Read Online Zuni Stew: A Novel by Kent Jacobs - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kent Jacobs
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tribe and needed a bigger building. I got it cheap. Actually it has everything I need.”
He opened a thick double-paned glass door into a vestibule filled with rangy red geraniums. Another security door led to the waiting area. A couch, a table. A cheap stained wall heater. Cardboard boxes everywhere, brimming with files. Recessed ceiling fixtures glowed down on the teller counter, a/k/a the kitchen. The truck and SUVs were in view through the teller windows.
“My bedroom was the manager’s office.” He limped across the room and pointed down a hallway. “Down there I have my very own vault.” He reached behind the bedroom door and handed her a bullet-proof vest. “FBI-issue. Whoa—it’s way too big for you, but it will still stop a bullet.”
Lori laughed. “I feel like a rodeo clown inside a padded rain barrel.”
“When I quote-unquote ‘left’ the FBI, I gave them some bologna about all my equipment getting fried. Then I kept it.” He handed her a set of keys. “The Scout is yours.
Everything you need is in there. A quick look, and I’ve got to go.”
Raid jacket. Enough evidence equipment to process a large crime scene. Assault rifle in a roof-rack. “That police radio will connect you to tribal police or dispatcher. I’m always out in nowhere, but they usually can find me.”
She followed him to a junction. He thrust his arm out his window, gesturing straight ahead—Route 66 to Gallup. He turned south onto State Route 547. It was dark when she pulled into Gallup. Thank goodness Flores had made a reservation.
El Rancho Hotel. Like a faded postcard. Past its time, but a place to park. An elderly Indian was polishing the shoes of a heavyset man sitting in one of the leather high chairs. Ponderous log furniture. A huge Yei-bi-chai Navajo rug. Mounted deer and antelope heads. Unique background music, low sounds of Indians chanting, drumming.
She was more interested in eating. The desk clerk told her the restaurant had closed for the night, but the 49er Bar was still serving.
She could use a drink.
Seated in a red leather booth, she ordered a bourbon and water.
“Short or tall?” asked the waitress.
Lori laughed, saying, “Better make it tall. I’ve wanted to be tall all my life.”
“And to eat?”
“The biggest steak you’ve got, rare.”
“You got it, girl.”
The television behind the bar, despite the snowy picture, occupied the attention of a cowboy with long sideburns, moustache, and Stetson. A spokesman was saying the White House had sent a letter to the Oglala Sioux chiefs promising to discuss the Fort Laramie Treaty.
A pair of inebriated Indians at the bar began shouting and slamming down their bottles of Budweiser. “We stand by our brothers and sisters at Wounded Knee.” Then more insults. “We curse the FBI. Stinking pigs!”
She turned away. The American Indian Movement versus the FBI, BIA, Federal Marshalls, local Police. Gun battles, tear gas barrages, fire-fights. Almost a full-scale military offensive. A dark period in the Dakotas.
At least the drink was strong. She learned to drink at the University of Colorado. Her father, a Methodist minister, would have whooped her if he had known. Home was southeastern Colorado. La Junta. Flat plains, wind-driven snow. Space. He taught her to hunt and fish. His parish pay was paltry—he justified the hunting because the family needed food.
He taught her how to gut an elk, skin a rabbit, filet trout. Make elk sausage, rabbit stew. But she was no hick. A scholarship got her a master’s at Harvard. That was where she shared a tiny apartment and a bedroll with her dog, Bo. She existed on cottage cheese and ketchup. Saltine crackers and mustard.
Thankfully, the steak arrived.
12
J ack read the temporary reassignment orders. “What the shit? I just got here.”
Bill gave him a letter of introduction, and orders for a car, adding, “I’ve got you a ride into Gallup—the pharmacist is heading into town to pick up
He opened a thick double-paned glass door into a vestibule filled with rangy red geraniums. Another security door led to the waiting area. A couch, a table. A cheap stained wall heater. Cardboard boxes everywhere, brimming with files. Recessed ceiling fixtures glowed down on the teller counter, a/k/a the kitchen. The truck and SUVs were in view through the teller windows.
“My bedroom was the manager’s office.” He limped across the room and pointed down a hallway. “Down there I have my very own vault.” He reached behind the bedroom door and handed her a bullet-proof vest. “FBI-issue. Whoa—it’s way too big for you, but it will still stop a bullet.”
Lori laughed. “I feel like a rodeo clown inside a padded rain barrel.”
“When I quote-unquote ‘left’ the FBI, I gave them some bologna about all my equipment getting fried. Then I kept it.” He handed her a set of keys. “The Scout is yours.
Everything you need is in there. A quick look, and I’ve got to go.”
Raid jacket. Enough evidence equipment to process a large crime scene. Assault rifle in a roof-rack. “That police radio will connect you to tribal police or dispatcher. I’m always out in nowhere, but they usually can find me.”
She followed him to a junction. He thrust his arm out his window, gesturing straight ahead—Route 66 to Gallup. He turned south onto State Route 547. It was dark when she pulled into Gallup. Thank goodness Flores had made a reservation.
El Rancho Hotel. Like a faded postcard. Past its time, but a place to park. An elderly Indian was polishing the shoes of a heavyset man sitting in one of the leather high chairs. Ponderous log furniture. A huge Yei-bi-chai Navajo rug. Mounted deer and antelope heads. Unique background music, low sounds of Indians chanting, drumming.
She was more interested in eating. The desk clerk told her the restaurant had closed for the night, but the 49er Bar was still serving.
She could use a drink.
Seated in a red leather booth, she ordered a bourbon and water.
“Short or tall?” asked the waitress.
Lori laughed, saying, “Better make it tall. I’ve wanted to be tall all my life.”
“And to eat?”
“The biggest steak you’ve got, rare.”
“You got it, girl.”
The television behind the bar, despite the snowy picture, occupied the attention of a cowboy with long sideburns, moustache, and Stetson. A spokesman was saying the White House had sent a letter to the Oglala Sioux chiefs promising to discuss the Fort Laramie Treaty.
A pair of inebriated Indians at the bar began shouting and slamming down their bottles of Budweiser. “We stand by our brothers and sisters at Wounded Knee.” Then more insults. “We curse the FBI. Stinking pigs!”
She turned away. The American Indian Movement versus the FBI, BIA, Federal Marshalls, local Police. Gun battles, tear gas barrages, fire-fights. Almost a full-scale military offensive. A dark period in the Dakotas.
At least the drink was strong. She learned to drink at the University of Colorado. Her father, a Methodist minister, would have whooped her if he had known. Home was southeastern Colorado. La Junta. Flat plains, wind-driven snow. Space. He taught her to hunt and fish. His parish pay was paltry—he justified the hunting because the family needed food.
He taught her how to gut an elk, skin a rabbit, filet trout. Make elk sausage, rabbit stew. But she was no hick. A scholarship got her a master’s at Harvard. That was where she shared a tiny apartment and a bedroll with her dog, Bo. She existed on cottage cheese and ketchup. Saltine crackers and mustard.
Thankfully, the steak arrived.
12
J ack read the temporary reassignment orders. “What the shit? I just got here.”
Bill gave him a letter of introduction, and orders for a car, adding, “I’ve got you a ride into Gallup—the pharmacist is heading into town to pick up
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