The Shaman Laughs (10 page)

"That's good," Moon said. "Lots of folks would like to know who did it."

He leaned over to whisper in Moon's ear. "It was not John Fitzgerald Kennedy who was shot in Dallas, but merely a look-alike. A stand-in. The president," he continued with a mad glint in his eye, "is alive today, living in Newfoundland. He operates a modest fleet of lobster boats, turns quite a tidy profit."

Moon didn't smile. "Well, now. That news will sure turn some heads."

"I have an excellent literary agent now, who resides in Dewy Rose, Arkansas. She will sell this manuscript to the highest bidder, and then it's Hollywood for me." He turned suddenly and waved a grimy hand at Parris. "You need not take notice of me. I am… the invisible man." Taxi swept away without further comment; he planted himself at a nearby table. He licked the tip of a stubby pencil and began to scribble marginal notes on his manuscript.

"I may safely assume," Parris said, "that was not the superintendent of schools."

"That was Taxi," Moon said. "Drifted in a couple of years ago. Nobody knows what his real name is. But he's harmless enough—just a writer."

"He doesn't look overly prosperous," Parris said.

"I doubt if he makes any money writing. We call him Taxi," The Ute said, "because he's also a taxidermist. Stuffs everything from squirrels to trophy elk. I guess he does pretty good during the hunting season."

Parris, a policeman to his core, unconsciously surveyed the other occupants of the restaurant. Angel was spewing Mexican curses at the jammed cash register drawer. A matched pair of pot-bellied truck drivers sat in a corner booth, gloomily sipping canned beer. A trio of high school boys leaned on the antique juke box and leered at a slim girl who passed by outside. "Nancy says nothing much is happening, crime-wise."

Moon thought about that for a few seconds. "It's been fairly quiet."

"That's too bad. The new FBI agent, the one assigned to the Durango office, just showed up. It would be nice if you had something serious he could sink his teeth into." Like a ripe cow pie.

"Well," Moon said, "a rancher stopped by this morning. Says he found his Hereford bull dead up in
Canon del Es-piritu
."

Parris raised an eyebrow. "Is that police business?"

"This time it is. Gorman Sweetwater says somebody killed the animal, then mutilated it. A few days ago, one of the tribe's buffalo came up missing."

"Sounds like a story the newspapers will love, but I doubt it'll interest our Bureau boy."

Moon frowned and shoved a forkful of beef between his lips. "This new S.A.—what's he like?"

Parris didn't meet his friend's curious gaze. "I expect he's well qualified for his job." Angel appeared at his side and filled a cup with coffee.

"Are you," Moon asked suspiciously, "holding out on your pardner?"

Parris put on his best poker face. "He should be here any time now; you can judge for yourself."

Moon pushed his fork under a mound of mashed potatoes. "Never met anyone from the Bureau I couldn't get along with. Now you take Stan Newman, George Whitmer. First-class lawmen. Sam Parker is all right, except he's kind of a snob about fishing with nothing but dry flies."

The man had approached quietly. He flashed his creden-tials at Moon. "I'm Hoover, FBI." The Ute nodded as he read the I.D. "James E. Hoover?"

There was a brief silence as the special agent anticipated the inevitable smart remark about his name. Taxi materialized at his side. "Excuse me, Mr. Hoover." He grabbed the pale man's hand and shook it. "I knew your father, knew him well. And I don't believe any of those absurd things they're saying about him."

Hoover withdrew his hand and glared at the grubby intruder. "Who the hell are you?" He wiped his fingers on his shirt.

"I," Taxi announced with injured dignity, "am a well-known writer. Estonian cookbooks. Thrilling exposes about the Martian bipeds who live in a great glass bubble under Lake Erie. Humorous greeting cards. And," he stretched to his full height, "the occasional erudite article for the
New England Journal of Medicine
. Less than eight years ago, I was a very successful cardiologist with a busy practice in Miami. Alas, I got crosswise of certain unsavory elements in the Cuban community and was forced to leave that profession behind. But enough about me! Where was I? Oh, yes—I was not always a writer, you know. In your father's day, I worked with Eliot Ness. I was—can you believe this—an undercover informer on the Capone organization." He held two fingers close together. "Frank Nitty and I, we were like that. But poor Eliot was somewhat overrated as a lawman." He paused and squinted at Hoover. "Do you know that John Dillinger is still alive?"

Hoover blinked. "Dillinger?"

"Indeed. He is now a prominent member of the president's inner circle." Taxi touched the tip of his nose with a grimy finger that protruded from the ragged glove. "Department of Justice. Check it out, laddie." With this, Taxi headed for the door, his tattered coat-tails flapping behind him.

Hoover watched him go. "Evidently, the local asylums are overfull."

"Taxi," the Ute said, "is harmless. Kind of a local character."

"You are Sergeant Charles Moon, I presume?"

"That's me. You must be the new G-man in Durango." The Ute eyed the man from the spotless gray Stetson hat down to the purplish hue of the expensive bull hide boots. "Well, now. I see from your outfit that you are a cowboy."

Parris fought to choke back a grin.

Hoover didn't recognize the line from the old song. "Whenever I move into a new area, I prefer to dress like the locals." Moon offered his hand to the special agent; there was a slight pause before Hoover accepted it. The Ute pumped the cold hand once, then let go. Hoover slid into the booth beside Parris; he sniffed at the mixture of greasy odors that hung over Angel's Diner like a permanent fog. "I'm running the Durango office while Newman's on the sick list." He waited for a response from Moon, but the Ute's face betrayed nothing. "I'll be having a close look at the police force operations on the Southern Ute and Ute Mountain reservations."

Moon stared quizzically at the newcomer.

Parris found his voice. "I'm sure you'll find that Roy Severo runs a good shop. All his people are first rate."

Hoover, who pretended not to notice Parris, directed his remarks to Moon. "Maybe you could give me a rundown on recent criminal activity."

"Don't usually have much serious crime on the reservation." The Ute's tone was mildly apologetic. "We had a bank robbery a few years back."

"I heard about that," Hoover said. "Understand the suspects got away."

Moon was about to point out that the bank was the jurisdiction of the Ignacio town police. But that would sound like an excuse. "I was at a trial in Denver that week," he said meekly.

"You must have break-ins, burglaries."

The Ute nodded. "Every now and again. Last March, a couple of hard cases from Flagstaff broke into the Texaco station. Cleaned out the register."

Hoover leaned forward expectantly. "You apprehended them?"

Moon avoided Hoover's searching gaze. "It was my day off." He brightened. "But they were picked up by Kansas cops over in Coffeyville when they broke into a hardware store."

Hoover's face mirrored his disappointment and his suspicions that the Southern Ute Police Department was in sad shape. "What about tribal politics," he said, "fill me in on any controversies."

"Well… tribal council's split over a recommendation by the Economic Development Board," Moon said. "The EDB bunch, led by Arlo Nightbird, wants to go after some federal money."

Angel appeared again, pouring coffee into the newcomer's cup.

Hoover pretended to be interested in his coffee, but his gray eyes glistened under oddly reptilian lids. A snake about to strike. "Federal money? What for?" The special agent licked his lips; he could taste the sweet possibility of fraud and corruption. And promotion.

"Arlo Nightbird's cronies, they want to do a study up in
Canon del Espiritu
," Moon said. "If it works out, maybe they'll be able to store some nuclear waste up there. Big money in it for the tribe, but most of the council members are worried about messing up the canyon."

"And you," Hoover said, "how do you feel about storing nuclear wastes on the reservation?"

"Don't know," Moon said. "I generally like to hear both sides of an argument before I make up my mind."

Parris could sense the big Ute closing up. If Hoover pushed too hard, Moon would tell him nothing of value.

"Interesting," Hoover said, "federal money. That project will bear watching."

"Whatever you guys want for lunch," Moon said as he waved at Angel, "it's on me."

"Thanks," Parris said, "I'll have the Navajo Taco."

Hoover reached for a menu, jammed between a napkin dispenser and a sticky ketchup bottle. "They serve any authentic Ute cuisine in this place?"

"Well," Moon offered congenially, "it's mostly Mexican and American but there are a couple of Ute dishes. I'd recommend the three-meat stew."

Hoover frowned as he scanned the menu. "As long as it's not that old-fashioned Ute stew." He grinned without humor. "I don't normally eat horse meat."

Parris closed his eyes. Maybe, when he opened them, Hoover would be gone. Like a bad dream.

Moon's fork stopped halfway to his mouth; he cocked his head sideways and blinked at Hoover. "Horse meat?"

"I understand that when times used to get tough during the winter, Utes would eat their dogs first, then their horses." Hoover glanced up from the menu; the grin on his face was as genuine as the "turquoise" stone in his string tie. "Guess I won't have to worry about what I eat until the cold weather comes."

The Ute thought about this for a moment. "Well, not necessarily," Moon said amiably. "When beef gets a little pricey, Angel might buy a couple of nags that came in last over at the Downs."

Hoover pretended not to hear. He studied the menu and wondered about some of the unfamiliar words. What the hell did
fajitas
mean? And
sopaipillasl

Parris pointed a spoon over Moon's shoulder. "Someone wants to see you." An old, gaunt Ute was fidgeting at Moon's side. The Ute policeman turned to look at the grumpy man. "It's sure nice to see you again." He glanced behind the rancher, but Benita was not with her father. "You want something to eat, Gorman?"

The rancher was turning his battered felt hat in his hands. He leaned over Moon's shoulder, and spoke slowly into the big man's ear. "I'd think twice about having my eats in
this
place."

Hoover's ears pricked up.

Moon had heard the story three times, but he knew the old man wanted to tell it again. "And why's that?"

Gorman glanced toward the counter where Angel was wiping at the greasy Formica surface with a paper towel. "You never know what you'll find in Angel's grub. Maybe," he said, "you'll get the salamander!"

Parris hid a grin. Special Agent Hoover leaned forward, straining to hear. "Did I understand you to say…"

"Damn right," Gorman said, jerking his thumb toward the smelly kitchen where Angel concocted the grub. "Salamander," he muttered darkly. He glared back at Moon. "You know my third cousin Sally Bitter Horse, from over at Hondo Fork?"

Moon nodded. Everybody knew Sally. The Navajo woman was always suffering with some new and wonderful ailment.

"Well," Gorman whispered hoarsely, "Sally, she told me she got that salamander right here, in some of Angel's chicken salad three Sundays ago. That night, Sally took the chills. And then," he lowered his voice, "she had the squirts for most of a week." He hitched his thumbs under his overall bib. "That's what she says."

Hoover stared uncertainly at the rancher. "Even in this dump… surely no one would put a…"

Gorman shook his head sadly at the ignorant tin horn. "Nobody
puts
salamander in the food, sonny. When you're not watchin', they just crawls in there all by theirselves." City folk. They never did understand hardly anything about nothing.

Hoover glanced quickly toward Charlie Moon, then at Scott Parris. Both men were hanging on every word from the old man's mouth. These dumb cops would believe anything. But the special agent looked into the dim chamber that was Angel's kitchen. On the far wall, there was a shelf lined with large jars. Jars filled with dill pickles. And pickled cauliflower. And shriveled pigs' feet. And what else? Hoover pushed the menu aside.

Gorman leaned over and whispered in Moon's ear. "I need to talk with you."

Moon wiped his mouth with a paper napkin and looked up at the rancher. "About Big Ouray? I already told you I'd go and check it out."

"Well, that's just the thing," Gorman said with forced casualness, "it's like I told you this morning—I called Doc Schaid. He'll go have a look. He'll work out what happened and write it up on one of them forms. You don't need to bother yourself about it no more."

"That's fine," Moon said, "but I'll go over to the canyon and nose around anyway. If somebody killed Big Ouray, it's police business."

At the mention of a killing, Hoover's back straightened. "What did you say?"

Gorman had practically wadded his old hat into a ball. "Just leave it alone, dammit. If death wasn't by natural causes, there won't be no insurance money. If there ain't no insurance payment, I'm wiped out." Moon sure was awful slow to catch on. Big men were like that. Slow.

Hoover fairly shouted. "Killed? Damn it all, who was killed?"

Moon ignored the visitor from the Bureau. "Okay, Gorman. I've got to poke around a bit, but I'll try not to queer your insurance settlement."

The rancher nodded his thanks and bolted away while Hoover sputtered. The special agent was trying vainly to get Moon's attention. "What happened to this… Big Ouray?"

"Yeah," Parris said, "you didn't mention anything about—"

"Sure I did, just before Mr. Hoover got here. Gorman Sweetwater, the fellow that just left, he found Big Ouray dead this morning. Over in
Canon del Espiritu.'"

Hoover's voice was almost shrill. "How was the victim killed?"