Chapter 25

Crying Wolf and Desert Flower stayed only one day. I said good bye to them from the lobby of the Navajo Council building. From there I was closeted with Bill Clearwater, the man in charge of the Navajo industrial and business development.

The site chosen by the owl in my peyote-induced dream for the Navajo-Intel joint microchip factory was on a desolate piece of land, west of US 191, about five miles from the highway.

Clearwater asked me, “Are you sure you want to build a factory out there in the middle of nowhere? We’re going to have to build everything out there.”

“Well, yeah. That’s what I thought,” I said, trying to look totally serious. “How high do you think we should have the water slide at the amusement park?”

“Great. Why not shoot for fifty feet?” But then he got serious. “Ms White Owl, this is going to cost a lot of money. Not the eight to ten million I’d kind of thought for the factory.”

Okay, so I guess I’d have to serious up, too. “Do we have a Navajo based bank?”

“Umm ... it’s a small one. The Bank of the Nations. The main office is in Fort Defiance and they have a branch in the Hopi Reservation, too.”

“This may seem a bit out of right field. Do you have any relatives working there?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Because,” I replied, “I want to get an unbiased opinion. Is it on a sound financial footing? Are they honest?”

He paused before answering. “Well, I don’t really know about their finances. They are NOT backed by any of the US agencies, if that’s a concern. No FDIC or anything. They are kind of backed by the Navajo and Hopi, but I don’t know if that would matter if there was any serious money trouble. As to honesty ... the President of the bank is Navajo, and the Board of Directors are all from the Nations. I mean Navajo and Hopi. There are two elders from each tribe sitting on the Board.”

Red, I’m going to wing it from here. If you don’t think you can do any of this, let me know right away, please. Or if you think of any improvements along the way.

[Acknowledged, Lexi. When we get a chance, you’re going to explain what ‘wing it’ means.]

Red, it means to extemporize.

“I’m going to ask the Foundation for the Development of Native Cultures to put a sizable amount of money there. The FDNC. Maybe we could meet with the bank president?”

“Like how much money?” I could tell he wouldn’t be happy taking the word of a thirteen-year-old for a multi-million dollar deal.

“I really don’t know. How much would it take to support building roads, several residences, a couple of factories, and the infrastructure to support all that?” I said. “Remember that I’m just a conduit, here. I don’t have any money myself.”

“The problem is,” he responded, “that somebody is going to undertake a big investment on your say-so. The project you outlined just now is going to take serious money. I don’t know exactly. Maybe a hundred million dollars. It’ll be the biggest project ever undertaken in the Nation.”

“Maybe we could set up a meeting by phone with the Foundation people, the bank, Chairman Strike, and the leader of the Hopi. Who is the leader of the Hopi, by the way?”

“That would be Tribal Chairman Tomás Tonogye. Everybody calls him ‘RedHat,’ because he’s also the captain of the local firefighters. The government is located in Kiqötsmovi. The Hopi language is very complicated. Almost everything has an abbreviated name. The town of Kiqötsmovi, for example, is known as K-town.”

“Can I meet the Hopi leaders? Could we set something up? They are going to be a big part of the projects, I think. Maybe I could get a ride over there? Or at least a horse?”

He laughed. “I heard about your horsemanship skills from Dove the other day. Anyway, it’s too far. It would take all day. It’s a short drive, though. I think our Chairman should set something up.” He picked up the phone, but didn’t dial. He turned his head to look at me, like a dog does when he hears something interesting. Then he dialed a single digit. “Hey, Strike. I’ve got Ms White Owl here, and we were talking about going over to visit RedHat. I think you should head up the delegation, and maybe take Wild Mustang, too ... Sure. Him too. You’re right, we should include the Hopi Chief.”

He hung up and addressed me. “He’ll set up something for tomorrow ... Now, let’s see about the bank.” He picked up the phone again. “Hello, this is Bill Clearwater, from the Nation’s Business Development Council. Could I talk to Ms Moonflower, please? ... Hello, how are you today, Moon? ... Say, listen. I’ve got a development proposal I’d like to discuss with you. Could we have a few minutes of your time? ... That would be fine. I’m bringing a surprising young lady with me, a Miss White Owl ... Yes, that’s the one ... Okay. We’ll see you at one.”

He hung up the phone, again. “We have a couple of hours to get up to Fort Defiance. We’ll be meeting with Arista Moonflower. She’s the daughter of Katy of the Moon, who you met earlier.”

“I remember her,” I interrupted.

“Good,” he went on. “Her daughter is a sharp cookie. I hope you’re not put off at a female running the bank. Perhaps you were expecting a man.”

Gads! A woman running a bank in 1977! What IS the world coming to? “Oh, that’s no problem,” I said.

“We have just enough time to drive up there, and get lunch at ‘Miz Daisy’s.’ I won’t say more, but you’ll love it.”

We took off in one of the Council’s multi-colored Broncos. I was actually sitting up with a seat belt in the normal position. Look ma! No training wheels! And no broken ribs!

Red?

[If I may anticipate your question. We can easily transfer $20 million at the drop of a coin.]

That’s ‘drop of a hat,’ Red. You got your idioms confused.

[Why would anyone drop a hat? ... Anyway, I’ve downloaded a dossier on the Hopi, RedHat, their Chief, and Moonflower. The latter has quite a resume: undergrad at Berkeley, MBA at Stanford, five years at Clearwater’s job before him, and then the bank.]

I perused the files on the trip up to Ft. Defiance. We got to Miz Daisy’s at 11:35. It was a standalone building surrounded by a big parking lot that was filled with pickups of every style, denomination, and model year. There were a few motorcycles, too. We went in and sat at one of the big family-style tables, with eight other guys, three of whom were in the uniform of the US Army. There were no menus, only a young black woman who took our drink orders. Clearwater had a Bud. Lemonade for me.

Then we got big soup bowls. I mean BIG. And a spoon. Napkins were via a roll of paper towels. Sergeant Lincoln (I could see the name patch on his BDUs) was sitting opposite me, and tore off two napkin/towels for each of the diners at our table and passed them around. Lincoln’s Sergeant insignia was different than the other two Sergeants at our table.

[Lexi, First Sergeant Lincoln is a Marine, the other two are lower class Sergeants from the Army. Why a Marine would be at an Army base in Arizona would be a good question. Lincoln’s last posting was at Camp Pendleton, California.]