Free Sacred Clowns by Tony Hillerman Page A

grinned back at him. “Getting romantic? You must be running out of girlfriends. Or is it just the season? That time of year?”
    “You’re thinking of spring,” Chee said. “This is autumn. That’s the time to be serious.”
    Janet’s small grin developed into a laugh. Clearly she didn’t think Chee was serious. “So, go ahead,” she said. “Be serious. And with this buildup, it better be good.”
    Chee, who had sipped two-thirds of his coffee while waiting, finished the rest of it. What did he want to say? Come live with me and be my love, he’d say. I think of you when I’m trying to go to sleep. I think of you when I’m awake. I dream of you. I— And, thinking of nothing appropriate to say, he just looked at her.
    “Go ahead,” she said. “I know what you’re after. You want to pump me about Eugene Ahkeah.”
    “No I don’t,” Chee said.
    “Yes you do. Any time I’m representing anyone in a case you’re involved with, you always push me right to the edge of violating professional ethics.”
    “I don’t care anything about Ahkeah,” Chee insisted. “I’ve never seen him. Never talked to him. Don’t have anything to do with that. That’s Lieutenant Leaphorn’s baby.”
    “You work for Leaphorn.”
    “Okay,” Chee said. “If you insist, what should I ask you about Ahkeah?”
    “He didn’t do it.”
    “Well, that’s a relief,” Chee said. “I’ll tell the lieutenant to turn him loose.”
    Janet looked surprised. “Really,” she said. “You don’t want to ask me about Ahkeah?”
    “Better yet,” Chee said, “you go tell Leaphorn Ahkeah is innocent. But I want to ask you to go to Gallup with me. Have dinner. Go to a movie. So forth. How about it?”
    Now she looked skeptical. “You could have asked me that on the telephone.”
    “What would you have said?”
    But Janet was looking past his shoulder. “Here he comes,” she said. And Roger Applebee was at their booth, smiling and nodding.
    He was not quite as young as he looked at first glance, perhaps fifty-five or so, small, slender, blond hair worn long, and in the proper garb for an autumn day in Window Rock, Arizona, the desert West. His boots had been polished a few days ago, his jeans were faded, his bolo tie was loose and decorated with a silver bear claw, and his pale blue shirt hung open the standard two buttons. Taken all together, Applebee was a handsome man. He looked totally healthy. Outdoorsy, Chee thought. But shining through the good looks was a fierce intensity which made short work of the usual small talk. Applebee was the sort who got to the heart of the matter. And the first matter was Jim Chee.
    “I liked your letter,” he said. “The one in the newspaper the other day.” And while he was saying it, he was looking past Chee at Janet Pete, expression quizzical, asking the wordless question. Can this man be trusted to hear what we say? Will he be discreet?
    “Mr. Chee is with the Navajo Tribal Police,” she said, motioning Applebee into the booth. “As you know, he doesn’t like seeing our part of the world made a dumping ground any better than I do. And he is used to listening, and keeping what he hears to himself.”
    “Tribal Police,” Applebee said, examining Chee. He smiled. “Do you know Sergeant Eddie Nakai over at Many Farms? He sold me a silver pollen flask once. Very, very old. I sometimes collect the old stuff.”
    “I’ve met him,” Chee said.
    That produced from Applebee a smile. “Are you assigned to this business?”
    “No,” Chee said. “No. Just interested.”
    The Applebee smile disappeared. “Well,” he said, and hesitated, caught his lip between his teeth, released it, exhaled. “I’ll give you a rundown first. The bad, and then the good. From what we hear in Washington, everything is go in the Interior Department. Continental has its well-placed buddies, and your friend Zeck went back there last week to join in the lobbying. We’re told that the Bureau of Land