was.  So we got the vehicle identification
number off the truck and I called the motor vehicle department in Tucson.  That
was yesterday morning.”

“What exactly is this leading to?”

“You were telling me about all the stolen cars.  It
seemed ironic to me. Whites steal cars, Hispanics steal hubcaps and Indians
just steal the license plates.  Now that’s what I call progressive poverty.”

“Is that part of your shtick for the talent show too?”

“It wasn’t.  But now that you mention it…”

Kate rolled her eyes.

“About the DMV?”

“The DMV called me back this morning.  They wanted to
know who owned the truck.  I explained all I wanted was to transfer the title.
I told them since it was a reservation vehicle it was none of their damn
business who owned it.  Which, it isn’t.  I was polite as punch.  They demanded
to know who owned the truck.”

Kate shook her head.

“I’ll just bet, knowing how much you like government
officials, nothing they said sat too well with you…especially after how you
tried to be so cooperative.”

“When I wouldn’t kowtow to their jack boot style of
questioning, they got all huffy.  I hung up on them.  All ghost skins want to
do is make life miserable for the rest of us.”

“Did you ever hear the old saying, ‘You attract more
flies with honey than with vinegar’?”

“Why should I be nice to them?  When was the last time
the government did anything to help America’s First People?”

Kate knew Eskdai had a bit of a point.  “Was that the
end of it?” asked Kate.

“Hell no.  About two minutes later a detective with
Arizona Highway Patrol called.  He asked me a bunch of questions about the
truck.  According to him it wasn’t possible the plates had just been stolen. 
He claimed they were in the hands of the Tucson police and had been for over a
week.  The detective said the state was going to send an investigator down to
talk to me.  I’m sure they think it’s my truck.”

“Did they explain why the police had the plates?  Did
they say what they wanted?”   

“Not exactly.  They said they found them on a stolen
car that had been abandoned at a wayside rest.  They just said they were coming
down to the reservation today to have a little chat with me.”

“Today?  When today?”

“I imagine they’re out there waiting for me now.”  

“Are you purposely trying to put a bee in their
bonnet?”

“Hell, yes.”

“You should show at least a modicum of respect.”

“Why?  Let them wait.  We Apaches have been waiting
for over a hundred years for any kind of satisfaction from those scoundrels who
stole our land.  Why should I go out of my way to make their life easier?”    

“It wasn’t the state highway department or the state police
who stole Apache land.  You know that.” 

“It’s close enough.  Both of them work for the big
White machine in Washington.”

Kate found Eskadi’s incorrigible, anti-establishment
behavior both charming and alarming.  As tribal chairman he knew working
cooperatively with the powers that be could prove beneficial.  If he angered
the wrong political people, the amount of hassle brought on the people of the
San Carlos Reservation could be significant.  Yet, when it came to dealing with
the bureaucracies, he was as stubborn as a mule and as troublesome as a wild
child.

“What are you going to tell them?” she asked.

“It depends on what they ask me.”

“You’re going to be forthcoming with them, aren’t
you?”

Did you ever meet an Indian that wasn’t honest?”

Eskadi raised his hand, mimicking and mocking the
stereotypical pose of a cigar store Indian.

“I swear, you are a little bit loco,” laughed Kate. 
“Promise me you’ll let me know what happens?”

“Of course.  Why do you think I’m here right now?”