Zuni Stew: A Novel by Kent Jacobs

the Zunis. Like I said earlier, I really like them. Here I am, this youngblood from Texas. So I come up with this idea to serve up a real barbeque for all the staff. Brisket, beans, coleslaw, hot dogs for the kids. Mustard, catsup, the whole nine yards. Damn if the Indians didn’t sit around the perimeter of my dinky backyard. Some on chairs that they brought themselves. Some sat cross-legged on the grass. Quiet. Polite. Sort of Zen. Not like any of my wild buddies back home.
    “One time we loaded beer—I mean cases of beer—into a stock tank. Iced it down. This one dude comes walking by and says, ‘Y’all watch over me—I may end up in that tank tonight.’”
    Jack laughed. Reached for the bourbon bottle. Bill kept on rolling.
    “What I’m saying is I’m copasetic with the Zuni people. It’s not that they didn’t have fun for sure. They just seemed more respectful—at peace. When they left, the place was pristine.”
    Bill emptied his glass, saying, “Hey, Jack, you’re gonna like it here.”
    “Midnight,” said Jack finally, rising to his feet. “We gotta work tomorrow.”
    “Five AM.”
    “Rounds?”
    “No. I’m going to take you up for a ride. Give you a feel for the country. Good little two-seater Piper Cub over at the FAA. Can you dig it?”
    Jack left, feeling a light buzz. More bothersome, he had a stiff neck. An aching in his bones. Too young for this, he thought. Was he reacting to the altitude? Six-hundred feet above sea level in Chicago, versus six-thousand in Zuni. Pretty damn big difference. He shivered. Ground fog was creeping in, drifting off the lake.
    
    Lori worked better on a full stomach. She walked the three-and-a-half blocks down State Street to Marshall Field. Over a bowl of chowder in the restaurant, she thought about the tragic photos. She was still bothered about the secrecy. She didn’t mind going in alone, in fact, she preferred it. No cheerleader or sorority life for her. No rah-rah. Really not many friends. But she wasn’t being told everything—she could be sent in as a sacrificial lamb. Still, she had been handed a major case.
    She reached for the check—a hand clasped her shoulder.
    “Easy, there, Agent Wilson, it’s just me. We meet again,” said Yolanda Cervantes. “I’m on lunch break. ¿ Que pasa con Agent Brooks?”
    “Have a seat. I survived.” She told Yolanda, who asked to be called ‘Yolie,’ that Brooks was blunt, old school. “He put me in my place. Then he gave me a case. He’s letting me run with it.”
    “Unreal. I’m blown away. That pig gave you a case—no offense, but he’s...”
    “No offense taken. I wondered that myself.”
    Yolanda folded her manicured hands on her lap. “If I were you, I’d think long and hard about each and every word that man says to you.”
    
    Class B khaki uniform on, and hungry. Bill’s hamburger from the night before was long gone. He was still creaky. Must be a storm on the way.
    Jack opened every cabinet, hoping the last occupant had left something. Literally, the cupboards were bare. He fished some ‘borrowed’ tea bags from the Albuquerque motel from his dopp kit. The PHS had graciously supplied a skeleton collection of pots (1), pans (1), and some utensils. One big spoon. One small spoon. Chipped Fiesta ware. Two dented tin cups.
    Carrying his tea (no sugar), he checked out his new quarters. Small living room. Fireplace, a plus. He poured a second cup of weak tea, went into what he supposed was a mud room. One door led to a detached garage, another to the basement. Flipped on the outdoor switch and stepped into the pale pre-dawn darkness. Breathed in the scent of scrub pine and juniper. Brushing by a clump of purple thistles, he noticed beaded moisture on the flower heads glinting in the light of the back door. He lifted the door of the single car garage, pulled the string attached to a bare bulb. Grimy cabinets filled with paint, snow chains, empty oil cans, empty jugs of