The Almanac of the Dead: A Novel (125 page)

The time had arrived more quickly than any of the people had ever dreamed, and yet, all the forces had begun to converge. Lecha had learned a strange story from the gardener, Sterling.

A giant stone serpent had appeared overnight near a well-traveled road in New Mexico. According to the gardener, religious people from
many places had brought offerings to the giant snake, but none had understood the meaning of the snake’s reappearance; no one had got the message. But when Lecha had told Zeta, they had both got tears in their eyes because old Yoeme had warned them about the cruel years that were to come once the great serpent had returned. Zeta was grateful for the years she had had to prepare a little. Now she had to begin the important work.

Packing a great sidearm put a rare glow in Zeta’s eyes. She had walked the dingy street along the railroad tracks and felt light on her feet because the .44 magnum was in her purse. Greenlee had phoned to say he was ready to do business. Zeta told Greenlee she’d sell him the .44 Blackhawk he wanted. Her hands weren’t as steady anymore, and she wanted to buy a pistol that was less demanding.

Greenlee had never realized how much Zeta hated him. The more tense and stony faced she had been, the more animated and friendly Greenlee had become. Zeta had allowed the misunderstanding to continue for years because he had sold her guns without any questions. But now, messages from the South had indicated Greenlee was a key man.

Greenlee had waved off the six security men pointing Uzis when he saw it was only Zeta with the .44 Blackhawk in its holster. She was one of their “best customers,” Greenlee had exclaimed as he pretended to scold the security guards for not recognizing Zeta. Zeta had always let Greenlee think she was swallowing the flattery with the lies. Today she smiled and winked at him. She wanted to be left alone with him in the huge basement vault; she wanted plenty of time, no hurry. She let Greenlee show her special laser scopes to fit handguns and examined an automatic rifle he had taken from the rack on the wall.

He had a hilarious new Indian joke for her too, Greenlee said as he answered the red phone next to the computer terminal. Zeta could barely stomach Greenlee’s jokes; she knew the jokes were his way, his little test, for dealing with Mexicans or Indians and blacks. His theory had been that anybody who got huffy or hot while he told his nigger and beaner jokes would eventually try to cut his throat. “Cheaters win, and winners cheat,” Greenlee liked to say. So he got them first. Greenlee thought his jokes and “tests” were foolproof.

Today Greenlee seemed enormously pleased with himself; Zeta knew business was good; Awa Gee had just intercepted computer data that revealed big transactions between Greenlee and Mr. B. Greenlee’s small, pale-blue eyes were bloodshot. He had always watched Zeta’s eyes as he told the jokes, and she had never flinched. Greenlee really
liked this one, he said, “because it’s about that TV broad—you know, what’s her name? Bah-bah Wah-wah! So anyway the bitch is talking—interviewing this Indian chief.”

Zeta smiled; she still had to marvel at the hatred white men harbored for all women, even their own.

“Oh, by the way,” Greenlee added, “the joke’s title is ‘Never Trust an Indian.’ ”

Zeta had burst out laughing.

“I knew you’d really like that!” Greenlee said.

Zeta was still chuckling and had nodded her head. Zeta really was going to enjoy this one.

“So Bah-bah Wah-wah asks the chief why he has so many feathers, and he tells her, ‘Me fuck them all—big, small, fat, tall—me fuck them all!’ ” Greenlee tried to imitate a falsetto scream. “ ‘Oh, you ought to be hung!’ ” he lisped, then Greenlee had bellowed, “ ‘You damn right me hung! Big like a buffalo, long like a snake!’ ”

Zeta had laughed out loud because everything essential to the world the white man saw was there in one dirty joke; she had laughed again because Freud had accused
women
of penis envy.

Greenlee had mistaken her laughter as a compliment and preened the hair at the edge of his shirt collar. “So Barbara Walters cries out, ‘You don’t have to be so hostile!’ The chief says, ‘Hoss style, dog style, wolf style, any style, me fuck them all!’ ” Here Greenlee had doubled over with laughter until his pale eyes watered.

Zeta smiled and had nodded to encourage Greenlee to laugh harder.

“So she cries out, ‘Oh, dear!’ The chief says, ‘No deer—me fuck no deer. Asshole too high! Fuckers run too fast! No fuck deer!’ ” Greenlee had not laughed so hard before. Zeta could feel a chill at the base of her spine. Greenlee was almost hysterical, and Zeta could not resist laughing at the bright pink color of his face. How perfect his face was for this one moment! Ah, his laughter! How it echoed up and down air-conditioned aisles of the basement vault. “No fuck deer!” Greenlee kept repeating the punch line over and over.

“Bombproof, bulletproof, fireproof, but not foolproof!” Greenlee had loved to brag about his office in the basement vault. Because only a fool would dare attack this vault. Zeta had let the revolver rest comfortably on her lap after she had removed it from the holster. She had used both hands with the barrel at a perfect forty-five-degree angle the pistol butt braced against her stomach. “No, not foolproof,” Zeta said as Greenlee’s grin went flat on his face when he saw the pistol was
cocked. “Soundproof though,” Zeta said as she squeezed the trigger. Soundproof but not foolproof because only a fool fired a .44 magnum without earplugs. Zeta took her time. Greenlee’s security unit would not return for hours unless Greenlee called them. The vault was off-limits. With her ears ringing, deaf as dirt, Zeta had gathered the disks and readouts Awa Gee needed to complete his work.

ANGELITA LOOKED AROUND the ballroom of the Tucson resort carefully. She was alert for familiar faces from the Freedom School in Mexico City. If the Israelis or Chinese had sent spies to the International Holistic Healers Convention that meant they were on to the plan. She saw none of the familiar faces, but that did not mean there were no spies. She had left Wacah and El Feo in the mountains with the people. Hundreds of people kept coming to listen to Wacah talk about the ancient prophecies and explain the future. German and Dutch tourists had witnessed Wacah’s sessions with the people, and soon a German television crew had trekked up the muddy paths with their equipment to record the odd new mystical movement among Indians in Mexico, who were growing their hair long and painting their faces again in imitation of the twin brothers, who served the macaw spirits, and who promised the people the ancient prophecies were about to be fulfilled.

The video cameras had recorded a slow but steady trickle of people, mostly Indian women and their children, trudging along muddy, steep paths and rutted, muddy roads. The people came from all directions, and many claimed they had been summoned in dreams. Wacah had proclaimed all human beings were welcome to live in harmony together. People from tribes farther south, peasants without land,
mestizos,
the homeless from the cities and even a busload of Europeans, had come to hear the spirit macaws speak through Wacah. The faithful waited quietly by their sleep shelters and belongings. After the German television report, the cash had started flowing in from “Indian lovers” in Belgium and
Germany. They had received a large amount of cash from a Swiss collector of pre-Columbian pottery in Basel. A people’s army as big as theirs would not need weapons. Their sheer numbers were weapons enough. A people’s army needed food. Wacah said the people would eat as long as they were with him. All they had to do was walk north with him.

After the cable news report there had been trouble. Authorities heard rumors that the native religion and prophecies were a cover, and the true business of Wacah and his brother was to stir up the Indians, who were always grumbling about stolen land. The Mexican federal police had sent truckloads of armed agents to search the mountains for secret caves suspected to contain caches of weapons the Indians had allegedly received from the Cubans. But even the four-wheel-drive trucks the police drove could not cross the landslides which the mountains had shaken down in previous weeks. Straggling in to the villages on foot, the police had found nothing; all the able-bodied had followed the twins. Those too sick or weak to travel said the mountain spirits were shaking the earth and would not stop until the white man’s cities were destroyed.

The cable television news crew had still been at Wacah’s camp when the federal police arrived; the calm of the people and the frenzy of the police had been televised all over the world. But the police had soon realized they were greatly outnumbered and they had withdrawn. Wacah’s invitation to address the world convention of holistic healers had arrived within days of the federal police raid. But the spirit macaws would not permit Wacah or El Feo to leave. They had to walk with the people. Wacah and El Feo must not ride in automobiles or helicopters. The spirits required that the people walk. Wacah and El Feo had sent Angelita to the healers convention to make apologies for them, and to invite all those gathered to join them. All were welcome. It was only necessary to walk with the people and let go of all the greed and the selfishness in one’s heart. One must be able to let go of a great many comforts and all things European; but the reward would be peace and harmony with all living things. All they had to do was return to Mother Earth. No more blasting, digging, or burning.