Chapter 9

I’d never been to the Sunrise Cafe in Burnside before. I got the Lumberjack Combo: a stack of buttermilk pancakes, three eggs (scrambled, please), a side of breakfast potatoes, and sourdough toast. I thought about getting some fruit for dessert, but ... well, I could always order that later. It seems that settling the hash for a couple of thugs made me hungry.

I zoned out and went back to contacting Wild Mustang. He was sitting in the front of a Datsun sedan. They were heading down the road, and I picked up a roadside sign that said ‘Window Rock 30 miles.’ So they were on the road back toward Wild Mustang’s place. I wondered what the three old Indians had planned. Mustang was running through some older images of tying some men down in the desert with leather thongs tied to stakes in the ground. They must have been very old images, because Tall Feather was one of those who were doing the tying-down, and he was a much younger man – maybe early twenties or even a teen.

I went back to concentrating on the pancakes, as Wild Mustang’s gaze fixated on the Chevy pickup with its load of bad guys.

My guys were going over and over what each of them did during the ‘raid.’ They were certainly having a good time, reveling in their success. I tapped into their minds, one at a time.

Big Tex was over it. With the ‘perps’ in the hands of the Navajo Tribe, the situation, as far as he was concerned, was over. He wasn’t concerned at all about what happened or what was going to happen to them. Case closed. He concentrated on his Western Omelet. He thought the orange juice was delicious, obviously freshly squeezed.

Rock was another case entirely. He was worried that his grandfather, Wild Mustang, would do something that would get him in trouble with the law. Oh, he agreed that ‘white man law’ were the wrong people to handle the intruders. He just didn’t want Mustang to get caught.

Bear, on the other hand, didn’t seem to care a whit about what would happen to the sons of bitches. He wanted them drawn and quartered. He flashed on an old movie of a man tied to four horses who’d run off in different directions. The man in the movies screamed and that was the end of the scene. He flashed on a picture of him on top of me, and then pictured the bad guys raping me, tied down in the desert somewhere. He was very angry about it.

Interesting that.

To break the silence that hung over the breakfast table – with the possible exception of Big Tex’s fascination with the OJ – I said: “Listen guys...” They all looked at me. “ ... We are not going to discuss this morning’s activities with anyone. Period.” I looked at Bear and Rock. “Not any part of what went on or how it was resolved. Not with anybody at Burnside North who may have thought they saw something. Not in a breakfast place where we are, probably, the only ones who can overhear. PROBABLY the only ones who can hear.

“There are other things,” I went on, “that I will cause us to see, or hear ... um ... things, that will be in the same category. Top Secret is a classification that does not apply only to the CIA.” I was searching for something that would impress them with the importance of this. “I was not kidding with that ‘Sun Bear of the Shoshone’ and ‘Painted Rock of the Navajo’ thing. The secrecy of some things is a matter of your personal honor, and, as we found out earlier, our personal survival.”

Big Tex just nodded. But I knew he agreed, already. Bear looked me in the eye and nodded. Rock went back to his toast. “Uh huh,” Rock said. “So ... how do you think the Road Runners are going to do in the basketball tournament down in Flagstaff?” The Burnside North Road Runners had a new point guard, who could apparently out-dribble and out-shoot Rick Barry, the ‘Miami Greyhound.’ Barry was a forward, but that didn’t bother the Burnside Bugle’s sports columnist.

Tex just barely acknowledged Rock’s change of topics. “Football’s my game, but I hear that the ‘Navajo Road Runner,’ as they’re calling him, is quite a player. Although I’ve read that Flagstaff West is the class of the tournament.”

The fellas went on with their basketball chatter. My mind went back to an idle thought of mine: the difference between boys’ and girls’ ‘thinking’ was that for girls it was ‘boys, other girls’ opinions, boys, how do I look, and other things’ – and for boys it was ‘sex, sports, sex, sex, sports, sex, and food.’ They were on the ‘sports’ phase just now.

I got the check saying, “This is clearly a business breakfast. Now ... let’s get on with the rest of the day.”

...

On the ride back to my hacienda, I zoned out again, and focused on Wild Mustang. He was still in the Datsun, but now they were in the lead car. I thought it looked like they were headed for the sweat lodge. I couldn’t really be sure, because one coyote trail in the desert looked like any other.

I broke off and decided to check in on the mad bomber: Tommy Sussex. OH SHIT! He had just planted a bomb. Several sticks of dynamite under a wall of concrete.

WHERE? I had to get him to think of ‘where’. He wasn’t thinking of sports, so naturally his mind wandered to sex. I planted a thought that he wouldn’t – never, ever – think of telling Mistress Angel about it. His mind wandered off to another session with Mistress Angel. His mind was focused on the sexual aspects. He gave himself a little jolt of electricity from his ‘apparatus.’ It gave him a satisfying little jolt. Apparently, he wore it all the time. Maybe he had a physical addiction to it. Or maybe it was a mental addiction.

I directed his thoughts back to the bomb. ‘Yeah,’ he thought, ‘that’ll get their attention. Fuckin’ casino will blow up. Hope the lunch crew of the fuckin’ Indians will go with it.’

“Okay,” I said to Bear, who was driving. “Pull over. NOW! I have to get out.”

He slowed down and pulled over. “What the hell?”

“I gotta make a private call. And it’s urgent.”

The car stopped. I got out and turned to look at the back seat. Rock was closing the window in the back, but staring at me through the glass. I turned away and dialed Linc.