His friend narrowed his eyes. “I’m not joking about this. She’ll reopen old wounds. She’ll make a statement in front of the TV cameras with the sheep and the dogs milling around, and her all decked out in a velvet blouse and squash blossom necklaces. She wants to time it for when your president shows up so he will have to say something in response or look like a coldhearted character.” Dashee shook his head. “Then our tribal leadership will have to respond. We’ll all be embarrassed. You know she’s breaking the law.” Dashee’s voice climbed to almost a shout. “You know all this. Don’t make us the bad guys.”
Chee said, “Calm down, friend. You’re right and I’m on your side.” How could any television newsperson resist the arrival of dozen of sheep, dogs, and a woman with fire in her eyes at the Justice Center? Mrs. Bitsoi knew that the Navajo Nation president planned to attend the meeting tomorrow. “I would talk to her about the animals, but I have to stay here to keep an eye on Palmer.”
“I know. I’m just giving you a heads-up. That’s one furious lady. I’m glad I couldn’t understand her when she gave me what for in Navajo.”
“Tell you what. I’ll ask Captain Ward if one of the other Navajo cops can go out and talk to her.”
Dashee smiled. “Tell him not to ask Redbone. Mrs. Bitsoi doesn’t like him. Long story.”
Back in the meeting room, the woman had finished speaking and the next person stood at the mic. He said his company had constructed other resorts and casinos in conjunction with various Indian communities in Arizona.
“But before I use up my five minutes, I want to complain that it’s cold in here. Mr. Palmer, could you get us some heat?”
Palmer looked up from his notes and said, “I’ll look into it. Thank you. Please proceed.” Then he motioned Chee to the stage. “See if someone can turn up the furnace.”
Chee found Silversmith, who knew whom to talk to. A young man in a maintenance uniform with the Navajo Nation seal embroidered on the pocket fiddled with the thermostat and disappeared. Another speaker went to the microphone, and then another. The meeting droned on.
Silversmith came up to him. “Bad news. Maintenance says there’s something wrong with the heating system, not just in here, but throughout the whole building. It’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“The system manager, the guy who knows everything, is on the way. We thought it might have something to do with the power outage yesterday, but . . .”
“But what?”
“The crew thinks somebody might have messed it up on purpose. You know. Vandalism.”
Sabotage was a better word, Chee thought.
“Are the two federal agents still around?”
“I’m sure they are.”
“Let them know about this.”
The current speaker kept to the time limit, more or less. Two more shared their opinions.
Chee had heard it before. The most irrefutable argument was that many different people held the area being considered for the resort sacred: tribes who had lived in the canyon before there was a national park, before John Wesley Powell, before the Spanish explorers. What if a developer made an offer to build a secular playground at Bethlehem, the Wailing Wall, or the Kaaba in Mecca?
The speakers continued to share opinions; the room grew colder.
Silversmith slipped him a sheet of paper, whispered For Palmer, and disappeared. The mediator had not scheduled a break, so Chee made his way to the stage. The man at the mic, talking about the possibility of uranium mining in the canyon and how a resort might fit with that scenario, didn’t miss a beat.
Palmer met him at the edge of the platform. Chee handed him the note and saw him read it and frown. Chee said, “I’ve got news about the heat, too.”
“Good news?”
“No. The maintenance crew can’t fix it, so the system manager is on the way. I’ll tell you more later.”
Palmer tapped the sheet of paper. “Do you know anything about this?”
“No. But here’s something else we need to talk about. An angry woman could be headed toward Tuba tomorrow with a bunch of sheep she wants to introduce to the president.”
“That’s what we need here. Another chute for the rodeo. Meet me in the back room in a few minutes.”
Palmer walked to the podium, surveyed the crowd, then clicked on the microphone as soon as Uranium Man finished. “Ladies and gentlemen, let’s take a twenty-minute recess. When we return, I hope to have more information about the heating problem.”
A woman seated on the aisle grabbed Chee’s arm.
“Can you tell me where the restrooms are?”
He gave her simple directions and heard her opinion on why public buildings should all have more facilities, especially for large meetings like this one. Then his phone buzzed with Bernie, the car-key thief. He’d call her back after he talked to Palmer.
Most of the delegates stayed onstage, some chatting with one another, some checking messages, all of them looking tired and cold. He went to the back room but didn’t find Palmer. They had traveled this road before, so Chee stayed calm. He walked out the big exit doors and saw Palmer leaning against the wall, phone in hand. Chee heard him say, “I know. I’m sorry. I’ll try . . .”
He acknowledged Chee with a glance and pressed the phone against his arm. “Can you make a call and see how Robert’s doing?”
“No problem.”
“And find out what’s up with the heat? And get me a Coke and a candy bar. I’m fading. I know you don’t want me to die on your watch.”
Chee called the hospital, learned that the nursing supervisor was with a patient, and left a message with his number and Palmer’s. He went inside and spotted Silversmith, who agreed to keep an eye on Palmer until Chee returned from the candy machine and had an update on the furnace crisis. But Silversmith wasn’t interested in talking to the Bitsois.
“Captain Ward asked me about that already, but I know the family. They’ve been angry about the relocation settlement for years and let me know about it. I told the captain you could handle it better than me, and I’d babysit Palmer.” Silversmith raised his eyebrows. “Why not leave it to the Hopis?”
“They say they don’t have a guy who speaks enough Navajo.”
Silversmith made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Navajo, Chinese, Russian? It don’t matter what language you use. I know; I’ve talked to them. Those folks just want to raise a ruckus.”
“What’s new with the heat?”
“Nothing yet. The system manager and team just got here.”
At the candy machine, Chee spotted the M&M’s that inspired the silly TV commercials he liked. When he reached in his pocket for the candy money, he felt the envelope for Blankenship. Another errand-boy assignment, but this one self-imposed. He’d wrap it up today. He inserted some coins and pushed the button, then extracted a Coke from the next machine. By the time he returned, the delegates had settled back at their table and Palmer again stood at the podium. Chee told him about the heat guru’s recent arrival, gave him the Coke, and put the candy on the podium next to the microphone.
Palmer tore open the bag, sprinkled several into his hand. “What about Robert?”
“The nurse wasn’t available, but I left a message for her.”
“Let me know.” He slid the candy discs into his mouth.