He hung up and turned to face Chee.
Chee spoke in Navajo, introducing himself as born to the Slow Talking Clan, born for the Bitter Water People, naming his mother and his deceased father. 'I am looking for a man they call Leroy Gorman,' he concluded.
'I don't understand Navajo,' the man said.
Chee repeated it, clan memberships and all, in English. 'Gorman,' the man said. 'I don't know him.'
'I heard he lived here. In this trailer.'
The man frowned. 'Just me here,' he said.
Chee was conscious that the man hadn't identified himself. He smiled. 'You're not Leroy Gorman then,' Chee said. 'Is that a safe bet?'
'Name's Grayson,' the man said. He stuck out his hand and Chee shook it. A hard, warm grip.
'Wonder how I got the wrong information,' Chee said. 'This is the place.' He gestured at road, tree, river, and trailer. 'Supposed to be an aluminum airflow trailer like this. Strange.'
Grayson was studying Chee. Behind his smile his face was stiff with tension, the eyes watchful.
'Who is he, this Gorman? Who told you he lived here?'
'I don't really know him,' Chee said. 'I was just supposed to deliver a message.'
'A message?' The man stared at Chee, waiting.
'Yeah. To Leroy Gorman.'
The man waited, leaning in the doorway. Past him Chee could see dishes beside the sink, but except for that the interior of the trailer was utterly neat. The man was a Navajo, Chee was sure of that from his appearance. Since he didn't speak the language, or pretended not to, and since he didn't follow Navajo courtesy, he might be a Los Angeles Navajo. But he said he wasn't Leroy Gorman.
'You're the second person to show up today looking for this Gorman guy,' he said. He laughed, nervously. 'Maybe Gorman himself will show up next. You want to leave that message with me so I can pass it along if he does?'
'Who was the first one?'
'A girl,' Grayson said. 'Cute little skinny girl. Late teens.'
'She tell you her name?'
'She did. I can't think of it.'
'How about Margaret? Margaret Sosi.'
'Yeah,' Grayson said. 'I think so.'
'How little? How was she dressed?'
'About so,' Grayson said, indicating shoulder height with a gesture of his hand. 'Thin. Wearing a blue coat like in the navy.'
'What did she want?'
'Seemed to think I was this Gorman. And when she understood I wasn't, she wanted to ask me about her grandfather. Had he been here. Things like that. Don't remember his name. She wanted to find this Gorman because he was supposed to know something about where her grandfather was.' Grayson shrugged. 'Something like that. Didn't make much sense.' Chee put his foot on the step, shifted his weight. He wanted the man to invite him inside, to extend the conversation. Who was Grayson? What was he doing here?
'Maybe I could leave that message,' he said. 'You got a place I could write it down?'
Grayson hesitated a heartbeat. 'Come on in,' he said.
He provided a sheet from his note pad and a ballpoint pen. Chee sat on the built-in couch beside the table and printed, in a large, slow hand:
leroy gorman—albert got killed. get in touch with chee at
He hesitated. The tribal police switchboard operator responded to calls with 'Navajo Tribal Police.' Chee imagined Grayson hearing that and hanging up, his curiosity satisfied. He wrote in the number of the Shiprock Economy Wash-O-Mat and added:
leave message.
Chee didn't look up while he printed. He wanted Grayson to be reading the message—and he was sure that he had. He folded the paper, and refolded it, and wrote on the final fold:
for leroy gorman, private.
He handed it to Grayson.
'Appreciate it,' Chee said. 'If he does show up.'
Grayson didn't look at the note. His face was tense. 'Sure,' he said. 'But it ain't likely. Never heard of him until that girl showed up.'
'Did she say where she was going when she left?'
Grayson shook his head. 'Just said something about going off to find some old woman somewhere. Didn't mean much to me.'
It didn't mean much to Jim Chee either, except that finding Margaret Sosi probably wouldn't be easy.
