The Shaman Laughs (19 page)

The young man was busy writing in a bound notebook when Moon's voice boomed over his head. "What's cookin', Herb?"

"Oh, nothing…just writing a few lines." He hurriedly closed the cover of the notebook.

Moon nodded toward his pardner. "This is Scott Parris. He's standing in for the chief for a few weeks."

Herb got to his feet and offered a polite, continental handshake. "I have already met you… when we were donating blood."

Parris pumped the hand. "Yeah. I remember." The policeman had a tattoo of tiny bruises on both his forearms.

Moon sat on the desk. "I have to know where Arlo went a couple of days ago. He hasn't showed up and his wife is worried." He leaned close to Ecker. "Don't give me any stuff about not knowing where your boss is, just spit it out."

Herb avoided Moon's frank gaze. "I'm sorry I couldn't tell Em—Mrs. Nightbird. Mr. Nightbird gave strict instructions that I was always to be discreet about his… whereabouts."

"I understand," Moon said patiently. "Just tell me what you know."

"He went out to that place… Spirit Canyon, to see Mrs. Perika."

Moon's brow twisted into a puzzled frown. "Aunt Daisy? What about?"

Ecker reddened. "I am sorry. I believe it was about an eviction notice. In connection with the tribe's plans for Spirit Canyon."

Moon grunted as he pushed himself erect. Deliver an eviction notice to Daisy Perika? Arlo was either very stupid or very brave. No. He was very stupid. "Okay. We'll go have a look; ten to one there'll be some simple reason why he didn't get back. Maybe he had a flat tire up by the canyon. Daisy doesn't have a phone, so he's probably still there."

Moon suppressed a smile at the thought of Daisy making a bunk for Arlo Nightbird. She'd sooner keep a scorpion in her pocket.

Parris read the upside-down title on Ecker's notebook. The letters spelled out poetry by H. Ecker. "You a poet?"

Herb blushed. "Not a very competent one." The young man waved his hand to indicate the row of books on his desk. "But I read a lot. I am memorizing some of my favorite poets… I repeat the lines during my spare time."

Most of the two dozen books were paperbacks that showed much wear from constant use. Parris squinted at the titles. Whitman. Dickinson. Frost. Burns. Poe. "You really remember a lot of that stuff?"

"Actually," Ecker said earnestly, "I have memorized almost every line."

Parris raised his brows. "In
all
those books? I don't see how anyone could."

Ecker appeared to be injured by the skeptical tone. "If you doubt it, you may select any volume. Open to any page, pick a line at random, and read it aloud. If I cannot recite the next line, I will pay you twenty dollars. If I succeed, of course, you would pay me twenty dollars."

Parris smiled uneasily. "That's a tempting proposition, kid, but I don't think it'd look right. You know, the chief of police gambling on the side."

"Then," Ecker said, "forget the money. If I win, you must memorize a poem of my choosing and recite it, without error, within say… six weeks of this date."

"And if you lose?"

"You select a work by any poet. I will memorize it in a single reading and recite it without error."

Parris looked doubtful.

"To make it easy on you, Mr. Parris, I will turn my back when you select a volume. Does that provide you a sufficient advantage? Maybe," he said with the mildest hint of a taunt, "you are a man who prefers to avoid risk." Ecker sat down. His glum face mirrored his disappointment at the policeman's reticence.

Parris rubbed his chin and looked at Moon's impassive face. "What do you think?"

"I think," Moon said, "you should take the young smart-aleck on."

He whispered: "You think I can take him?"

"Pardner, it's a sure thing if I ever saw one."

Parris had noticed something interesting on Ecker's desk. There was a brown paper bag with a book in it. A brand new book. An unread book. "You're on," Parris said, "turn around." After Ecker ceremoniously turned his chair to face away from the desk, Parris quietly removed the volume from the paper bag. It was
The Best of Robert Service
. He opened the book; the new pages practically stuck together. Parris grinned at Moon, who winked back. He read aloud. "Now a promise made is a debt unpaid and—"

"… and the trail has its own stern code," Ecker interrupted. He leaned back in his swivel chair and laughed. "That's too easy. 'The Cremation of Sam McGee.' You want to hear it all, from the beginning?"

"Hold on," Parris muttered, "that didn't count. I was just practicing." He looked imploringly at Moon. "Wasn't I just practicing, Charlie?"

"Sure you were, pardner. Now throw Herbie a really tough line."

Parris searched through several pages, then paused. "You ready?" Ecker nodded. Parris cleared his throat. "Although I supped on milk and brose…"

"… and went to bed by candle-light, I pored on noble books of prose, and longed like Bobbie Burns to write. Now in this age of the machine…"

"Oh, stow it." Parris groaned as he slammed the book onto Ecker's desk. "I know when I've been hustled."

"That was the second stanza of 'My Highland Home.' Three stanzas of eight lines each, found on page two hundred and eight." The young man turned around to face Parris, a wide grin displaying perfect teeth. "Most people choose the Robert Service book when they accept this wager. I think it is because I keep an unused copy in the bag on my desk. They assume I have not read it. I earn about a hundred dollars every month with this bet. Pity you would not play for cash."

Parris scowled at the big Ute. "Dammit, you said this was a sure thing."

"It was," Moon said, chuckling, "you never had a chance."

"Well, name my poison."

"Since you represent the local authority," Ecker said, "I will make it extremely easy for you. How about "The Shooting of Dan McGrew.' You can recite it for me a few months from now… let us say no later than Christmas Day." The acting chief of police would be gone from Ignacio long before the holidays; this would allow him a graceful way to forget his obligation.

They were a few miles north of Arboles on Route 151 when Moon shifted down to second gear and turned left off the paved road onto the gravel lane. The Ute glanced at his companion. "You gonna have any trouble memorizing that whole poem?"

"Cripes," Parris groaned, "I can't even remember my Social Security number."

The Blazer had barely topped the first rise on the gravel road when they saw the red convertible parked on the shoulder. In spite of the intermittent rain, the top was down. The car had been heading away from
Canon del Espritu
toward the blacktop. Toward Ignacio. Toward home, and, presumably, Emily. Emily, with the rich olive complexion, the luminous brown eyes, the fetching legs. Emily with the electric touch! Parris felt absurdly jealous of Arlo Nightbird. As they pulled closer to the sleek automobile, Parris whistled. "That's some fancy car." This Nightbird guy had everything.

"Five-hundred SL," Moon said, "that's Arlo's wheels all right. Showy little sunnuvagun, ain't he?" He flipped the switch for the emergency lights; the alternating blue and red flashes reflected off the Mercedes chrome. "Let's go have a look."

Parris squatted at the Mercedes bumper and ran his ringer around the sharp edges of a broken headlight.

Moon grunted. "Didn't happen here. No broken glass under the headlight." The Ute sniffed, then dropped to a prone position. "Hey. Have a look at this."

Parris poked his face under the bumper and saw the sticky green puddle. "Antifreeze?"

The Ute rubbed a sample between his fingers and sniffed at it. "That's what it is."

Parris peered through the grille. "There's a puncture in the radiator… couple of inches from the bottom. Coolant must be about gone. Looks like Mr. Nightbird stopped here when his engine overheated."

Moon inspected the sodden interior of the Mercedes. He picked up a half-full bottle of bourbon whisky off the floorboard. "Booker Noe's single barrel stuff. A fifth of this juice costs about fifty bucks." Moon dropped the bottle onto the seat. He turned and surveyed the rugged landscape. "Wonder which way he went? Paved road is a mile away; maybe he hiked to the blacktop and caught a ride."

"He didn't get home, though," Parris said. "Maybe after he broke down here, he walked back to your aunt's place."

"I don't know," Moon said, "they weren't on particularly good terms. And if he came out here to tell Aunt Daisy about an eviction notice, I don't expect he'd be entirely welcome. No," Moon said almost to himself, "I imagine she would have kicked his butt halfway to Ignacio."

"Maybe the radiator was punctured at the same location where the headlight was broken," Parris offered. "That would explain why there's no broken glass around here, and why he—the car got this far before the engine overheated. Could be that someone wanted us to think there was an accident here, but they forgot to bring the broken glass along."

"Daisy, Daisy," Moon whispered, "what mischief are you up to now?"

"I guess we better go see your aunt. Maybe," he added hopefully, "she saw somebody with Mr. Nightbird."

Moon's expression was grim. "I sure hope she's got a good story."

Moon parked the Blazer at the dirt lane leading to Daisy's trailer. Parris followed him down the lane as the Ute policeman studied the old ruts. The rain had been heavy; there was no sign of tire tracks. If Arlo's 500SL had been here, the heavy rains had washed all traces away.

"There," Moon said. A reflection of the filtered sunlight had caught his eye. He knelt and used his pocket knife to pry the shard from the clay and held it up for Parris to inspect. "Five'll get you ten," the Ute policeman said, "this chunk of glass is from Arlo's broken headlamp."

"There's a lot more glass than that missing," Parris said. "Where's the rest?"

"It looks like someone cleaned it up, only they missed this little chunk. But why would someone want to hide the fact that Arlo had been here?" It was a rhetorical question. And they both knew who "someone" was.

"I imagine your Aunt Daisy has a perfectly good explanation," Parris said lamely.

"Sure," Moon shook his head and sighed, "my Aunt Daisy has a good explanation for everything. Maybe the
pi-tukupf
did—did whatever was done." He climbed the porch while Parris waited several paces away in the light rain.

The
matukach
policeman didn't want to hear the conversation between aunt and nephew. If Daisy had something incriminating to say, it might be best if her nephew was the only witness.

Moon pounded on the door. "Aunt Daisy, it's Charlie." No answer. He counted to ten, then pounded again. "Aunt Daisy, open up. Need to talk to you." He turned to climb down the creaking steps, then stopped. The porch railing was leaning against the steps. Moon squatted; he picked up a claw hammer, a heavy screwdriver, and a crowbar. "Gor-man's tools. He was going to fix the porch for Aunt Daisy. Guess he hasn't got around to it yet."

Their eyes met, then both men turned toward Three Sisters Mesa. The cleft, high on the side of the cliff, was barely visible in the swirling mists. Parris remembered the crude brush shelter from a previous visit; Daisy had hidden there at least once before. Would she hide there from the law?

"I wonder," Parris said with a thin smile, "where she could be."

Moon grinned at him and clasped a hand on his shoulder. "You better not stay in the Rez too long,
matukach
. You're starting to behave like one of the family."

"Well," Parris said, "we're here to find Mr. Nightbird. Where should we look?"

Moon shrugged. "If Arlo didn't go out to the main highway, and he's not holed up in Aunt Daisy's trailer, maybe he went up the canyon."

Parris suddenly felt cold. And tired. And lonesome. "There's nothing up there. Why would he go into the canyon?"

Moon shook his head. "Maybe he was drunk, and wet, and wanted a place to sleep. There are some dry shelters in the canyon, close to the petroglyphs. Maybe he's up there sleeping it off."

Parris climbed back into the Blazer. "Let's get it over with. When we get back to town, I've got things to do."

"What things?" Moon asked innocently.

"Isn't there a jukebox at Angel's Diner?"

"Sure."

"Well," Parris announced loudly, "I'm gonna buy myself a twelve-ounce RC Cola and a Moon Pie."

The Ute grinned. "Somebody name a pie after me?" It seemed appropriate.

"Then you know what I'm gonna do?"

"Can't hardly wait to find out."

"Drop a nickel in the jukebox, play 'Maple on the Hill.' " The old song wasn't on the juke, a nickel wouldn't buy the time of day, and there were no Moon Pies at Angel's. But these were merely facts.

"What's 'Maple on the Hill'?" Moon asked.

"A classic country song." Decades ago.

"Not in Ute country, it ain't." Homer Tonompicket, that Grand Ol' Opry buff, probably had the song on a 78 rpm disk.

"And after the juke slides the record back in the stack, then I'm gonna hop a plane, plop my tired behind into one of those cushy first class seats and zip over to Washington where I will spend as much time as I can with Anne. I'm tired of living alone, Charlie." Parris slapped the dashboard so hard it made his palm sting. "Dammit, I feel fantastic! I may even ask Sweet Thing to marry me. She's making enough money for both of us; I could retire and become a bum!"

"You don't never do any useful work, so you're already a bum." Moon replied cheerfully. "But marrying Anne is the only smart idea I've heard from you in a long spell." Moon slowed to a crawl and shifted into four wheel drive. When the mud turned to deep muck, he shifted into low four wheel drive and the squad car groaned as it pulled along at an old man's pace. When they were near the site where Big Ouray's carcass had been discovered, the Ute cut the ignition. He glanced at his companion. "There's not a chance in a thousand we're going to find anything up here, but we'd best go through the motions and put it in a report. Why don't you stay in the car while I have an official look around?"

Parris, who had been entertaining visions of Anne, was experiencing a manic mood swing. No more J. E. Hoover. Lots more Anne. "No way, bub. You gonna slog along in the mud, your pardner slogs along in the mud beside you."