Zuni Stew: A Novel (11 page)

Lights came into view. Left on Route 66, to downtown Gallup. They clattered to a stop at a railroad crossing. A shrill whistle of the locomotive. Yellow barriers crashed into place. More than one hundred cars rhythmically thundered on the way to the west coast. Mesmerizing steel wheels sparked the tracks.

In the reflection of flashing red lights, Jack glanced at her. There were tears welling in her eyes. He kept quiet.

At the outskirts of Gallup, the sky lightened to a soft grey. Slight hints of pink warmed clouds to the west. The SUV slowed way down.

“What’s wrong? A problem?” he asked.

“Not with the Scout,” Lori said, barely audible.

He heard the quiver in her voice. Added to the tears, he was damned worried. Helpless.

He remembered feeling the same inconsolable sense of panic during a particularly difficult home delivery on the south side of Chicago. Fourth year med student at Northwestern. A black bag filled with standard delivery instruments and supplies. A student nurse for backup. Very young mother, labor long, no progress. The unborn baby was in a breach presentation. The baby was born alive. Jack and the student nurse left alive, too. Unnoticed, un-thanked.

Lori pulled onto a rough, narrow shoulder, turned off the engine, head down, hands on the steering wheel. The noise from the dented oil pan ceased. Jack started to open the door, worried about a possible oil leak. She reached for his left arm. Grabbed it with surprising strength. “Don’t get out.” The quiver was there. “I have to tell you something. Jack...I have to tell you something terrible.”

She shifted, looking directly at him. In the pale light, she could see his exhausted eyes, the tension in his face.

Jack braced for whatever she was going to say, feeling not one ounce of the confidence his M.D. gave him.

Holding his forearm tightly, Lori began, “Days ago, in Chicago...”

19

M
r. K sat behind his large barrister desk listening to Mike, his bodyguard. A copper-shaded lamp cast light over the desktop and oriental carpet in the otherwise dark paneled room. The lamp had an engraved plaque on the marble base:
To Anthony Knapp with Great Appreciation
—
From the Chicago Symphony Orchestra & the Ravinia Festival.
The outline of a figure could be made out seated in one of three wingback chairs.

Mike completed his weekly report. During the fifteen-minute update, Knapp nodded twice.

When he did speak, it was a monotone. “So our man inside the FBI said Mario was killed by a bear?” His voice rose slightly. “A goddamned fucking bear—I’m supposed to believe that? And someone sent his pistol by special delivery for tests, and it had been fired once. Was it the pistol I gave him?”

“My informant didn’t say. But D’Amico is still alive.”

Knapp stood abruptly, knocking over a brass wastebasket. He kicked the trash can across the rug toward the seated individual. “I can’t believe it—Mario blew it. From what you told me, that’s not like him.”

“We’ll get him, sir, I’ll do it personally,” said the bodyguard.

“No. I need you here. Keep the pressure on your guy downtown.”

The man in the wingback rose, intending to leave with Mike. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” hissed Mr. K. “Sit your ass down. The last thing I told you was to hide the new trucks. But, no, all of them are in plain view at the construction site—a government project! Any idiot inspector is going to question ten new rigs. You’re just inviting the regulators to check things out.”

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t worry; I know how to keep them off my back.”

“You’re damn right you will. You’re also going to take care of Jack D’Amico yourself. You recommended Mario. Now you do the job!”

Knapp crossed to a credenza. Two inches of single malt Scotch in a cut crystal glass. After a swallow, he slammed the glass down. “Do you realize the Feds probably know the size of your jockey shorts, much less your prick? You get your ass back to the building site and make those goddamn trucks disappear, then pick up Mario’s tracks.”

A refill of the whisky. Knapp’s prematurely grey hair was combed straight back. Exactly like his father and grandfather. He was short, but cut a quietly impressive figure. A preference for double-breasted Dunhill blazers. Custom-made shirts, tailored to fit his barrel chest and thick neck. Half-moon pouches under each eye cast shadows, making them look like he had two black eyes. Gold cufflinks, nothing flashy. He was too smart to want to stand out in a crowd. And no one was going to outsmart him.

The first shipload had arrived from Canada. Already offloaded. Tons of mined rock transported to Gary, Indiana, to Knapp Chemical Processing Co., Inc. Using a combination of acids, uranium-rich ore was impurely separated from the crushed rock. Then packed in steel barrels. Residual rock was packed in thick wooden kegs. These tailings were as radioactive, if not more so, than the semi-pure uranium. This little problem was of no importance to Knapp. Billions to be made. Billions.

He dialed a private long distance number, got right to the point. “Senator, a little something has come up. We may well be exposed.”

“Lord, no, Anthony. No way—I am not to be involved.”

“Get that damn bill on the floor tomorrow. It sure as hell has been in committee a long time.” Knapp hesitated to allow the senator to do a bit of mathematics. If he didn’t get that property re-aligned so it was designated as federal land, they both could lose millions.

He told him a shipment was going out right away, adding softly, almost whispering, “Joseph, you do understand what could happen if someone stumbles on to those trucks, don’t you?”

20

W
ith one hand rolled in Josh’s FBI vest, Lori tried to sweep the broken glass from the dashboard and seats. Sunlight raked over the cliff face, glinting off the glass shards, flashing in her eyes. She looked through the shattered windshield to see Jack emerge from the dark forest at the base of the cliff. He walked slowly past an old wooden corral and loading chute, and back uphill to the Scout. He had been gone for nearly an hour, one of the longest hours in her life.

At one point she heard a horrible sound. Like a dying animal. She could only guess what he was going through. A crushing, disintegrating hurt.

Eyes averted, he struggled with the mangled door. His knuckles were bleeding, like a fighter. He wrapped his arms around his chest. Visibly shuddered. Head down, he murmured, “Let’s go, I’ve got a lot to do.”

She didn’t reply, knowing plans were in place for him. She needed help to explain the next move, a decision made without his input. Driving as fast as the Scout would allow, she made it to the hospital emergency entrance at Black Rock.

“What are you doing? I’m not going in there! Take me to my Jeep, down the street. I’m catching the first flight to Chicago.”

“You need to see Doctor Newman first, then you can do whatever you want. Remember, you’re in the military, I believe with the equivalent rank of Navy Lieutenant. Am I correct?”

He felt a choking in his throat. His heartbeat was deafening. He hit the jammed door with his shoulder, kicked glass out of the way, slid out. Jerked the ER door open, letting it slam behind him. Lori ran after him, praying Bill Newman was ready.

He was. He wrapped an arm around Jack’s shoulders, guided him into his office. “I’m so sorry. I really feel for you.”

Jack pulled back, his jaw set. He looked feverish, his muddy shirt was stained with sweat. He smelled of grief. He stared at Bill, said flatly, “Feel what? I missed the goddamned funeral! But, I’m sure you know that.” He wanted to call him a bastard, a liar, but held back. “I have to go home. At least I can see my family’s graves.”

“It’s too dangerous, Jack. Zeller gave me direct orders to hide you until things are safe. We’ve got to protect you, all of us do. We’re the good guys.”

“Then why doesn’t it feel like it?” A vein in his neck pulsated; he swung around, looking menacingly at Lori. “You’ve been flat-ass lying to me from the get-go. The nice little dinner you showed up with. How did you know where to find me?”

“I told Doctor Newman we were engaged. That I wanted to surprise you.” Her speech dropped to a bare whisper. Tears welled in her eyes and spilled over.

“I understand you want to strike out at someone, at both of us,” Bill said. “But you’ve got to understand one helluva a lot of people are working for you.”

“Working for me?” His mind couldn’t grasp what Bill was saying. His entire family had been wiped out. A singularly horrendous fact. “Bill, I know Chicago, I can take care of myself. I can handle anything that comes my way.”

“I’m sure you think you can, but...”

“I said I can, didn’t you hear me? I’m going home, end of discussion. I need to honor them.” He started for the door.

“You shall do as you are ordered, or I will...”

“You’ll what? There’s not much you can do to hurt me.”

“I will have you locked up for disobeying a direct order.”

“You think so?”

Bill called out, “Gentlemen, come in.”

Stan and two tribal policemen entered the office. “Don’t make me do it, Jack,” said Bill. “Whoever is after you must be big time, very big time. Let the professionals do their job.”

“Well now, just what do you have planned for me?”

Bill explained how people could disappear in the pueblo. He had gone to Louis Paul. “He didn’t hesitate. He feels completely indebted to you for saving his son, Tito.”

His back to everyone, Jack stared at the surface of his desk. A stack of charts waited for his signature. Beside them was the envelope Gabriel D’Amico had handed to him before he left home. HOME. Too fatigued from the overwhelming drain, he acquiesced. “What’s next?”

Lori wiped her eyes. Bill took a deep breath. Both of them were fighting to contain their own emotions, knowing there was space for only one broken person in the room.

“The tribal police will drive you to the Middle Village. They will escort you to Mr. Jahata,” said Bill. “I’ll watch your back.”

“Me, too,” Lori said in a whisper.



Dressed in a short-sleeved plaid shirt, jeans with a leather belt and large silver buckle, Tito greeted Jack. “Welcome to our home, Doctor.” No cast, no bandage, nothing but residual redness on his arm. He knew what Jack was thinking. Flexed his bicep. “Almost well.”

“
Keshi,
welcome, Doctor D’Amico, to
Halona Idiwan’a,
home of the
A:shiwi
,” said Louis Paul. He took a step back, smoothing his shoulder-length hair. “Your actions saved him.”

“His arm...”

“I’ll tell you what I’ve planned for you. First, eat.”

Eating was the last thing Jack cared about, but he followed them to a table prepared for one. Bowl. Spoon. Hesitation.

Louis Paul noticed. “
Chuleya:we
, Zuni stew—it will help.”

A short woman wearing a needlepoint turquoise necklace over a purple blouse appeared. Long hair pulled into a knot. High cheekbones, slanted eyes. She placed a black iron kettle, wooden ladle in front of him. Even without the pork pie hat, she knew he recognized her.

“My wife, Linda.”

“We’ve met.” She liked to wash Dr. Bill’s dishes with a hose.

“Her primary clan is Bear, her secondary clan is Dogwood. From the Crow,” said Louis Paul. “I am from the Tobacco clan, secondary is Badger. I tell you this, Doctor, because all Zuni children are schooled in their heritage. No intermarriage of bloodlines.”

Zuni bloodlines were not intermixed. Not within the pueblo. Not with other tribes. Zuni blood is pure.

“Ah, he gets it,” said Linda. “He might understand how we live the Zuni way. And cook,” she added with a crinkled smile.

Louis Paul removed the lid, releasing the smell of braised mutton. Simmering in golden-red broth. He filled the bowl. “
Idonapshe,
eat,”

Jack took a spoonful. Chunks of lamb, potatoes, carrots. And fire.

“
Chuleya:we.
Special. Make you strong,” said Tito. “Father’s recipe the best.”

An image of his own father popped into Jack’s mind. Like a kaleidoscope, images flashed so fast he thought his brain would explode. He closed his eyes tightly. Exhaled.

Louis Paul felt Jack’s breath touch his own face. He opened his mind, joining Jack’s. Pervasive grief. He understood the man’s excruciating sadness. “Eat. Then we talk.”

Later Jack found himself sitting between Tito and Louis Paul in an old Ford truck, barreling down a corrugated dirt road. Tito drove, spewing gravel and a cloud of dust behind them.

He remembered eating the stew. All of it. Dribbling some. Fry bread to mop up the broth. No talk. Mysterious calm. Alert. Clear-headed. Powerful. No anger, no angst.

Chuleya:we
gave him more than just strength.

It had given him peace.

Tito turned off the road, down-shifted. The Ford groaned up the steep incline. Crowned out, wove between piñon, junipers, down into a grove of giant cottonwoods. Low branches scraped the cab. Dappled light pierced the shade, highlighting new growth of the chamisa. Within view of a wind-carved butte, the engine coughed to a stop. A mourning dove cooed. Quiet.