The Witch's Tongue (9 page)

Charlie Moon passed under the massive pine-log arch at the Columbine gate, turned east on the paved road to Granite Creek. Within a mile, he met a decades-old yellow Pontiac convertible with the top down. The automobile’s headlights blinked half a dozen times before it went by him, screeched to a near halt, rolled up rubber on the road in a tight U-turn, resumed the headlight blinking—now accentuated by an urgent honking.

What’s this all about?
Moon slowed.

The Pontiac passed, cut in front of him, lurched to a halt.

The Ute pulled his Expedition to a stop on the shoulder.

A barrel-chested man got out, slammed the door, came limping along the pavement toward the Ute’s car. He had a walnut complexion, wore an ill-fitting brown suit, a silver-dollar bolo tie—and had something on his head that resembled a white turban. Most remarkable of all, a black protrusion that looked like a pump handle appeared to be sticking out of his right ear.

The peculiar figure raised a hand to wave.

Moon recognized the odd figure as Eduardo Ganado, one of the more colorful characters in southern Colorado. The Navajo leased a small, run-down farm from tribal chairman Oscar Sweetwater. As he approached in his painful gait, it became apparent that the white turban on his head was constructed of surgical tape, the pump handle was his right braid, which protruded almost horizontally from the mummy wrapping. By all appearances, the left braid was but a memory.

Moon pressed a button to lower the window. “Hi, Eddie.”

Ganado returned the greeting with characteristic cheerfulness: “Yo, Charlie.”

The Ute eyed the beautifully restored convertible. “You must spend a lot of time keeping that Pontiac looking so spiffy.”

The proud owner beamed at this compliment. “When a man has only got one automobile, he naturally takes good care of it.” The odd character leaned forward, peered into the Expedition. There were ugly cuts and bruises on his face and forehead and several milky blotches on his dark skin that looked like burn scars. “Charlie, I appreciate you not asking about my injuries. Most folks, soon as they see me, say, ‘What happened to your head, Eddie—and your face?’ And I am
so
tired of explaining.”

The Ute grinned. “What happened to your head, Eddie—and your face?”

The injured man gave him a bushy-browed scowl. “You don’t want to know.”

“That’s true enough. But you want to tell me, so go ahead.”

Eduardo Ganado did a grin-and-shrug. “Ah, you know how it is with me. One awful thing after another.”

Charlie Moon did know. Among all the troubled souls on the res, Ganado was the one who most deserved the grim descriptor
accident-prone
. Wherever the luckless fellow went, bad things happened—mostly to him. Chimneys that had been solid for a hundred years tossed bricks onto Ganado’s head. Windows that had never misbehaved fell on his fingers. And power tools of all varieties seemed to lust for a chunk of his flesh. If a sick vulture emptied its bowels in the sky anywhere over southern Colorado, the odds were nine to four that the putrid load would fall on the hapless Navajo. Eddie Ganado claimed he’d been struck by lightning six times, and no one doubted this. “Looks like somebody tried to scalp you with an ax.”

This produced a chuckle. “No, but it was just about as bad.”

“Grizzly bear peg you for a square meal?”

Ganado shook his mangled head, rotating the extended braid. “It wasn’t no kind of animal.”

“You got caught in a threshing machine?”

“Nope. But you’re not far off.”

“I’m all out of guesses.”

Ganado leaned back, hooked his thumbs in his belt. This was his storytelling stance. “It was all because of a sickly old pine tree that was leaning toward my house. I figured, Next big wind, she’ll come crashing down through the roof. So I get out my chain saw to cut it down, cranked ’er up, and—”

Moon could see it coming.

“—Got my hair caught in the infernal machine.”

“You’re lucky it didn’t take your head off.”

The Navajo nodded. “Don’t I know it! My poor old melon was goin’ bumpity-bump-bump against that chain-saw motor till I finally yanked off the spark-plug wire and shut ’er down.” He tapped the left side of his head. “It pulled my hair out by the bloody roots—skin and all. And cut up my face.”

Moon grimaced. “That must’ve hurt.”

Ganado nodded solemnly. “You can say that again.”

The fun-loving Ute manfully resisted the temptation.

“And just as I got the chain saw shut off, I tripped over it and fell down and banged my knee on a big rock. That’s how I come to be all gimpy.” He leaned to rub the painful joint. “This kinda stuff don’t hardly ever happen to other folks. My mother was always saying: ‘Eddie, you are a hard-luck kid.’” Eduardo Ganado nodded to agree with this assessment, which caused the pump-handle braid to rotate in the eerie fashion of an auger drilling into his bandaged skull. “Sooner or later, my knee’ll mend. But I’ve lost half my hair. Maybe for good.”

Moon offered the Navajo a thoughtful look. “Your hair’ll grow back—if you use the right kind of medicine.”

Well aware that Charlie Moon’s famous aunt was a purveyor of marvelous curative potions, the Navajo took the bait. “What kinda medicine?”

“To start with, you have to drink at least six cups of strong black coffee every day.”

“Hey—I practically do that already.”

“Then you’re already halfway there. But to make it work, you have to put a squirt of talcum powder in your Java.” He noted that the Navajo barely flinched. “And two tablespoons of castor oil.”

That did it.

“Castor oil?” The scalped man’s lips started to pucker. “How long will it take to get my hair back?”

Moon looked infinitely sorry for the unfortunate man. “Three or four years—whichever comes first.”

Ganado’s face drooped in despair. “If it don’t grow back, I’ll just shave off the hair that’s left.”

Having had enough fun, Moon cut the Expedition ignition. “What brings you out here—you in the market for some prime beef?”

“Uh, no, I don’t need no beef—that ain’t it. I’m here on accounta my new job.”

No employer in his right mind would hire the trouble-plagued man. “So what’re you doing?”
Ophthalmic surgery can safely be ruled out, and any task that requires the handling of high explosives
.

“Right now, I’m a legal aide—but I’m on a work-study program to become a paralegal.”

“What’s the difference?”

“A paralegal gets paid more money.”

“Makes cents to me.”

“And when I get all my paralegal studies done, I’ll be certified.”

Feeling generous, Moon let this opportunity pass. “Who are you working for?”

Ganado could not recall his employer’s name. “Uh—that woman lawyer in Durango. The one who defends Indians.”

Moon knew the lady from his time with the SUPD.
She must be hard up for help
. “She keeping you busy?”

Ganado nodded. “I mostly run errands. Sometimes I visit her clients that’re in the jailhouse, other times I deliver legal papers. Today, she sent me up here to see you.”

Uh-oh
. “This about one of her clients?”

“Yeah. Let me see…” The legal aide thumbed through a small notebook. “It’s about Mr. Navarone—that Apache who got treed by the cops over near Capote Lake.” He gave the tribal investigator a challenging look. “This lawyer I work for wants to talk to you about it. But she says you ain’t been returning her phone calls.”

“I returned the first one, left a message on her machine. Told her if she wanted to talk to me about tribal business, she could either get permission through the tribal chairman to interview me in his office, or subpoena me for a deposition. I guess your employer wasn’t pleased with my response.” He took a hard look at Ganado’s lemon-colored Pontiac. “That must be why she sent you up here to run me off the road.”

“Don’t get all bent outta shape, Charlie—I was just doing my job.” Squinting at the notebook, Ganado continued. “According to our information, Mr. Navarone was arrested by one of your tribal cops—Officer James Wolfe.” The Navajo rolled the distasteful words around in his mouth before spitting them out: “A white man.”

Moon looked down the long highway, wishing he were miles away. “Felix Navarone shouldn’t have been carrying an open container in his pickup. And he shouldn’t have resisted arrest or assaulted an officer.”

The Navajo’s dark eyes narrowed. “Mr. Navarone swore up and down that he not only hadn’t taken a drink outta that whiskey bottle—he didn’t even know it was in his truck. That same morning, he’d picked up a hitchhiker from Dalhart. Mr. Navarone figures that sneaky Texan must’ve left the bottle in his vehicle.”

Moon did not respond to this foolishness.

Wrongly sensing that he was making progress, Ganado plunged ahead. “That state trooper chased Mr. Navarone up the tree. After which, that white-faced SUPD cop bullied our client, harassed him, and beat the stuffin’ outta him.” Feeling the steel in the Ute’s gaze, Ganado shifted to a more conciliatory tone: “And besides, Mr. Navarone needs to go visit his mother down in New Mexico.”

Moon smiled. “I imagine the poor woman is not well.”

“That’s right. She’s got a bad case of gout or distemper. Somethin’ like that.”

Charlie Moon set his jaw. “Look, Eddie—I did not participate in the pursuit or the arrest of Felix Navarone. And I am not a Southern Ute police officer anymore—haven’t been for quite some time now.”

Eduardo Ganado’s mouth worked its way into a knowing smirk. “But you’re a big-shot tribal investigator who’s got the tribal chairman’s ear. And Wallace Whitehorse—that Northern Cheyenne ex—Air Force military cop you Utes hired for a chief of police—he does whatever the chairman tells him to.”

“I’ve got a pretty full plate today. Say what’s on your mind.”

“Okay. Here it is. You was there at the roadblock. You saw what happened.” The Navajo’s chest swelled like a tree toad’s throat. He shook his finger at Moon. “Our client got a raw deal. That state trooper chased him up a tree”—he pointed the finger at the sky—“then Officer Wolfe shook him offa the limb—and kicked the daylight outta him. Then our client was charged with resisting arrest, carrying an open container of alcohol, and assault on a cop with intent to do serious bodily harm—boy, that’s a laugh.” To demonstrate this assertion he huffed out a “Hah!”

Moon stared at the peculiar man. Not known for his willingness to work, Eddie Ganado was taking his new job seriously.

Ganado kept right on going. “Our client suffered a severely dislocated shoulder.”

“Serves him right for picking a fight with Jim Wolfe.”

“The shoulder injury ain’t all—that white SUPD cop bit him on the nose.”

The tribal investigator shook his head. “That’s not the way I see it.”

“What?”

“Me and a half-dozen other witnesses are willing to swear that Felix Navarone bit
himself
on the nose.”

The Navajo stared. “That don’t make no sense.”

Eddie never did have a sense of humor
. “In a really wild fight, strange things can happen. About seven years ago, down in Taos, I personally witnessed a scrap between two New Mexicans. Well, after it was broke up by the deputy, the massage therapist from Dixon was hauled off to the pokey—but the fortune-teller from Tres Piedras was so stewed up that he kept right on fightin’ by himself—and chewed his own ear off.”

This nonsense confused Ganado, so he chose to ignore it. “You tell the tribal chairman that if you people persecute our client on these humped-up charges, the lawyer I work for will sue you Southern Utes for more money than all your gas wells and casinos make in a year. And she’ll see that Officer Wolfe-man never works in uniform again. Not in Colorado, not New Mexico, not
anyplace
.”

Moon pointed to his mouth. “Eddie, read my lips. You—are—talking—to—the—wrong—man. If Felix’s lawyer wants to play Let’s Make A Deal, she’ll have to make her pitch to the tribe’s legal counsel.”

Ganado rapped his knuckles on the Expedition door. “Charlie, I’m going to do you a favor.”

Moon closed his eyes.
God help me…

The gossip looked to his right and left, as if some spy lurking on the empty prairie might overhear his next remark. “You should do some checking on Officer Wolfe.”

“You think so?”

Ganado nodded the pump-handle braid. “That white man is one bad cop. Over the years, he’s been taking bribes. Stealing. Beating up suspects. Even worse stuff than that.
He’s
the one that oughta be in jail.” The accuser touched a finger to his nose. “A word to the wise.”

The Navajo was rapidly becoming a nuisance; Moon felt his face getting warm. “Thanks for the heads-up. I’ll make a note of your slander against a tribal employee. And see that the appropriate legal authorities are informed.”

“Now look here, Charlie, I was just trying to—”

Moon’s cell phone warbled. For once the sound was a welcome interruption. The tribal investigator pressed the Talk button. “Hello.”

Ralph Briggs’s voice chirped in his ear: “Charlie?”

The Ute had hoped it might be Miss James. “Yeah, Mr. Briggs. It’s me.”

“You sound not a little nonplussed.”

“I’ve been detained for a moment.” He shot a look at Eduardo Ganado. “What’s up, Ralph?”

“You know that special item you were interested in?”

Moon nodded.

“Charlie—are you there?”

“Yeah, I remember. In fact, I’m planning to stop by your place and—”

“I realize that you thought my price was—shall we say—slightly on the high side.”

“Shall we say I could buy me a fine new registered bull for what you’re asking.”

“Then perhaps you should.”

“Ralph, I’ve got places to go, things to do. State your business.”

“I intend to do you a huge favor.”

First Ganado, now you
. “That’ll be the day.”

“Do not be such a cynic. I am perfectly serious.”

“Prove it.”

“How would you like to buy the object in question for say—one dollar hard cash.”

Moon perked up at this. “Did I hear you right?”