The Grey Pilgrim (15 page)

The Ritual Exchange of Tobacco

Parker was on the phone when the man entered. The Pima County Sheriff’s Office knew all about Big Jack Lang. He’d stayed with them so often they’d thought about painting his name next to his cell. But about an attack on him, any injuries a Papago might have inflicted, or the theft of his possessions, they were unaware. The big guy wasn’t the kind to bring them his problems, they said. He usually took care of them himself. In other words, they weren’t looking for the kid known as Talker.

“Be right with you,” Parker told the man. “I’m on long distance.” The Sheriff’s Office didn’t even have a file on the rat-faced Talker. The kid didn’t need Parker.

The stranger took off a hat with a band of silver conchos, star bright against the midnight felt, and sat on an oak chair with neatly spaced scars that indicated it might once have sported an upholstered seat pad. Now it sported a couple of cigarette burns and part of someone’s initials.

A fine layer of dust covered every surface not in regular use. It matched the fading, water stained paint on the walls. The secre-tary’s desk was as dusty as any part of the office. Parker obviously wasn’t making enough to pay his help, or to hire someone to clean the place.

Parker thanked the phone before returning it to its cradle. “Come on in,” he called through his office door.

The man with the conchos was about average height but whipcord slender. He was also surprisingly fair skinned for a Navajo, if that’s what he was. Parker was guessing that because of the silver he wore around his neck and wrists and the conchos that circled his hat. The costume was right, even if the build and coloring weren’t. Parker gave it a shot anyway.

“
Ya ta hay
,” he said. “Are you of the
Dine
?” he asked, also in Navajo.

Sasaki looked up, startled.

“Hi. You Navajo?” Parker repeated, this time in English.

“Do you speak Navajo, Mr. Parker?” Sasaki inquired.

“Just what you heard and maybe three of four other phrases,” the lawyer admitted. “Did I butcher it really badly?”

“No.” He could tell Parker was surprised by his initial lack of comprehension. “I just didn’t expect to hear it spoken in this part of the state.”

He took the stuffed chair across from the attorney, carefully avoiding the stain that could have been blood or wine or any transmogrification in between. Parker reached into a pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Chesterfields. Sasaki accepted one, as well as a light from Parker’s Zippo.

“The ritual exchange of tobacco,” Parker explained. “A modernized version of the peace pipe. May our peoples refrain from making war, at least on each other, or, at least for today. What can I do for you, Mr.—?”

Sasaki smiled at the witticism, but he was faintly puzzled. John Parker was not what he had expected.

“Begay,” he said, “Juan Begay.” Juan Begay was the Navajo equivalent of John Smith.

“Bet you have trouble with hotel clerks,” Parker offered, obviously aware he was being given an alias.

This time Sasaki didn’t smile. He took a deep drag on the cigarette and leaned back in the chair. “Mostly with the ones who refuse me occupancy,” he replied. “How about you?”

Touché.

“Yeah,” Parker agreed. “You’re lucky though. You take all that jewelry off and put on a suit and you could at least pass for Oriental. Me, I’ve got my momma’s coloring. I put on my Sunday best and try to pass and they just think I’m a Negro.”

“Good,” Sasaki said, which didn’t sound particularly polite, but he’d finally gotten past the twisted sense of humor to the anger underneath. “I was told you’re a man with no particular fondness for the Whites. That’s the way it should be with those of us who aren’t White. Especially we Indians, Mr. Parker. That’s why I’m here.”

“You don’t say,” the lawyer commented. “You hoping I’ll help you overthrow the United States Government, Mr. Begay? Maybe replace it with some multi-tribal federation? Hey, sign me up.”

He made an exaggerated attempt to peer around his guest into the outer office. “Am I speaking clearly enough for whoever’s out there taking this down? You, J. Edgar, and the rest of the G-Men out here rounding up us traitors?”

“Very funny,” Sasaki said, looking not the least amused. “You have a delightful wit, but we’ll make more progress if you hold it in check for a little while.

“I am not with the FBI or any other law enforcement agency. Neither am I here in an effort to solicit your aid in overthrowing the federal government. I’m here as an unofficial representative of an Indian group that would like to see some massive changes in the level of control the BIA exercises over our people. We’re hoping you can help us, Mr. Parker.”

“OK,
kimosabe
. I’m listening.”

“You’ve run for the Papago Tribal Council in the last several elections on an anti-BIA platform, Mr. Parker, and you’ve lost each of them badly.”

He could see that the comment had scored. Even Parker didn’t find his personal failings amusing.

“It’s a matter of public record,” the attorney said, coolly.

“Since Jujul took his band out in more or less open revolt against the government’s attempt to register Papagos for conscription, the tribe’s attitude has shifted, come more in line with your own, hasn’t it? If one of those elections were held today you might make a race of it. You wouldn’t win, not yet, but you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

Parker leaned forward on his desk. The conversation was beginning to interest him.

“I understand you’re representing other members of your people who somewhat less dramatically refused to register. I also understand you’ve contested the warrants against Jujul’s band. Commendable, Mr. Parker, and astute. But, in the final analysis, the longer Jujul remains at large, the longer there are hostilities of some sort between the federal government and his village, the stronger your position becomes. I ask you to consider what’s going to happen when troops are eventually sent in to find him? What’s going to happen when they begin a systematic search of the reservation, interfering in the daily lives of hundreds of peaceful villages in the process?”

Parker knew the answer. He was going to get elected. The only trouble with this scenario was that it wouldn’t happen.

“They won’t hold out that long, Mr. Begay. Rumor has it the Feds already know more or less where he is. And, so far, they’re taking a real low-key attitude on this. My guess is they’ll make contact and work out some sort of face-saving deal for everybody before too long. Then I start losing votes again.”

“Perhaps that needn’t happen,” Sasaki said. “Are you aware that there has been resistance to the conscription law on the Navajo Reservation? Also among the Apache, Hopi, Zuni, and Pueblo? In fact, it has been the rule, not the exception, among Indians across the country.”

Parker had heard there’d been a little trouble with the Navajo, but not about the rest.

“The federal government has been quietly suppressing that information, Mr. Parker, suggesting the nation’s press play it down in these troubled times. The news media have been very cooperative. Only a few stories have been published nationally, but they prompted awareness among our widespread Native American brothers that they weren’t alone in feeling the need for legitimate representation within the government before their peoples should be expected to risk their lives in its defense. Jujul and his atavistic return to the warpath represents our best opportunity to draw more attention to our cause. That’s why I’m here. It’s my purpose to provide aid and counsel to Jujul and his people and keep them out there, resisting, as long as possible, so we may raise America’s consciousness and improve our bargaining position with the BIA.”

“Yes,” Parker breathed, intrigued. “But what’s this got to do with me?”

Sasaki hoped he already knew. He reached into his Levis, pulled out a thick roll of bills, and peeled off $100. It didn’t make much of a dent.

“We would like to support your efforts in Jujul’s behalf,” Sasaki said, placing the bills on the desk. “Shall we call this a contribution to his defense fund?”

“We can call it whatever you want as long as I don’t have to kill anyone to keep it.”

“We also believe you know, or can learn, Jujul’s whereabouts. We believe you can put me in contact with him, smuggle me into his camp. If you can do that, Mr. Parker, we would also like to make a contribution to your campaign fund, anonymously of course. The amount we had in mind was $500. Additionally, once I’m in place, I shall likely contribute to your campaign’s success in other, even more concrete ways. What do you say, Mr. Parker, are you interested in assisting us in these matters?”

Six hundred dollars came close to equalling John Parker’s total earnings for 1940. He reached out and made the hundred disappear.

“Your timing is impeccable, Mr. Begay. I assume you don’t need a receipt. Honor among thieves, or should that be Indians? Just when would you like to begin your scenic vacation?”

“Now would be fine, Mr. Parker.”

The lawyer smiled, appreciating his client’s sense of humor, until he realized the man didn’t have one.

“I’ll have to make some arrangements.”

“Then make them, Mr. Parker. The moment you and I set foot in Jujul’s village your campaign fund will become richer.”

“I didn’t realize you expected my company,” Parker observed, “but there are good reasons, your cash included, to spend a few days among my future constituents.

“You really aren’t with the government, are you?” He stared hard at Sasaki for a moment. “Nah! The Feds couldn’t afford to pay bribes so large for potatoes so small, especially not when they’re already close. Besides, I guess it doesn’t really matter, not as long as your cash is good and I get to keep it.”

“I assure you, Mr. Parker, it is good and you will keep it.”

“All right, Mr. Begay,” Parker said. “Meet me here at the office first thing in the morning and we’ll go find our guide.”

“I’ll be here, Mr. Parker,” Sasaki replied, “then we’ll see to your future.”

Humming About the Desert Sky

The Army Air Corps didn’t have aerial photographs of the Papago Reservation, but they told J.D. they’d be happy to take some if his office would authorize the necessary funds. He checked petty cash and decided he could maybe afford to send someone with a borrowed Kodak Brownie out to a high spot on the reservation. There was enough for a roll of film, but he wasn’t sure they could manage the price of developing. Scratch one great idea.

Great idea number two held up all the way to Friday when Hank Lewis came back to town. Lewis was thrilled at the excuse to fire up his biplane and go humming about the desert sky in pursuit of the forces opposed to law and order. J.D. promised to pay for the gas, then started worrying just how much an airplane might use. Whatever wasn’t in the petty cash drawer would come out of his pocket.

They took off from Davis-Monthan Airfield about mid-morning and headed west. Things didn’t look the same from the front seat of an open cockpit biplane and it took J.D. longer than he’d expected to locate Bill Burns’ ranch. Hank didn’t care. He was having a ball, buzzing any landmark that might help his passenger decide which way they should be going. Hank’s goal in flying seemed to be to create abject terror in his passengers, reducing them to quivering blobs of jelly who, on landing, must be removed from their seat with a small spoon and a damp cloth. He made a habit of avoiding, by the narrowest of margins, ripping the wings off on occasional peaks or tall saguaros. J.D. gave strong consideration to turning in his seat and vomiting his breakfast in Lewis’ general direction. When he discovered the effort would require him to loosen his seat belt in order to achieve a proper launch angle, he abandoned the idea.

J.D. tried suggesting Lewis maintain a steadier course a few times, but he couldn’t be heard over the roar of the engine. So, Hank shut it off. He had so much trouble getting it started again that J.D. avoided further verbal requests and thereafter made do with pointing. When they found Burns’ ranch, Hank took them down between the buildings, close enough that J.D. could have spit on any of them if his mouth hadn’t been so dry. Bill, Edith, and their hands ran outside and watched the plane make a repeat pass while Hank waved grandly as J.D. hung on for dear life. Lewis pulled out of the farm yard and put the plane into a giant loop which must have impressed the hell out of the audience. J.D. almost took a blind shot with breakfast. When they were flying level and he could force himself to let go for just a moment, he pointed again—more or less straight up and with only his middle finger. He thought he heard Hank laughing, even over the howling wind and exhaust.

Even having been there, J.D. had a tough time finding Fat Wolf’s village, but then losing his map somewhere in the middle of a barrel roll didn’t help. They buzzed about the desert in the vicinity of where the place should have been for almost an hour before they found it. They located two other villages as well, and Hank gave each a thrill by roaring through about head high. It didn’t do much for their popularity with the Papagos who then had to retrieve scattered livestock. One of the villages even took a couple of pot shots at them. In another, the children waved happily while their parents stood around looking sullen, or wisely scattered so as to be out of the way of any wreckage.

Finally they were low on gas and Hank took them home. When they landed J.D. thanked him, insincerely, and left to compare the position of the two villages they’d found with that of known villages on reservation maps. He’d considered spreading Hank’s nose as broadly across his face as the pilot’s grin, but when he climbed out of the plane he felt so weak that it was all he could do to walk, rather than crawl, in the direction of his Ford. He decided to save any revenge until he could catch Lewis off guard, and he was certain he would never again have to go up in that fragile framework of cloth and wires.

Great idea number two lost most of the attributes of greatness when he got back to the office and checked the locations of the villages they’d found against those on the BIA map. Nothing matched. He’d known Fat Wolf’s village wouldn’t because he’d checked it after their visit. It wasn’t because they’d moved either. Bill Burns had been visiting them in that location for years. The BIA showed Fat Wolf about twelve miles further southwest. They listed eight villages in the immediate vicinity of where he and Hank had been flying, none in the places they’d discovered from the air. It was nice to know the tradition of carefully avoided infallibility extended to other divisions of the federal bureaucracy, but it made his results doubly negative. First, he had no accurate maps. Second, if they only found three of eight, he’d also proved they couldn’t locate villages from the air with any reliability.

As a sort of double check, he called Jesus and asked him how many villages were probably within twenty miles of Fat Wolf’s. J.D. felt a little better at his guess of six, but that still put him at only about fifty percent. He explained how he’d spent the morning and Jesus made one sound suggestion.

“If you want to go village hunting, try it just after dawn on a cold, still morning when wood smoke will hang in the air and give you an easier target.”

J.D. promised to keep it in mind, but if they couldn’t tell which villages belonged where they were and which didn’t, he wasn’t sure he cared how many he could find. Especially not if it had to be done from the cockpit of Hank Lewis’ biplane.

Jesus had heard further confirmation from his contacts on the reservation. Jujul’s band was almost certainly within a day’s ride of Fat Wolf’s village. His people had been using it for trade and as a listening post recently. The same word came from several other villages in the immediate area.

And there was one other thing. “Have you gotten any inquiries about a possible Japanese spy?” Jesus asked. “We got a call from the FBI that makes me think they’ve lost track of some potentially dangerous Oriental on the west coast. Nothing real concrete. You know those guys, they want to know what you know, but not if they have to tell you what’s going on first.”

“Not a thing,” J.D. replied. “All I hear are the rumors. Half of Tucson thinks every Jap who’s here is working for the Emperor and secretly preparing to kill their White neighbors as soon as the invasion begins. If the Bureau knows about a real spy, they haven’t seen fit to tell the U.S. Marshal’s Office about it. But then cooperation between our agencies isn’t what it should be. Why? You get some indication they thought he might be coming our way?”

“State doesn’t talk much to us county boys either,” Jesus confided. “No, I don’t think the Bureau has the foggiest idea where he’s going or why. He might not even exist. I just think they were fishing for leads. No reason the FBI can’t be as paranoid about the Japanese as the rest of the country. Just can’t remember them ever contacting us about anything like this before. Made me curious so I thought I’d ask.”

J.D. promised he’d let the deputy know if he did hear anything, thanked him and hung up. It was time for great idea number three. Only problem was he didn’t have one. At least not beyond walking down to the end of the hall to see if Tucson’s resident G-man was in the FBI’s office. When he wasn’t, J.D. went back and paced around his office for a few hours, chewed some pencils to death and, finally, gave up.

It was Friday night. Short of declaring some sort of national emergency, he wasn’t going to get any assistance from the other agencies involved in the hunt until after the weekend. Maybe by then he’d have come up with a way to tackle the problem. It didn’t comfort him to realize that combining Jesus’ idea and Hank Lewis’ tortuous form of aviation was the only potentially useful approach he had. He could produce a map of his own. Then he and Jesus could start a tour of those villages. It would give Jujul plenty of warning they were coming and time to arrange not to be found. If he was the sort, he might also arrange to eliminate a couple of the more persistent folks who were looking for him. One of those villages on the new map would probably be Jujul’s. Keeping the operation small gave J.D. a better chance to meet the man without the complications of tribal policemen, federal troops, or bumbling representatives of the BIA. It would likely keep Mary safer and avoid a big, violent confrontation, but it could also put his life, and Jesus’, on the line. His plans were full of little flaws like that. He was willing to take the risk, but he’d have to talk to the deputy sheriff before taking that idea any further. Maybe he’d think of something he liked better in the meantime.

He bit through another pencil and decided it was time to go eat something more wholesome. A concentrated effort to relax and stop worrying for the evening was in order. He let himself out of the office and went across the corner to the Santa Rita Hotel. A couple of drinks, an expensive dinner, and maybe a movie would fill his prescription. With luck he might wake up in the morning with a happy solution firmly in mind. If not, there were plenty of pencils left in the office.

The best steak in the house wasn’t exactly in his budget, but then Hank Lewis had been so delighted at his condition when they landed he’d forgotten to collect the promised gas money.

J.D. had almost finished his meal when Larry Spencer and a spectacular redhead were ushered to a nearby table. When he noticed J.D., Larry turned a few shades brighter than her hair. If he was planning to make a habit of cheating on Mary, he was going to have to learn to be a lot more casual about it.

Larry brought the girl over and introduced her. She was also an archaeology student. They’d just finished reconstructing a delicate Hohokam pot so he was going to buy her supper by way of celebrating. He went on babbling away like that for so long J.D. thought he or the redhead would have to use force to shut Larry up.

J.D. didn’t recognize her. Maybe, if she’d take her clothes off and stand in a light that silhouetted her obviously excellent figure, he could be sure. Maybe not. But her throaty voice was definitely familiar. The last time he’d heard one like it, it had wanted to go swimming.

This time it just said, “Hello, J.D., pleased to meet you.” Her eyes suggested she might enjoy swimming with him too, if only he’d ask nicely. He had the feeling she’d done more than her share of “swimming.” J.D. preferred her in Larry’s company. It improved his chances with Mary, whose mind interested him as much as her body, which interested him a great deal. The redhead probably had a good mind too, but it was pretty clearly focused on self-gratification. J.D. hoped that self would want to continue to gratify on Larry long enough to help him take Mary away.

He suddenly neither liked nor respected Larry Spencer very much. That helped him shed some of the guilt he’d been carrying around.

They went back to their table where Larry continued to look sheepish. J.D. couldn’t take it any more. He denied himself the dessert he’d intended and left. He bought a copy of the evening
Citizen
in the lobby and looked for a suitably innocuous movie. The fare at the nearby Fox looked like it would fill the bill. He decided to make do with some hot buttered popcorn and a soda for his dessert. Larry’s would be tastier, but much more dangerous.