James Doss - The Shaman Laughs

Daisy sighed. It was a dark world, where a man would play such dark games as Oswald Oakes had lost himself in. Enough to make you want to cry. But there had been enough tears. What an old woman needed, from time to time, was a good laugh.

Special Agent James E. Hoover, accompanied by Sam Parker, was ushered to his customary table by the window. The owner, who was also the cook and waiter and janitor in the ten-table hole in the wall, rubbed his hairy hands on a filthy apron and grinned crookedly at this regular customer. "Good ta see ya, Mr. Hoover." He glanced at Parker. "What'll ya have, gents?"

"Something wholesome, Percy," Hoover said. "Brought my boss along, so help me make a good impression."

Percy faked a chuckle.

Parker tilted his head to read the handwritten menu through the bottom of his bifocals.

Hoover unfolded a napkin. "So what's good tonight?"

"Well, for eight-fifty, I could broil you a steak with baked spud and sour cream. And the barbecue is six ninety-five with wedge fries. Or," Percy added seductively, "you could try the special."

Hoover's eyebrows peaked. "Special?"

Percy twisted his face into an evil grin. Hoover was a cheap bastard who left lousy tips. And always ordered the special because it was a bargain. "It's our S-Q special. Fresh sausages, mashed spuds with cream gravy, and two veggies," the manager said, "for three-twenty-five."

Hoover hesitated.

Percy leaned forward. "And dessert is free with the special! Cherry cobbler. With vanilla ice cream."

The special agent considered the value and was hooked. "Bring on the special." He looked across the red-checkered oil cloth at his boss. "What'll you have, Sam?"

Sam Parker studied the menu. "Maybe I'll have the special. And decaf coffee."

Percy nodded. "Sorry, bud. Only one order of the special left. Try the barbecue. Or I got ham steak with brown sugar and pineapple slices."

Except for occasional bits of small talk, they ate their meals in silence.

Hoover's hands shook slightly; a muscle in his jaw twitched with an unseemly rhythm. It was apparent that the other customers paid the employees of the Federal Bureau of Investigation not the least attention, but he could not shake the unsettling sensation that unseen eyes watched his every move. He repeatedly glanced over his shoulder toward the dirty plate glass window, but it was impossible to see what might be lurking in the darkness outside. Only the occasional flash of headlights was visible.

Sam Parker was making mental notes about this troublesome employee. The bloodshot eyes. The nervous pattern in Hoover's speech. The tic in his jaw. There had been other subtle indications that the man was… emotionally unstable. Hoover was short-tempered. And nervous. And mildly paranoid. But worst of all, Hoover had been seeking attention from the press. The greenest rookie knew that publicity was the exclusive domain of the public relations officer. Not only had Hoover made unauthorized public announcements to the effect that Herb Ecker was guilty of the Nightbird murder, but it appeared that he had been wrong. Charlie Moon had made a solid case against the late Oswald Oakes for the mutilation of the Hereford bull and the killing of a tribal buffalo. And Oakes had viciously assaulted Scott Parris. It seemed a reasonable extrapolation that Oswald had also killed and mutilated Arlo Nightbird. But Charlie Moon had made no move to charge Arlo's death against Oswald Oakes's bill. Parker suspected that Moon, as usual, knew a great deal more than he cared to reveal. Maybe another tribal member had mutilated and murdered Nightbird. But that might as well remain Ute business. Parker had a rare gift; he knew when to keep his nose out of tribal affairs.

James E. Hoover was Sam Parker's immediate concern. A single misfit could tarnish the image of thousands of dedicated, capable investigators who routinely risked their lives to protect the citizens of this great republic. Patience, that was the thing. Sooner or later, there would be an excuse to write up a personnel action on this nasty little bastard. Hoover had skirted the edge of unacceptable behavior; some-thing more concrete was needed to put this guy away. Parker excused himself and visited the grimy rest room to empty his bladder.

For the tenth time in as many minutes, Hoover glanced over his shoulder and squinted suspiciously toward the plate glass window. Aside from a few headlights, nothing moved on the street. But the skin on the back of his neck was tingling. Worse still, his hands were shaking uncontrollably. He removed the small bottle from his coat pocket and washed two of the bitter yellow pills down with a swallow of tepid coffee.

Percy returned with a coffee pot. "See you've cleaned your plates. Ready for dessert?"

Hoover patted his belt buckle. "Bring on the pie, Percy. That was a passable dinner." The special agent burped.

The cook grinned. Like a possum, Hoover thought. "Glad you 'predated it."

"Tasty sausages," Hoover said. "I'd like to try it again sometime, but I didn't see the S-Q special on the menu." He frowned. "I guess the 'S' is for sausage. What's the 'Q' stand for, 'queasy'?"

Percy smiled broadly, displaying a mouthful of nicotine-stained teeth. " Sarichi Cuquavi ain't gonna be on the menu. That," Percy said sarcastically, "is why I call it 'special.'"

Hoover removed the paper napkin from his shirt and wiped at his chin. "My French is kind of rusty. What's it mean?"

"Well," Percy frowned thoughtfully, " Sarichi Cuquavi is… them is Ute words."

Hoover paled. "Did you say Ute ?"

"Don't ask me for more'n that." Percy held his palms up in a defensive gesture. "I understand it don't translate too good into American."

A burly Ute rancher at the next table looked up from his barbecued chicken and laughed. "That's easy to translate. You want to know what it means?"

Hoover buried his face in his hands and groaned. "No. Please don't tell me."

The Ute, not to be denied the opportunity to display his bilingual abilities, told him.

A wave of nausea rippled through Hoover's groin; he fought back a gag.

Percy's eyes widened. This was news to him, but it served the cheap bastard right. Anyway, he had a twenty dollar bribe in his pocket and it was no crime to serve Native American dishes in his restaurant.

As Percy hurried back to his grimy kitchen, Sam Parker returned from the rest room. He was alarmed to see James E. Hoover's face; it was the color of dirty cotton. And his hands shook.

Hoover's body rippled with a great shudder. "Those damn Utes," he said between sobs, "you know what they did to me?" He ducked his head and made a low groaning sound. He wanted to vomit, but could not.

Now, Parker noticed with an odd mixture of embarrassment and satisfaction, several customers were showing considerable interest in Hoover's behavior. Customers that could, if necessary, be called as witnesses in a departmental fitness hearing.

Sam Parker put a hand on Hoover's trembling shoulder. "Sure, James. I know it's been tough." Parker nodded apologetically to the Ute family at the next table and whispered. "He's not well." The man grunted and returned his attention to a slab of greasy chicken, but his plump wife had lost all interest in her plate of Polish sausage and sauerkraut.

Hoover was wiping at his eyes. "If I told you, you wouldn't believe…"

Parker's problem was solved. "Don't worry James. The Bureau takes care of its own."

Daisy Perika, who had watched Hoover savor every morsel, shuffled slowly down the Durango street to the spot where her niece had parked her aquamarine Saturn. She was twenty dollars poorer, but it had been a good investment. The sha-man's face ached from the strain, but she couldn't stop smiling.

The solicitous niece helped the old woman into the sedan and drove away.