Stealing Fire (24 page)

“And now?”

“My mother is old, my father is gone, my brother has a pile of kids and grandkids that he's taking care of, plus he's on the tribal council. It's too much for one man.”

“How do I figure into this?”

“I've made my money, and I want to get out of the city. Not that anxious to move back to the rez, but sending money to my family every month isn't enough. They need hope. Help. They need a profitable business.”

“You thinking of starting a business at White Mesa? That won't get off the ground long enough to go broke. Not enough traffic.”

“I'd like to ask you about buying your trading post.”

You could have slammed me backward and knocked me off my feet. I had no words. I sat with that for a while. A Ute running a trading post in Oljato?

“I know,” he said, “it sounds ludicrous.”

“It's a surprise. I don't know what to say. And there's one large problem—a Ute, well, no one, can own land on the Navajo reservation unless they're Navajo.”

“That's a loophole we could get around,” he said, “but let's look at the big picture. Do you think the Navajos would trade with us? I know white people will, you're ideally situated, but what about the off-season? Would Navajos trade for flour, coffee, sugar, bring their wool? Get what they need?”

“No ready answers. I'm having a hard time letting this sink in.”

“I don't want to buy your store and have people go without everyday necessities. They've got to feel comfortable with us.”

“That's a tall order,” I said, “but the truth is, my cousin has only been running the trading post now and then. They're getting some necessities at Goulding's. For others, they go as far as Teec Nos Pos.”

“That's a long way to go for flour.”

“Can you honestly imagine,” I said, “that Utes and Navajos are going to meet up in your store, trade with each other, and everything will be smooth sailing?”

“Give me a little more credit than that. As I said, I grew up on the Ute rez. I'm all too familiar with issues that existed then.”

“And still do. In the town of Bluff there are two bars, one at each end of town. One's a Ute bar, one is a Navajo bar.”

“I've been there. A fight between the two bars every weekend,” he said.

“Exactly. New owners come, and then they go, but the fights go on forever—it's a mess.”

“But I'm not going to be serving alcohol. That's what fuels the animosity. Imagine how much better the families would do if they could share grazing land, become a larger group of people.”

I sat back and looked at him. All light and kindness. “You're an idealist.”

“I can afford to be.”

“I think your money gives you some guilt, and maybe you feel like you
have
to be.”

“There's some truth in that.”

“Sharing is the core of Navajo spiritual beliefs. Generosity.”

“Our beliefs are not so different,” he said.

“So, you want to make yourself the magnet for these things to get ironed out, things over hundreds of years.”

“It's a rough way of looking at it, but that's basically it.”

“We still remember that the Utes sided with the U.S. against the Navajos in several skirmishes. Hard to get past that.”

“All happened around 1863. Mr. Goldman, both tribes need to let that go. It doesn't do either of us any good.”

I agreed with him about that.

“My grandfather built that trading post from nothing and with nothing. He's got strong ties to it and strong relations with my mother's family.”

“So his help, introductions to your people, would be invaluable.”

“Necessary, actually.”

“And that would be part of the sales price. I'd rather not toss my money down the drain, but if it doesn't work, I will have tried. I know I need help smoothing the way, and I expect to pay for it. Your grandfather's help? We'd call it a consulting fee.”

“We know what white tourists buy from the Navajos. What do Utes have that tourists would buy?”

He opened his briefcase. “What do you think of this?” He held it beneath the bench, where we had some amount of darkness, and shook the gourd rattle. Sparks flew and light came out. It felt like looking at creation.

“What is that?”

“These are rare, and they are valuable. It's an Uncompahgre Ute Buffalo ceremonial rattle. It's filled with quartz crystals. When you shake the rattle in the dark, it stresses the crystals and they create light.”

“They're a miracle,” I said. “I can't believe I never saw one.”

“There are lots of Ute things unfamiliar to you. We also make pipe bags and carve smooth pipes from stone. Flutes. You see, none of these things compete with Navajo art. They create a larger picture of Indian art. More items will create more business, and that will be good for the Navajos here, too.”

I couldn't argue with him on that, either.

“And our religions have become similar,” he said. “A lot of us are members of the Native American Church. We perform ceremonies that use peyote. You can see it in our art. We've been in the area for over one thousand years—so many rock carvings in those mystic orange arches came from our ancestors.”

“Is there a Native American church in Salt Lake?” Hard to imagine people who don't drink coffee using peyote.

“Hardly. I'm a Mormon. Also a member of the Native American Church. Both. You?”

“I grew up believing there is some good in every religion.” That was as far as I was going on that subject. Like politics, it's uncomfortable territory.

“Neither one of us likes touching wood struck by lightning,” he said.

“I don't think that similarity is enough to make a business fly.”

He patted me on the shoulder. “Yazzie, I was joking.”

We looked at the sky. I couldn't imagine all the work Grandfather had put into the place being handed over to a Ute family. I could only see it bringing trouble, and we had enough of that already. We lived mostly in Santa Fe, yes, but how would this be for my mother's family, for our friends? For my grandfather's legacy?

“I'll talk to my grandfather, but don't hold your breath.”

We stood and shook hands. “I'm staying in one of the cottages just up around the first bend.”

“The Ya'a'the Inn?”

“Yes. I'm leaving tomorrow, maybe the next day,” he said. He handed me a business card that looked like marble. “I'm heading back to Salt Lake to square away my businesses. Then I'll be in White Mesa building a new house. I may be moving back to the rez, but I am never using an outhouse again.”

He got into his car, the height of pale blue luxury with fine leather upholstery. We hadn't even talked price for the trading post. Typical of me. Not the best trait in a modern world.

I went back to the cabin to talk with Grandpa. Figured I might as well get it over with while things were relatively calm. I knew our small slice of peace would end when Mrs. Wright and Helen Fine arrived.

The calm ended sooner than I expected, and Mr. Wopsock's proposal was left hanging in the wind.

 

Forty-two

She arrived like a frigate in full sail, with a lovely young woman carrying her bags, juggling a portfolio, and dangling several square 36
″
tubes on straps from her shoulder. I walked to their car, an elegant yellow convertible with etched side-view mirrors. Mr. Wright's extravagance … He probably could have paid off Mr. Fine with that one car alone.

I shook hands with Mrs. Wright. I introduced myself to the young woman, and she introduced herself to me. Helen Fine.

Iris was stashed away, but then I thought,
Let's see Helen's reaction when she sees Iris.
I also wondered how she would act watching Iris and me together, holding hands, smiling, and friends of both the Wrights. I bounded upstairs and got Iris and Grandpa.

Iris, Helen, a killer around somewhere—a powder keg waiting for a match.

The tall guard and Finnerty jockeyed for the chance to carry the load for the two women. Their attention was not on Mrs. Wright, and I didn't blame them. As Iris had said, Helen was a real dish. Finnerty tried to take all her bags, and he pushed the other guy aside. She gave him a long look. Unpleasant. He was too forward. The other guard hefted a couple of bags and trailed after them.

I went to Wright's cabin and told him his wife was here. He took on the spring of a young man whose date for the prom had arrived. He dusted himself off, shook out his clothes.

“I must look like a hobo,” he said. “Please, do
not
let me anywhere near a mirror. I thought I looked like a hag on the train. I cannot imagine what I look like now.”

“Good,” I said, “you look good. You've got pink in your cheeks, your skin has color. You look young and vital.”

He stepped back, snapped his head up to look me in the eye, and he kept looking. “You're not trying to butter me up.”

“For what? So I can get into more hot water by working for you?”

“Then, thank you for the sincere compliment.”

“No problem. Let's go get your sweetheart.”

We walked to the main room of the trading post. He took one look at her. “Mother,” he said. “Life makes sense again.”

Grandfather was kicked out of the aging boys' cabin, and Mrs. Wright moved in. Harry Goulding rolled a twin bed into the room Iris and I were sharing.

Grandfather looked around. “Well, this is cozy,” he said.

Iris smiled and said, “If Yazzie and I fool around, you can stick a pillow over your head.”

He tilted back his head and let loose a big laugh.

“Grandpa, we're not kidding.”

“Gads. I should have known that.”

I asked Grandpa to stay with Iris while I did my job. The job which had seemed simple to begin with, but wasn't any longer. To take care of Mr. Wright.

The Wrights were locked inside their cabin. I knocked.

Two voices answered me as one. “Just a moment!”

This place must bring the romance out in everyone.

Olgivanna opened their door. Wright was scooting large, thin papers of notes under his covers.

“I'm not going to steal your ideas, Mr. Wright.”

“Yazzie,” he said, “I'm not worried about you stealing my designs. Someone already did that.”

“Pardon me?”

“They're gone. Gone. We've been going crazy looking for them for the longest whatever minutes of my life. These goddamn sheets of paper are phonies.”

I was stumped. “Mr. Goldman,” said Olgivanna in a sharp tone, “we have to take this situation very seriously. Do you know how much money those drawings could fetch from Frank's enemies, or enemies of the project? Not to mention that there is a sizable check in the case with those drawings that could be cashed.”

Wright put his head in his hands. “I should have checked every day to see the papers were the right ones. Oh, God, there goes my career.”

“I should never have left you,” Mrs. Wright said. “The only people we can really trust are each other.”

That remark made my blood simmer.

I said, “Would both of you stand up?”

They looked at each other. Mr. Wright stood first. Olgivanna followed his lead.

“Follow me,” I said. I was going to take them to Goulding's and show them the original Guggenheim drafts and the check nestled in Harry's safe.

“Why should we follow you?” snapped Olgivanna. “Let's face it, you were there from the start—you're the one element in this mess that is always in the middle.”

“Because you hired me to be.”

“We didn't even know you when you confronted Mr. Fine's goon at the railroad. This whole thing could be a setup.”

“Mrs. Wright, you really need to do what I'm asking you to, and you need to show respect for me.”

“I find that difficult considering the situation in which we now find ourselves.”

“Okay, I'm gone.”

“What do you mean, Yazzie?” said Wright.

“I quit.”

 

Forty-three

I meant it. Respect was part of the agreement, and on that there was no wiggle room. Iris would be fine with it. I was ready to go to Santa Fe. My grandfather understood the meaning of respect.

Harry could tell them where the drawings were later. I didn't give a damn.

Mr. Wright was stunned.

“Olgivanna,” he said, “you can't possibly understand what Mr. Goldman has gone through trying to keep me and my work safe. He has wrestled with the FBI, putting his own life in danger, because they were tailing me. We ended up in a small inn where a large Indian man was endangering the life of the owner. Goldman took care of me.”

“My point exactly. Why would he put you in a dangerous situation to start with?”

“Mother, Mr. Goldman doesn't have a crystal ball. We were evading the Feds, a mess that I created by being myself.”

Wright had more spine than I'd given him credit for. Good.

“I don't like it.”

“He saved my life,” Wright said. “Do you like that?”

“I suppose.”

“Stop it!” Wright said. “His wife was even arrested for murder in connection with this. Helen Fine was also involved, and Mr. Goldman had to use John Wayne and go down to Flagstaff to get Mrs. Goldman released. It was horrible.”

“Murder?!”

“Yes.”

“Who's dead?”

Wright turned inward. “Payton.”

“Payton?!”

“In Flagstaff. Helen was there. No one knows who did it.”

“And Mrs. Goldman was arrested for it?”

I spoke up. “When she hugged Helen, consoling her, some of Payton's blood got on her blouse—that was taken care of. But Helen, or someone else, named my wife at the scene of the crime. Me and John Wayne had to drive down there and talk the police out of it.”