Josh David’s story about the Tribal Council meeting had been picked up by the Associated Press. That was a first for the young reporter and he was quite proud, even though it had been reduced to a solitary paragraph about hippies beating up Russian thugs out on the Navajo Reservation over some controversial resort. The blurb made little sense.
On the phone in Josh’s tiny bungalow in Page, Arizona, was his editor, Tom Hall, calling from his office in Phoenix. “I told you the story hook was going to be the fight after the Council meeting,” said the old newshand without even a howdy do. “Did you have any luck with Chairman Greyeyes?”
“His secretary claims the guy is always busy,” Josh said. “But I’m finally scheduled to meet with him this afternoon. He’s giving me fifteen minutes of his precious time.”
“Good man, Josh. You just need to keep pounding away.”
Josh took a sip of coffee as he walked out the screen door leading to his postage-stamp backyard. “Yeah, well, I wouldn’t count on ol’ Jimmy giving us anything but political doubletalk. Butter wouldn’t melt in that guy’s mouth.”
Tom laughed. He liked Josh, and the kid had all the makings of a good reporter. “When they rope-a-dope, you just have to hit them from an angle they weren’t expecting. Shit, ask him if it’s true he’s banging his secretary.”
The two men laughed.
Tom switched gears. “I was thinking about your encounter with the Hopi archaeologist. So far, everyone has focused on the environmental aspects of the proposed development, and the Navajo opposition. Makes perfect sense because that’s all front and center. But it’s interesting that a small but powerful Indian tribe located a hundred miles away from the Little Colorado is also involved, but from behind the scenes.”
Josh stared out on the azure waters of Lake Powell in the distance below and sighed. “Getting the Hopi to talk—even off the record—is like trying to open a walnut with your hands.”
“Well, son, if you can’t get them to talk, no one probably can. So, I’m counting on you.”
After yet another tedious drive across the Navajo Reservation to Window Rock, Josh finally got his meeting with the Tribal Chairman Jimmy Greyeyes. The old man looked tired. There were bags under his gray eyes and his wrinkled brown skin seemed to sag as if the man was wasting away. An expensive squash blossom necklace hung over the open collar of his blue denim shirt, and his dark hair was tied in a tight bun. He tapped a yellow pencil on his desk absentmindedly as he fed Josh the party line.
“You know how this all works, Josh. The Tribal Council will make the final decision. Not just me, though I wish I could. There are five different subcommittees looking at various aspects of the project. They will each vote and then make their recommendations to the full Council, which will then take a final vote on the project. It will take months before a final decision is made. And so far, as you saw for yourself, the Navajo have been consistently wary of the project.”
Josh scribbled in his notebook. He looked up and smiled. “Well, Mr. Chairman, if it was just you voting, what would your position be?”
The chairman shook his head. “Nice try, Josh. Move on.”
“Okay,” Josh said. “Then who was the white stranger you were talking to right after the meeting the other night? He looked like he was dressing you down for something.”
Chairman Greyeyes flinched. But he gathered himself quickly. “I don’t remember any particular white man. I mean, I talked to a lot of people that night. And then, of course, there was the riot to deal with. So I guess it could have been any of a number of people.”
Josh wrote down the chairman’s dodgy words, but he wasn’t buying what he was hearing. The chairman was lying. There were not a lot of strange white guys in expensive suits hanging around back in the private Navajo Council offices on any day or night. A guy like that would definitely stand out.
“So, you don’t remember an Anglo waiting right outside your office when the meeting adjourned?”
Chairman Greyeyes dropped the pencil on his desk. “No. As I said before, that was a very crazy night and I don’t remember everyone I spoke to.”
The Chairman stood up stiffly and extended his right hand. “And now I need to get to another meeting. Give my best to your editor Mr. Hall. Tell him he owes me lunch.”
And with that, Josh’s meeting with the Navajo Tribal Chairman was over.
An obvious lie was way better than a meaningless quote. Josh’s interest in the mysterious stranger was piqued. He wondered whether anyone had taken a picture that night that would show the phantom white man.
Josh left the Council building and stopped to admire a multicolored sundial in the xeriscaped courtyard. He walked slowly down Main Street, gathering his thoughts and stopping to admire the handsome Navajo blankets in the window of Ch’ihootso Indian Market Place.
There weren’t many people shopping on such a hot summer day and Josh wondered how the local businesses survived. The smell of fresh coffee came blowing up the street from Ed’s Cafe and Josh almost gave in to the caffeine aroma, but he needed to check something out first.
He crossed the almost empty street and entered the Navajo Times building which sat in a small strip mall next to the Navajo Nation Retirement Center. An attractive Navajo receptionist looked up from her computer screen and smiled as he came through the door.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“I’m here to see Billy Mike,” replied Josh.
The receptionist pointed to the end of the hall and returned her attention to her computer. “He’s in his office.”
Billy Mike, the paper’s photo editor, was a fifty-year-old Navajo who looked closer to seventy. His white hair was cut military short, and, sitting or standing, he was always bent over in the shape of a comma. His narrow-jawed brown face was set in a perpetual scowl, and he was impatient with almost everyone he met. Billy Mike was old school and wore a dark suit to work. His bolo tie was a Dollar General special with a fake silver clasp incised with a jackrabbit inlay. The heels on his scuffed cowboy boots were almost gone and the cuffs of his black Kmart khakis were frayed. Billy Mike had seen his better days.
When Josh walked into the tiny office adorned with framed awards and old photos of forgotten Navajo men and events, Billy Mike bowed his head and muttered. The photo editor was obsequious in the presence of power, but he had little time for a fellow reporter from a rival paper.
Josh had learned from past encounters that Billy Mike’s hostility was all for show, and he was certain the grouchy Navajo would help him if he could. Professional courtesy was the rule because one never knew when the shoe would be on the other foot.
“Good morning, Billy Mike. I don’t mean to bother you, but I was wondering if I could see the photos you took two nights ago at the Tribal Council meeting.”
Billy Mike’s eyes lit up with interest. “What are you looking for?”
Josh kept the reason vague. “Nothing in particular. My editor wants to get a better sense of who was at the Council meeting. He didn’t tell me why. But when he heard I was heading out this way, he asked me to look over the photo gallery and see if I noticed some white guy who looked out of place.”
It was a slow day at the Navajo Times. The big story was the passing of the last Navajo Code Talker, Yodell Billah. With his death, the Navajos’ illustrious role in helping the United States win World War II by speaking in the one unbreakable code, their language, would soon be forgotten.
Billy Mike pointed to an unoccupied desk outside his office. “You’re free to look the photos over. I snapped quite a few. They will be in a folder under the photo header and are sorted by date. Just log on. The password is DEADLINE—uppercase.
Josh downloaded the Council meeting photo file and spent the next hour carefully scanning each picture, searching for the phantom white man. It was tedious work, and many of the shots were blurry beyond recognition. He was losing hope as he neared the end. Then he scored a direct hit. One of the last photos that were taken that night was shot during the riot. The lighting was terrible, but walking alone past the fight and heading toward the parking lot was definitely the mystery man. He appeared in just that one photo. Josh copied the grainy photo onto his memory stick, thanked Billy Mike, and left.
Later that day, when Billy Mike stopped at Mikassa2, in the Navajo Nation Shopping Center, to grab a cup of coffee, he ran into Chairman Greyeyes.
“Afternoon, Mr. Chairman,” said Billy Mike in greeting. He loved sucking up to important people like Chairman Greyeyes. It made him feel he was special, too. And he was pretty sure he had some news the chairman would be interested in hearing.
As was customary in Navajo culture, they began by talking about the weather.
“This has been the driest June I can remember,” said Billy Mike. “Hope the monsoons come soon.”
Chairman Greyeyes took his coffee from the smiling young Navajo girl working the counter and said, “Keep the change.”
The chairman followed the photographer to the back of the restaurant, nodding and waving to everyone they passed. As they slid into a cramped plastic booth, the subject now moved to family. Neither one of the old men gave a shit about the other’s family, but there was an established pattern of conversation in the Navajo world. So it took a while to get to the heart of the matter.
Billy Mike blew on his coffee before taking a tentative sip. “I hear there’s gonna be a big Lifeways sing this Saturday night for Charlie Tizno out at the Fort Defiance Chapter House. You going?”
Chairman Greyeyes hated going to sings. They lasted for hours. The food was terrible—mutton stew, overcooked succotash, sheet cake, jello, and warm Kool-Aid. And he never got a break from the glad-handing and pretending to care about the endless troubles of his superstitious people. But there was no way around going.
Six types of Navajo healing ceremonies were designed to restore equilibrium to the cosmos: Blessingways, Holyways, Lifeways, Evilways, Gameways, and War Ceremonials. Without bars or nightclubs on the Rez, people came to sings from far and wide to socialize.
“Yeah, I’m planning on being there,” said Chairman Greyeyes with a half-hearted smile.
Billy Mike felt they had covered all the pleasantries. He was now free to tell the Chairman his tasty tidbit of news.
“I had an interesting visitor today at the paper. Josh David from the Arizona Republic.”
Chairman Greyeyes nodded his head. “Yes, he paid me a visit too. Must have been making all the rounds.”
“I suppose,” replied Billy Mike. “But he was searching for something specific at the paper.”
“And what might that be?” asked the Chairman as he took a big sip of coffee.
“Well, he asked me if he could look through our photo archives because he was trying to find some mysterious white man.”
The tribal chairman almost spat out his coffee. Some escaped his mouth and dribbled down his chin. He quickly reached for a napkin from the dispenser on the table and wiped his face. But the look of fear stayed put.
“Did he find what he was looking for?” asked the jittery Chairman.
“Seemed to,” replied Billy Mike. “He copied something—didn’t see what—and left with a big smile.”
“Oh, shit” exclaimed the chairman as he jumped up from the table. “I just remembered. I’m supposed to be at a meeting with the police chief.”
The chairman made a beeline for his car. He needed to call Vladimir Petrov right away.
Billy Mike remained at his table, sipping his coffee and wondering what the hell had just happened.