LITMIR.BIZ

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diabetes and didn’t take care of it. He died when Lew Lew was in undergrad. Her mother went back down south and took up with some other guy and is livin’ around Sells. So … Lew Lew really doesn’t have anybody, anywhere except Sells. She was the only child they had and she never seemed to be able to make friends too well. I guess that’s why she likes the cop.” We both smiled reverently.

      “Well I really wish I knew what that deputy was looking for,” I pondered aloud. “I don’t have any Indian artifacts, and I sure wouldn’t keep anything of value in that little thin walled apartment.”

      “Where would you keep it?”

      “I’d keep it in my safety deposit box at the bank.”

      “Which bank?”

      “BOA on the highway.”

      “Okay, I guess, but I wouldn’t trust any of the local banks not to let Lew Lew look in your box.”

      I said, “There is no way someone can look in my box unless they have my key … I hope.”

      Preston said, “Well I don’t know much about that, but I bet Uncle Sam could get in those boxes if he wanted.”

      “Yeah, I hear you, but they would have to have a federal subpoena to get in there. Wouldn’t they?”

      “Ain’t illegal possession of Native American artifacts a federal crime?” he asked.

      I breathed, “Oh shit!”

      Chapter 12.

      On the way to the safety deposit box Preston and I talked about how Parker had grown, how beautiful the land between Parker and the river had become thanks to irrigation, and how the reservation tribes were prospering thanks to water allocations. Still, the plague of diabetes always reared its ugly head during most conversations, mainly because of Myra.

      I wanted Preston to see the contents of the safety deposit box as my witness, so if it was opened by Lew Lew, at least he would know what was in there. The signature card would be my proof of the times it had been entered, and today was the second time I’d opened it since my arrival in Parker.

      We went through all the formalities and went into the private room to open the box. Preston saw all the trinkets my father had saved and he wanted to handle each one. I humored him. He said he remembered there was “medicine” in some of them. We opened the old leather map and his eyes went wide. He took it and handled it gingerly, with obvious respect. He asked me where my father got it and of course I told him I had no idea, and I never asked him because I thought it was junk like most of the other stuff he owned. Preston said it might be, but I could tell by his change in demeanor he didn’t believe it was worthless.

      We rode in silence with the map all the way back to the coffee shop. It was time for another cup of coffee, but this time I needed iced tea. Preston was uncharacteristically quiet and I just let it ride and sipped my tea. Finally he said, “There’s a good copy place in town run by a tribal member and he can enhance copies or do just about anything … with anything.”

      I said, “So?”

      “So I think we need to go see him.”

      “Why don’t you let me in on your plan?”

      “Sorry, I been thinkin’, and I think that map could be real old. Your father never told me about it though. I can’t understand why”

      “Why do you think it’s old?” I asked, cocking my head.

      “Well, if I’m not mistaken, and I may be because I’m old, that symbol in the lower right corner is a Pima symbol.”

      “So?” I found myself asking again.

      “So, the Pima are the ones that kicked Spanish ass down around the Gila River, and if that’s a Pima symbol it may be from when the Pima kicked ‘em out. Maybe some of the more educated ones thought that map might be important. I did see what must be the Sierra Estrella Mountains on the map, but the damn Spanish put so much garbage on a map it’s hard to tell. That’s why we need to get a good copy of it.”

      On our way to the copy store, between stops for coffee, Preston was quiet but asked me if I knew what Tohono O’odham meant in Pima. Of course I bit like a sucker and said I didn’t. He said it meant, “Home of the Spanish Ass Kickers.”

      Chapter 13.

      Not long after arriving at the print shop I realized it was one very sophisticated outfit. It had digital IR imaging equipment, computer assisted enhancement imaging, and you name it. What they didn’t have access to they could get through associations with big names like NASA, National Geodesic Survey and Defense Mapping Agency. I was impressed! Preston and I went into the manager’s sparse office and Preston had a semi-private talk with the manager ... in Hopi. Since I couldn’t understand any of it, I asked him what went on.

      He apologized for the lack of etiquette, explaining the owner didn’t completely trust a couple of the white guys who worked there. That was okay with me, but the whole hush-hush thing was beginning to creep me out. Preston told me we needed to get the map out of the box before the BOA closed and meet with the manager of the print shop at 8:00 p.m. At that point, I was really apprehensive.

      After I expressed my reservations, he said no one else should be around when the manager copied the map. As I found out later, Preston made a wise recommendation. I asked him what time I should pick him up after getting the map. He said we would have plenty of time for supper between bank closing time and 8:00. I easily got the message that time and checked my wallet for supper money after I dropped him off.

      After all the cloak and dagger, I had to carry the map with me just to feel safe about it. So, I ate dinner with Preston and a beautiful Native American lady named Myra. There was no talk of the map from Preston or me. Myra made it obvious she wanted to see me later and I calculated the possible time between dinner and the meeting at 8:00. No way, with Uncle there though. Preston told Myra he was introducing me to a possible client who may need my mercenary services in the future. One could see Myra wondering who in hell on the Res could use my services … except her of course … I hoped. Anyway, supper was over about 7:30 and I kissed Myra in her car and asked her to meet me at the apartment about 9:00. She wanted me back at 8:30. That always gave me a glow.

      They don’t exactly roll up the sidewalks, but Parker is typical of most small towns. The bars stay open late and the regulars keep to themselves mostly. The police have to look for something to do, so one better not speed when there are only a few cars on the streets. I had a feeling I was being watched anyway so it wasn’t the most comfortable of times, even with a conversationalist like Preston beside me.

      We had to drive only about three quarters of a mile from the coffee shop to the copy shop. The red and blue lights appeared in my mirror about two blocks from the get-go. I was pissed before I pulled to the curb. Preston said, “Let me handle Lew Lew’s white boy.”

      The guy hadn’t exited his cruiser so how the hell did Preston know? I could see the cop’s overheads come on to let us know he was calling in our description, and it was Lew Lew’s friend sure enough. He took his time. My passenger and I were dead quiet. He finally condescended to walk up to my car and I rolled the window down a few inches as he strolled toward us.

      Preston broke the silence. “Roll your window down all the way,” he ordered. His sudden command prompted a quick handle turning on the jeep and the window came down. The handsome young man started his usual police jibe while taking a peek inside. His eyes widened, and in a little boy voice stammered, “Well … I didn’t see you in here, Uncle. How are you tonight?”

      “I’m just fine Officer Waite. How are you?” The sun-tanned face took on a pale glistening look. Preston continued without a response, “We are just driving and will be going to my place to get another cup of coffee. We were just talking about how white people live and work on the reservation.”

      Officer Waite choked out, “Oh … I see. I noticed he didn’t

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