Indian Country Noir (Akashic Noir) (22 page)

"The Tainos are a good, noble people!" Kaonabo yelled
above the noise. "You are not noble."

"And you call stealing and killing and selling drugs good
and noble?" I shouted back. "You're living in the past, my
man. I know from experience that gets you nowhere."

"What's this about?" the buyer said.

Kaonabo turned to Itaba. "Puta! Mentirosa!"

"Hey!" I snapped. I scratched my head. "Listen up. If
things were different, I could help you. I know about this sort
of thing. You could probably use my help."

Kaonabo cursed me more in Spanish.

Itaba came to my side. "Negrito, he won't listen. You have
to stop him."

"Wait a second."

She took another step toward me, and I turned to point
the gun at her. There was something in the look of her eyes
that was hitting me wrong. I never said I was smart, but she
seemed a little too excited to get rid of her husband.

The flat-headed man took a step forward. The buyer took
a step back.

Then there was a knock on the door.

It was a man from the hotel. Through the door he said, in
Spanish, something like, "We would like you to move to the
main part of the hotel. For safety. The hurricane is here."

"Itaba, get that," I said. I turned to face her and, in that
instant, Kaonabo picked a glass from the table and threw it at
me. It smashed against my skull and I dropped the gun. I was
reeling.

He grabbed Itaba, pulled the door open, and ran out. The
buyer ran too, in the other direction. I got the gun, wobbled
on my feet, and moved to the doorway. The confused hotel
man looked at me. It was wild outside. The rain came down
in black sheets and the wind howled like a baby giant dying
for attention. I could barely see more than a few feet in from
of me. I ran after Itaba.

I saw a flash of color ahead-Itaba's skirt-headed down
the path toward the beach.

I followed through the throbbing storm, onto the sand.

"Stop, you son of a bitch!" I yelled into the wind, then
remembered I had the gun. I shot into the air. The pop barely
registered in the storm.

But Kaonabo let go of Itaba and turned. "Nuyoriqueno!"
he shouted.

Just then the giant got nasty, smacking us down with a
huge slap of wind.

Kaonabo was on me, elbowing my head and kneeing the
gun out of my hand. I tried to get up, but the wind kept me
off balance.

I really should've gone after the guy with the satchel.
Stupid.

Kaonabo head-butted me in the stomach and, as I bent
over, in the chin.

I fell back on the sand. The wild surf curled in large, foamy
waves onto the shore, only a few feet away. The sky over the
sea was dark, but there was something black and gigantic on
the horizon, moving closer.

I reached for Kaonabo, but he ducked and kicked me
twice in the ribs. His sandals were not soft. I went down,
spitting up, almost vomiting. We wrestled, moving closer to
the waves, getting wet. Kaonabo was about to hit me again,
when I moved, then used his momentum to throw him to the
ground. He came at me, I turned on my left foot, and dropped
him down again. He got right back up, came in low. I smacked
my flat palm into his nose, hard, and Kaonabo fell back. I
went to stomp him, but he kicked my feet out from under me.
I fell on the cold, wet sand-it was like hitting concrete. I felt
the ocean spraying on my back.

Kaonabo got my head and neck in a choke hold. "Hijo de
la gran puta," he said.

Then there was a shot. In a haze, I turned, looked up, and saw a small hole in Kaonabo's flat forehead. He fell back onto
the dark sand.

Itaba stood there with the gun. The gift bag lay on the wet
sand between its, closer to me. She ran toward it, and I leaped
like a frog across the beach. Our fingers closed on the bag at
the same time. I yanked and she fell on the sand.

She sat up quickly and pointed the gun at me.

"Itaba. Wait," I pleaded, standing, the bag in my hand.

"Lo siento, negrito. But I need this," she said and fired.
The bullet whizzed past my face. I fell back; a wave clawed at
me and pulled me under.

I don't believe in magic. I pray at night but don't expect any
answers. I do it just in case-like making a side bet.

I went deep. I swallowed water. There was darkness and
cold and then maybe even small glowing lights. I could've
imagined that. But somehow I survived. Clutching the plastic
bag with the stone cemi inside. I can't explain it. If I had to
give an answer, I'd say it was just dumb luck.

This time there was barking. When I lifted my face from
the sand, there was a small, hairy dog yelping at me, stepping forward, moving back, stepping forward. Sand in its fur. I
glanced up and saw dull sunshine. All around me-seaweed,
dark wood, things tossed out by the ocean, just like me.

I turned my head to one side and saw Kaonabo's body on
the drying sand. Moving toward its were police and paramedics. A gurney. Some tourists.

It began to make sense. I think Kaonabo wasn't the one
who wanted to start a drug empire. It was Itaba. She'd wanted
Kaonabo out of the way, maybe because he didn't approve,
maybe to keep the money for herself. He could've killed the
doctor for her. But my money was on her-she'd had plenty of time to do it then come back and pick me up to be her patsy.
Now all she had was her gift bag with the little coqul on it.
Bienvenidos a La Isla del Encanto.

I thought about what was going to happen to me. I didn't
know.

I thought about what was going to happen to the dog. It
kept licking me. It was still there. It existed. It looked like a
stray. "It's my dog," I told the first policeman who bent down
to see if I was alive. "Mi perrrro."

He must've thought I was crazy. I was glad to be alive. But
my hair must've been a mess.

Tucson, Arizona

'm watching Ronald Jumps the Train speed-shop through
Safeway. He crams his cart with frozen pizzas and HungryMan dinners, corn chips, Cheetos, potato chips, a case of
Negra Modelo, two sixes of Classic Coke, and another two
sixes of Mountain Dew-all the quick-to-cook, quickly eaten,
and sweetish crap that crystal meth tweakers often devour.

"Ma'am? Can I help you, ma'am?"

"No." An eager Safeway employee. Do I look that much
like a geezer?

I've been tracking Ronald for five days, ever since dark
rumors swirled up from Sonora about a drug cartel takedown
war against La Bruja de los Cielos, the rarely seen head of
the methamphetamine cartel in northern Sonora. The war
brought assassinations by the dozens. La Bruja, herself a vicious stone killer, was believed to have planned last week's
assassination of Sonora's state chief of police at a Nogales hotel, AK-47s and grenades pouring down from an upstairs window just as the chief entered the place. Federal pressure got
intense. La Bruja's world collapsed, her smuggling routes hijacked, her truckloads of drugs no longer safe because bribed
U.S. Customs guards were arrested, and nothing made easier
by increased U.S. Border Patrol arrests running parallel to the
fence along the P-28 Tucson section. The border was sealed,
the border was chaos, the border was dangerous. All of these things shredded the previous maps and players in organizational drug trafficking from the border north through Tucson
and Phoenix. Nobody knew anyone they could trust. Including me.

I do intel surveillance of meth dealers on Indian reservations; I'm a private investigator working for the Navajo Tribal
Police. Despite the chaos in Mexico, nothing much had happened for me until I tagged Ronald in the Safeway around 10
in the morning.

I knew the drug cartel world was in turmoil, but I'm just a
small player. I track Navajo meth dealers off the rez, but nobody else. An hour ago, I'm thinking it's mainly another beautiful, quiet Tucson morning. Kids in school, parents working,
geezers shopping. Now, watching Ronald cram his cart full,
I'm realizing that he's stocking up to lay low, to take a forced
vacation from dealing crystal meth up on the Gila River rez
and east toward Casa Grande.

But why?

Ronald's a shrimpy guy, half Apache, half Mexican, an
old-time tweaker born on the Ute reservation in Colorado.
He runs across the front of the store, kinda dancing behind
the cart, he so wants to get outta there quick. So, why? He
can't possibly know I'm tracking him.

I watch from the back aisle of the large Safeway, my hands
on a shopping cart loaded with I-don't-care-off-the-shelfwhatever, as I pretend to browse while following him. I whip
past the meat cases to see him in the produce section, piling
on boxes of all kinds of berries and even a huge sack of raw
carrots-lots of sugar in carrots, tweakers love sugar-when a
man moves quickly behind Ronald, bellies up to Ronald's back
like a lover, one hand in his Arizona Wildcats lightweight nylon rain jacket. Ronald's shoulders slump, he sags against the cart but nods resignedly. The two men walk slowly, almost a
sex dance, the man urging Ronald out the entrance. I'm dashing with my cart up the produce aisle to follow them, except
two other guys surround me.