The Witch's Tongue (13 page)

“Betty who?”

The white man blushed to his ears.

Moon’s face split in a grin. “You named the truck after your latest girlfriend.”

“I did not,” Parris snapped.

“Childhood sweetheart?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“Bet she was a high-school cheerleader.”

The white man chewed on his lip.

“I am not going to let this go. You might as well tell me and get it over with.”

“It was in the sixth grade. Betty Lou McWhorter was my first girlfriend.” He mumbled, “Sort of.”

Moon laughed. “Didn’t much care for you, did she?”

Parris glared at the Indian. “Let’s just drop the subject.”

“Okay. But it occurs to me that a man does not name a horse unless he owns it.” Moon looked in the cab. “This is
your
truck, ain’t it?”

Parris shrugged. “Sort of.”

“How long’ve you had it?”

“It was delivered last week.”

“Worried that you can’t make the payments, huh?”

The chief of Granite Creek PD pulled the brim of his felt hat down to shade his blue eyes. “The mayor of our unfair city promised me an eight-percent raise. Sad to say, the town council didn’t come through. Claimed they needed every spare cent for sewer repairs and new schoolbooks.”
Those morons have got their priorities all wrong
.

“Why not let the dealer take it back?”

“Charlie, I am a well-known public figure—I cannot be seen to welch on a deal with a local businessman. I got my image to think about. Besides, I’ve already named her.” He patted the F-350 hood, “Giving Betty Lou back to Happy Dan now—why, it’d be like giving him my favorite dog.”

“You don’t have a dog.”

Parris responded somewhat curtly, “I was speaking figuratively.”

“So, figuratively speaking, you want me to take over the payments.”

“I was kinda hoping…”

“I don’t know if I could drive a truck that went by the name of Betty Lou.” Moon frowned at the he-man machine. “I have to call it somethin’ like Columbine Locomotive or Buffalo Hog or Big Red Chief or—”

“No!”

Moon stared at the white man.

“Once a man has named a dog or a horse or a pickup—the name
sticks
.”

Moon gave his best friend a doubtful look. “Well, I don’t know. Betty Lou is kind of a sissy name for a muscle truck.”

A hurt expression hung on Parris’s face. “Do you want her or don’t you?”

“I’ll have to think about it.” Moon thought about it.

“Well?”

“Maybe.” Moon studied his warped image in the waxed sheen of a glistening fender. “Maybe not.”

“Charlie, I know how to settle the issue.” Parris smirked. “Without thinking about it, tell me this right away—what’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

“Aha—you see? Just ten minutes with Betty Lou and you can’t even remember her.”

“Her name,” the Ute said evenly, “is Miss James.”

“What’s the color of her eyes?”

“They’re—”

“Don’t bother making wild guesses. Admit I’m right.”

The Ute assumed a pained expression. “Betty Lou.” He sighed. “Every time I got behind the wheel, I’d be thinking about that pretty little McWhorter girl in the sixth grade. The one who detested you. And on top of that, you wouldn’t even have your fine red pickup to take your mind off all the other women that’ve left you. That’d make me awfully sad.”

Parris avoided the Indian’s gaze. “There is one thing.”

The Ute nodded. “You don’t have to say a word. I know exactly what you want.”

He eyed the unpredictable Indian. “You do?”

“Sure.” Moon patted the pickup fender. “From time to time, you’d want to take Betty Lou out for a spin. Listen to some sad old songs on the CD about how My Sweet Baby’s Left Me and All Kathy Gives Me Are Candy Kisses. Then you’ll have to check the truck’s coordinates on the GPS. Use that remote-control box to crank Betty Lou’s winch back and forth a few times.”

Scott Parris rubbed at his eye. “If you wouldn’t mind.”

“I’ll have to think about it.”

LATE THAT
evening, shortly after Charlie Moon had returned from driving Scott Parris home in the magnificent red pickup truck, the rancher was seated by the fire. His eyes were closed as he listened to Mozart on the FM radio. Despite the fact that Miss James was gone, life was tolerable. No, it was better than that. For this moment, at least, life was
good
.

Too good to last.

The telephone rang.

It’ll be Pete Bushman
. The foreman called at all hours with reports of sick cattle, marauding cougars, cowboys that needed bailing out of jail, miscellaneous other calamities and a multitude of minor gripes and complaints. The owner of the ranch had decided to ignore the summons when it occurred to him—it might be
herself
calling. Without opening his eyes, Moon fumbled around on an oak stand by his rocking chair, found the offending instrument, said softly into it, “Columbine.”

The voice of the tribal chairman barked in his ear. Oscar Sweetwater was in a highly agitated state.

Moon let the torrent of words sweep past him. “Okay. I’ll be in your office tomorrow morning.” The tribal investigator hung up the phone.

The complex strains of Mozart had been interrupted. A male announcer was reading a special weather alert.

A storm was moving in.

Charlie Moon decided to drive his “on approval” pickup to the Southern Ute reservation. Not that he had any serious intention of spending scarce dollars on such a fancy machine.
What a working ranch needs is a rough-and-tough pickup. I’d be crazy to pick up the payments on something like this—what do I need with a nine-color GPS map and a ten-CD deck and all that other fancy stuff?
As he was passing through Granite Creek, Moon saw the neon sign at the drive-in where he habitually stopped for a tall cup of coffee, and instantly felt the need for caffeine. He pulled into the Chuckwagon Drive Up, found a vacancy at station 6. He pushed a button on the intercom, heard a garbled inquiry, requested a large coffee. Black with six packs of sugar.

The incoherent response might have been an urgent warning of an imminent invasion from the planet Zorp.

“Okay by me,” Moon said. “Bring ’em on.” He was a man who lived on the edge.

A long-legged, gum-chewing blonde emerged from the drive-in restaurant. A tray was balanced precariously on her palm; in the precise center of it was a super-size Styrofoam cup. She wore a crisp white blouse and a short red skirt. Though acutely missing Miss James, the Ute could not help but notice that this young lady was quite good-looking and then some.

She stopped chewing to gawk at the flashy F-350, flashed a saucy smile at the driver. “Wow—this is a real
tomcat
truck.”

He grinned back at her. “You like it?”

“I just adore it.”

“Then let me introduce you to Betty Lou.”

Blondie did not see another passenger. “Who’s that—your girlfriend?”

Moon shook his head, explained that Betty Lou was the truck’s start-up name. And that a girlfriend was something he was minus.

The carhop was obviously relieved to hear this latter testimony. “Really?” She stroked the gleaming chrome side-view mirror, gave the gum an enthusiastic chew. “I’d just
die
for a bad set of wheels like this. Red is my favorite color.”

It had not escaped Moon’s attention that the truck’s paint was a close match to her miniskirt.

She pointed a long crimson fingernail at the front bumper. “And that is just a
killer
winch.”

“It’s got remote control.” His mouth was running on autopilot.

“No
kidding
!”

The driver felt a mind-numbing surge of foolish pride, then remembered that the vehicle was not his property. Not quite. Not yet.

She batted enormous glued-on eyelashes at him. “Uh—I almost forgot where I’m supposed to take this order. You
are
the coffee with extra sugar, aren’t you?”

“That is what they call me.”

The eyes blinked again, got bigger. “Just how much sugar do you like, sugar?”

He mumbled something, wondered what he’d said.

She gave the inside of the cab a once-over, passed him the cup. “Fancy truck like this must’ve set you back…” she paused to make a computation, “a good forty-five thousand, six hundred bucks.”

She was within twelve dollars of Happy Dan’s price. “You must know a lot about trucks.”

“You must be rich.” A sly smile. “That’ll be a dollar twenty-five.”

The land-poor rancher gave her a crisp new five-dollar bill, felt a sudden impulse to show off. “Keep the change.”

“Wow—thanks!” Blondie stuck her head inside the window to peer at the dashboard, then locked eyes with the Ute. He could smell bubble gum on her breath. “I don’t believe it—you actually got the nine-color GPS navigation unit.”

“Sure I did. This is a serious pickup.”

Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “What’s the GAWR rating?”

Ohmigosh. That must be the gawr Scott was muttering about
. He put on a virtuous look. “That’s the sort of thing a real truck-driving man don’t go around bragging about.”

The carhop smirked. “You don’t know, do you?”

This stung. “Well, I don’t have it right on the tip of my tongue.”

She assumed a superior, know-it-all look designed to annoy the lesser informed. “GAWR is the gross axle-weight rating—which is the maximum load for a single axle.”

“Everybody knows that.”
Smart Aleck
.

“The GAWR number is on your truck’s SCCL.” The gum-chewing lass blew a small pink bubble that popped. “That’s the Safety Compliance Certification Label, which is usually on the driver’s door. If you’ll open it, I’ll show you where to look.”

“I guess some fellas who pull in here like to look at labels and such.” In an attempt to affect a rakish look, he pushed the Stetson back on his head. “But me, I’d rather look at you.”

“I get off at two.” She pulled his hat brim down over his eyebrows. “Why don’t you drop by and take me for a ride.”

“Uh…”

“What is it, honey pie—am I too forward?” She pouted prettily.

He adjusted the hat, shook his head. “It ain’t exactly that.”

“What then?”

Moon gave her a puzzled frown. “Well, I don’t know whether it’s me you like—or my red pickup truck, which is loaded with every accessory the laws of economics allow.”

The pretty girl laughed. “It’s mainly your killer truck, sweetums.” She looked him over.
Kinda skinny
. “But I think I could learn to like you too. If you was to be
nice
to me.”

Moon was at a loss for words.

“Bobcat got your tongue?” She batted the synthetic lashes again. “My name’s Shirley. Shirley Spoletto.” She reached in to touch the leather-wrapped steering wheel. “What’s yours?”

He grinned like an idiot. “Charlie.”

Shirley Spoletto gave him a soul-searching look. “You might as well know—I got a weakness for tough-lookin’ men who drive big, expensive pickup trucks. But I got to know something, Charlie-babe. And you tell me the honest truth—are you attracted to trashy women?”

He stared back into the big, green eyes, wondered how to avoid the trap. There was nothing to do but take a run at it. “No I don’t—I prefer classy ladies like yourself.”

She giggled.

That was a close call
.

TWENTY MINUTES
later, Charlie Moon was heading out of Granite Creek. South toward Durango and Ignacio.

He concluded that driving a brand-new truck had a way of encouraging a man to think brand-new thoughts.
A remote-control winch would come in handy when a cow falls into one of them deep arroyos. And if I ever got lost in a blizzard, that nine-color GPS gadget would come in real handy. Scott might be right—this truck could turn out to be a sensible investment. And I could write it off
.

Seated across the oversized desk from the tribal chairman, Charlie Moon noted that Oscar Sweetwater appeared somewhat uneasy. The tribal investigator waited for the supreme elected representative of the Southern Ute tribe to speak.

Oscar cleared his throat. “I guess you’re wondering why I asked you to drive all the way down here.”

“Nope.”

This response seemed to throw the old man off. He scowled at Moon. “You must be in a hurry to get back to that big ranch.”

Moon shook his head, glanced at his wristwatch. “You’ve been paying me almost fifty cents a minute ever since I left the Columbine. Plus expenses. The longer this takes, the bigger the paycheck.”

The chairman grunted. “Tribe’s not made of money.”

The contract employee grinned at the grumpy politician.

Oscar toyed with a handsome reproduction of an ancient Mesa Verde black-on-white mug. It was filled with pencils, ballpoint pens, paper clips, other odds and ends. “We got some things to talk about.” He projected a dark look at Moon. “All highly confidential.”

Moon’s eyes twinkled with mischief. “Don’t worry about me blabbing. By the time I hit the street, I won’t remember a thing you said.”

Someday you’ll make one crack too many and I’ll fire you on the spot
. The chairman removed a silver-plated mechanical pencil from the Anasazi-style mug. “This thing about Jacob Gourd Rattle leaving his wife in
Cañon del Espiritu
. What do you think? I mean, why would the man do a thing like that?”

“Maybe Jacob and his wife had a fuss. He got mad, drove off.”

Oscar nodded slowly. “But why was Jake in the canyon in the first place?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“That’s a question that wants an answer.”

Moon dodged by posing his own question: “Does the SUPD have any leads on where Jacob is hiding out?”

The tribal chairman hesitated. “I’ve told the chief of police
not
to go looking for Mr. Gourd Rattle. His wife hasn’t filed a complaint about his unexplained absence.”

Moon understood. Jacob Gourd Rattle was an influential man in the tribe. There had even been talk that he might run against Oscar Sweetwater in the next election, and some of the oddsmakers thought Jacob had a fair chance of unseating the older man. Oscar was a highly cautious politician. He didn’t intend to open himself up to charges that he had used the tribal police to smear Gourd Rattle’s reputation—such as it was—by fueling rumors that the man had abandoned his wife in the snowy wilderness.

Oscar pointed the expensive mechanical pencil at Charlie Moon. “Did you know that back in the eighties, Gourd Rattle served three years of a seven-year sentence at Folsom?”

“I heard something about that.” The whole tribe knew the story.

“Word is, he was involved in some kinda robbery.” Oscar shook his head. “Him and some Colombian thug knocked over a liquor store or gas station or something. And that ain’t all.” Oscar put on an outraged expression. “From what I hear, he’s knocked his
matukach
wife around some.”

“Maybe Kicks Dogs is glad he’s gone.”

The chairman nodded. “If she’s got half a brain.” He drew a childish stick-figure man on a yellow pad, penciled in a six-sided star on its skinny torso. “I figure Jacob’ll show up sooner or later.”

“Yeah. I suppose he will.”
But you didn’t bring me a hundred miles to talk about Jacob Gourd Rattle’s family problems
.

Oscar Sweetwater twisted the pencil this way and that, watched the lead pop in and out. “What do you know about this white man we hired on to the police force?”

“Jim Wolfe?”

“Do we have another
matukach
on the SUPD payroll?”

He’s a bit testy today
. “I don’t keep up with the new hires. Since the last time I talked to him, Chief of Police Whitehorse might’ve loaded up the roster with North Koreans.”

The chairman drew a hat on the stick-figure man. “What do you think about Officer Wolfe?”

“I’ve got lots of cattle and cowboys to occupy my thoughts. Nine days out of ten, I don’t think about Jim Wolfe at all.”

Oscar Sweetwater gave his consultant lawman a stern look. “I understand you were with Wolfe during the recent—ah—incident.”

Moon pretended not to understand. “Which incident was that?”

“At the state police roadblock, when they treed that Apache—Felix Navarone.” Oscar opened a three-ring notebook, squinted at a copy of the arrest report. “Navarone was charged with carrying an open container in his motor vehicle, resisting arrest, flight to avoid lawful arrest, assaulting an officer, and disturbing the peace.”

The tribal investigator chuckled. “Oh yeah
—that
incident.”

The chairman’s tone was dryly sarcastic. “Seeing as how you’re too busy with your ranch work to be concerned with affairs on the reservation, I will remind you that we are currently providing Mr. Felix Navarone with free room and board over at the tribal detention center.”

“I hope he’s happy with our hospitality.”

Sweetwater snorted. “Not overly much, from what his lawyer tells us.”

“By the way, that reminds me. Felix Navarone’s attorney has hired Eddie Ganado. Eddie’s training to be a legal aide.”

“I know.” Sweetwater continued his doodling. “Being so tied up with your cattle and cowboys, how did you happen to find out about this?”

“Eddie came to see me on behalf of Navarone’s attorney. She wanted to find out what I know about the Apache’s arrest.”

He glared at Moon. “And you didn’t bother to tell me about that?”

“It slipped my mind, Oscar. A few hours later, I dang near got shot.”

“Oh, right. You was with that white man who sells used furniture and stuff.”

Moon wondered what Ralph Briggs would think about this description of his top-drawer antique business.

Oscar drew a scraggly-looking tree beside the stick-figure man on the pad. “Tell me about what happened between this wild Apache and our
matukach
cop.”

“There’s not that much to tell. Me and Wolfe show up at the DWI roadblock. Felix Navarone gets there about the same time, in this fifty-seven Chevy pickup. State policeman checks Navarone out, spots a open container. The Smokey orders Navarone to shut off the ignition and give him the keys. Navarone makes a run for it, climbs a tree.” Moon decided to skip over Wolfe’s stubborn insistence on tribal police jurisdiction. “When it becomes widely known among the state lawmen present that the man who shinnied up the cottonwood is an Apache, they’ll think it best to let Officer Wolfe arrest him. And it turns out that Felix Navarone is willing to talk to Jim Wolfe, but only if the other cops move away from the tree. So they do, leaving Officer Wolfe with the treed man pretty much to himself.”

The tribal chairman was staring holes in Charlie Moon. “What happened then?”

“I’m sure Wolfe did his best, Oscar. But he wasn’t able to convince Mr. Navarone to climb down from the tree in an orderly manner.” Moon shook his head. “In fact, before our SUPD cop was able to exchange more than a few words with him, Felix jumped off the limb like he planned to fly far away from there. But something must’ve went wrong with his flight plan, because he landed right on Wolfe.”

The chairman raised a heavily veined hand. “You say he
jumped
out of the tree?”

“You heard me right.”

“Mr. Navarone’s attorney claims his client was shaken out of the tree. And that Officer Wolfe did the shaking.”

“Doesn’t surprise me Felix’s lawyer would say something like that. It’s her job to twist the truth to make things look better for the yahoo we got in the lockup.”

“There’s more.” Oscar Sweetwater produced a pair of remote-control units, gave them an anxious look. “I can never figure out which one’s for the tape machine, which one’s for the TV.” He pointed both units at a console in the corner, began pressing buttons at random.

Presently, the television screen crackled with electricity, turned a bright cobalt blue. Moments later, the tape began to turn. There were a couple of minutes of jerky frames from a fishing boat that Moon thought was on Navajo Lake. Then, quite abruptly, there was a scene filled with police cars and running cops. Off in the distance, a tree. A zoom of the camera’s telescopic lens revealed a man in the cottonwood. Beneath the tree, the backside of an SUPD officer—Jim Wolfe, of course. Wolfe was making impatient gestures at the dark-skinned man on the limb a few feet above him. The treed man shook his head, said something. Wolfe moved to the trunk of the cottonwood, put his hand out as if to lean on it. Navarone toppled off the limb. The scene was momentarily blocked by the out-of-focus figure of an overweight tourist. Seconds later, the camera had the tree in view again. Officer Wolfe and Felix Navarone were rolling on the ground; the state police were rushing to give aid to their brother officer. A gaggle of tourists moved in front of the video camera.

The tribal chairman pressed the Stop button on the VCR remote unit. He got up to eject the videotape, turned to wave the plastic cartridge at Moon. “One of our tribal members was stopped at the roadblock. She happened to have a new video camera in the car. I found out about it, used up some favors to get the cassette. From what I’m told, this is the original tape—but there could have been a copy made. If Navarone’s lawyer don’t know about the tape yet, she will before long. And if she finds out I’ve got the original, she’ll demand to see it and the tribe will have to give her a copy.” Feeling the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders, Oscar Sweetwater sat down behind his desk. “Charlie, you were there. You
saw
what happened. You claim that Apache jumped out of the tree on Officer Wolfe. I believe you. But if Felix Navarone’s lawyer gets up in front of a jury and tells ’em her client was
shaken
out of the cottonwood like he was some kind of animal, and pounced on by a Southern Ute police officer—this videotape could be used to support that allegation. We see Officer Wolfe reaching out for the trunk of the tree, then we see Felix Navarone fall off the limb. After that, we see our SUPD cop rassling around on the ground with Navarone. And though it wasn’t in his report—and you haven’t seen fit to mention it—I have it on good authority that Wolfe made verbal threats to kill the Apache.”

“That kind of talk don’t mean anything, Oscar. Wolfe had just been in a fight. He had his dander up.”

“That’s just your opinion. What matters is that Felix Navarone heard the threat made, and he told his lawyer about it. And his lawyer says she’ll file a suit against the tribe if we don’t turn that wild Apache loose.” He began to count on his fingers. “Unlawful arrest and physical assault. Navarone has a dislocated shoulder.” He grimaced. “And did you know Wolfe bit that Apache on the nose?”

Moon nodded. Barely suppressed a smile.

“Where was I? Oh yeah—the charges that nasty woman is threatening against our police department.” Sweetwater counted the third and fourth fingers. “Harassment. Verbal threats of deadly violence.” He glared at the tribal investigator as if Moon were responsible for this mess. “She’ll ask for ten million dollars.”

Lawyers made those kinds of threats five or six times a day. Moon thought Oscar was taking this far too seriously.

The chairman’s face was like chiseled flint. “And that’s not all. She claims Officer Wolfe is a bad cop. And that she can prove it.”

“Wolfe must have a clean slate, or Wallace Whitehorse would’ve never hired him.”

“No matter what’s in Wolfe’s file, there could be something ugly in his past. Something that lawyer has found out about—and could spring on us if this Navarone business goes to trial.” He stared at Moon. “Officer Wolfe has become a liability.”

The former SUPD policeman could hardly believe his ears. “Felix Navarone’s attorney is pressuring the tribe to fire Officer Wolfe?”

Oscar felt a sudden surge of heartburn. “And you know why—much as I might like to do that—I can’t.” The chairman sighed. “If the tribe fires Wolfe without due cause,
he
can turn right around and sue us.”

Moon nodded. “And Wolfe’d probably win.”
And ought to
.

The old man set his jaw. “So you see the spot we’re in.” He pitched the videotape onto his desk. “I haven’t told our legal counsel about this evidence.”

Moon understood. Once the tribe’s attorney had seen the tape, it would be his duty to turn it over to Felix Navarone’s lawyer.

Oscar glared at the cassette. “Take that thing with you. I don’t want to see it again.”

“I wish I could be sure you’re not telling me to destroy physical evidence.”

“Of course I’m not. I want you to keep it somewhere safe and sound, in case I ever get asked about it while I’m under oath.” Sweetwater’s face crinkled into a sly smile. “Of course, if our tribal investigator has misplaced the videotape by then—or accidentally dropped it in the river…”

This had gone far enough. “Forget it, Oscar. You want it misplaced or dropped in the river, do it yourself.”

“Oh, all right, Mr. Straight Arrow.”

“Are we finished?”

“I am, but you’re not. You are going to pay a call on Eddie Ganado.”

Moon slipped the videocassette into his jacket pocket. “Why would I want to do that?”

The tribal chairman ignored this tart retort. “Seeing as how Ganado’s been hired by Navarone’s lawyer, I imagine the lazy bum hangs around her office most of the time. So he’ll know the scuttlebutt. You go find out whether that Navajo good-for-nothing knows that the tribe has the videotape.” The politician had an afterthought: “And whether that lawyer is actually holding any serious bad news on Officer Wolfe.”

“Why would Eddie Ganado tell me anything?”

“That’s your department, Charlie. I don’t care how you get the truth out of him. Twist his arm. Break his bones. Kick him around till he spills his guts all over the ground.”

The old man watched too many of those old hard-boiled detective movies. “I’ve got some urgent work to do at the Columbine, then—”

Oscar was near the end of his patience. “I don’t want to hear about how you’re too busy branding cows and mending fences and singing Whoopee-Ti-Yi-Yo with your band of cutthroat cowboys to do your job for the People.” He shook his finger at the tribal investigator. “We pay you good money, so for once you’ll do your duty without any griping.”