But Janet was looking past his shoulder. “Here he comes,” she said. And Roger Applebee was at their booth, smiling and nodding.
He was not quite as young as he looked at first glance, perhaps fifty-five or so, small, slender, blond hair worn long, and in the proper garb for an autumn day in Window Rock, Arizona, the desert West. His boots had been polished a few days ago, his jeans were faded, his bolo tie was loose and decorated with a silver bear claw, and his pale blue shirt hung open the standard two buttons. Taken all together, Applebee was a handsome man. He looked totally healthy. Outdoorsy, Chee thought. But shining through the good looks was a fierce intensity which made short work of the usual small talk. Applebee was the sort who got to the heart of the matter. And the first matter was Jim Chee.
“I liked your letter,” he said. “The one in the newspaper the other day.” And while he was saying it, he was looking past Chee at Janet Pete, expression quizzical, asking the wordless question. Can this man be trusted to hear what we say? Will he be discreet?
“Mr. Chee is with the Navajo Tribal Police,” she said, motioning Applebee into the booth. “As you know, he doesn’t like seeing our part of the world made a dumping ground any better than I do. And he is used to listening, and keeping what he hears to himself.”
“Tribal Police,” Applebee said, examining Chee. He smiled. “Do you know Sergeant Eddie Nakai over at Many Farms? He sold me a silver pollen flask once. Very, very old. I sometimes collect the old stuff.”
“I’ve met him,” Chee said.
That produced from Applebee a smile. “Are you assigned to this business?”
“No,” Chee said. “No. Just interested.”
The Applebee smile disappeared. “Well,” he said, and hesitated, caught his lip between his teeth, released it, exhaled. “I’ll give you a rundown first. The bad, and then the good. From what we hear in Washington, everything is go in the Interior Department. Continental has its well-placed buddies, and your friend Zeck went back there last week to join in the lobbying. We’re told that the Bureau of Land Management has agreed to withdraw the acreage they hold from grazing – with a payoff to the leaseholders of course. That’s bad, but it’s what we expected. That leaves the Navajo Nation and Tano.”
He paused, acknowledged the waitress standing beside him, and ordered a hamburger.
“Coffee?”
“What kind of tea do you have?”
The waitress was a plump Navajo teenager from Two Grey Hills who had often waited on Chee since his transfer to Window Rock. She raised her eyebrows, puzzled. “Iced,” she said. “Iced tea.”
“No. No. I mean what kind of herb tea. Do you have Lemon Zinger? Almond Sunset? Or any of those Celestial flavors? And hot tea. Just bring me a cup of hot water and the tea bag.” Applebee looked back at Janet. “We also think we have some hope in Tano. Governor Penitewa is still favoring the idea as far as we can tell, but they have their election coming up in January and a lot of people in that pueblo don’t want that dump on Pueblo land. The governor can be beaten. There’s a way we can beat him.”
Applebee paused. The waitress was still standing there, looking indecisive. “Just bring me a cup, and a pot of hot water, and any tea bag you can find in the kitchen,” he said.
“How about here?” Chee asked. “Will the Tribal Council approve moving that toxic stuff across our land?”
“Not so good, here, by the looks of it,” Applebee said. “Councilman Chester is working hard for the dump. We’re worried about that.”
Chee was watching Janet. She said nothing, which pleased him. That was properly polite Navajo. Like Blizzard, she was an urban product. City bred, city raised, Navajo only by her father’s blood. She had to learn what it was like to be one of the Dineh. He would help teach her. Happily. Lovingly. If she would let him.
Applebee decided he wasn’t getting the expected sounds of support and approval. “Well,” he said, “let’s talk about Mr. Chester.” He looked at Chee. “Do you know him?”
“From Horse Mesa Chapter?” Chee asked. “Jimmy Chester? I know him a little.”
“What do you think of him?”
Chee shrugged. “I’m a policeman,” he said. “We don’t have opinions about politicians.”
“How about your aunt?” Janet asked. “The councilwoman.”
“She’s a former councilwoman now,” Chee corrected. “It’s allowed to have opinions about kinfolks.”
“I just didn’t want to say the wrong thing if Chester was a friend. Or something,” Applebee said.
“Nope,” Chee said. “I can say I know he’s a big operator in the cattle business out in the Checkerboard. And the people I knew when I was working out of Crownpoint thought Chester was a jerk.”
Applebee seemed relieved to hear this.
“Well,” he began, voice lowered, “We hear…” He stopped, and waited silently while the waitress deposited cup, saucer, tea bag, a large coffee thermos from which steam was rising, and a slice of lemon. He read the label on the tea bag, frowned, and made tea. “We hear that Councilman Chester is a consultant for Continental.”
He looked at Janet and then at Chee. Clearly this was the reason for this meeting, the message to be delivered. It seemed to Chee more of a firecracker than a bombshell. But Applebee was checking their faces, looking for reaction. “Taking money,” he explained.
“It’s probably legal enough,” Janet said. “But it can be bad politics and he’s up for reelection in the spring.”
Applebee looked surprised. “Really? You think it’s legal?”
“I’d have to check the tribal code. It prohibits councilmembers from voting on anything in which they have a personal financial interest. I doubt if it goes beyond that, but I’ll check.”
Applebee looked disappointed. “So it would just mean Chester couldn’t vote on the dump issue. I was hoping we could put the son-of-a-bitch in jail.”
“You have some evidence?” Janet asked. “Do you know how much they’re paying him? Any details? He’ll be trying to get the Horse Mesa Chapter to pass a resolution backing the dump. The Tribal Council usually goes along with whatever the local chapters want in their own district. And if the people out at Horse Mesa know he’s being paid to sell them on the dump – well, it makes them suspicious.”
“I don’t have anything on paper,” Applebee said. He gestured disappointment with his hands. “Nothing you’d call concrete evidence.”
“Nothing he can’t deny?” Janet asked. “What’s your source of information?”
Applebee examined his teacup and ignored both questions. “I think I can get something,” he said. He sipped, thoughtful.
“Something?” Janet asked.
Applebee smiled. “Something useful,” he said. “I think I know how I can get something he can’t deny.”
Chapter 7
THE WAITER in the Dowager Empress had long since abandoned hope of freeing his best table for another set of diners. He was outside the kitchen door, leaning on the wall, sneaking a smoke and enjoying Flagstaff’ s cold autumn air and the dazzle of stars overhead. At the table inside, Joe Leaphorn and Professor Louisa Bourebonette sat side by side. The assorted dishes of Chinese food on which they had dined were gone, replaced by a clutter of maps.
“How about this,” Bourebonette was saying. “We take the American flight to Hong Kong, transfer to Air China to Beijing. I want to do some work in the library there. About two days, maybe. Or three. You could either do the tourist thing, sort of get used to China and Chinese food and their way of doing things, or you could take a flight north from Beijing and see what you could find out about contacts in Mongolia. And I could join you because I have some stuff I want to get copies of there. Now these Chinese airline schedules are from when I was there three years ago, but it looks like…”
Leaphorn found himself only half-listening to Bourebonette’s recitation of flight schedules to places that sounded totally unreal. He was looking at the top of her head, bent over the schedules. He was thinking that the hair was gray but looked alive. Clean and healthy. (Emma’s hair to the very end had remained a glossy black.) He was thinking,
