Chapter 7

“Last stop, guy,” said Pump, as his elbow gave Jared’s ribs a gentle nudge.

“Wha…!  Damn.  Must have dozed off,” said Jared, wiping the drool off his chin.  “How’d I do that?”

Pump grinned.  “Beats hell outta me cowboy, but here we are…famous downtown Taos.

The bus pulled up alongside the terminal and heaved its sigh of air brake finality.  “Welcome to Taos, folks.  Local time is 4:45. Thank you for travelin’ Greyhound, and hope to see ya back real soon.”

Pump rose and grabbed his duffle bag.  “Somebody meetin’ ya?”

Jared shook his head.  “Naw.  Gotta see a guy.”

“Need a ride?  I got my two-wheeler in storage gonna pull out.”

“Two-wheeler?”

“Sorry,” said Pump.  “Bike… Harley.  Can drop you where you’re meetin’ your guy if you want.”

“Thanks, but I was told he hung out at Jenny’s Café in town.   Works there…but thanks any way.”

“Hell, I know Jenny.  What’s this guy’s name?”

“Pakwa.  Think that’s how you pronounce it.”

“Pak-way.  What you seein’ old Pakwa about?”

“Why, you know him too?”

“Doesn’t take long to know everybody who hangs in Taos.  He’s part of the fixtures here.”

“Old guy?”

Pump feigned puzzlement.  “Mm.  Guess you could say that.  But guys like him can fool ya, even if he is 85 by most people’s recollection.”

“Still workin’?  At a café?”

“He’s been cookin’ for the locals since he retired, I’m told,” Pump said.

“What’d he do?” asked Jared

“Medicine Man.”

***

They stepped off the bus and Pump pointed toward the other end of town.  “Jenny’s down on the left, past the ice cream shop.”

Jared turned to him.  “Well, if our paths don’t cross again, good to meet ya.”

Pump grinned and shook his hand.  “Well, chances are, we’ll cross again.  Taos is too small to get lost in.  You’ll hear me, I’m sure.  Vroom.  Vroom.  Oh, if you need a place to stay, there’s a decent hotel on the right…Sunset Vista.  Pretentious name, but okay beds.  Of course, you’re welcome to crash at my pad for the night, if you want.  Here…”  He motioned for Jared’s cell phone.  “Copy my number.   505-323-4060.   Tell Jenny hello for me.  Nice gal .  See ya.”

Jared entered the number.  “See ya.”  He turned back toward town, picked up his suitcase/backpack combo and sauntered toward Jenny’s.  Tourists wandered freely with their white tennis shoes, straw cowboy hats, and generous amounts of sun screen creating an overkill aroma.  Jared noted the sun starting to drop behind the higher, two-story pueblo buildings, as store lights began to illuminate the sidewalk.

At the half-way point of his walk, he glanced across the street at the Sunset Vista Hotel and wondered just how much of a crash it would be to take Pump up on his offer.

As he entered Jenny’s Café, the sudden urge to turn around and go back to LA gripped him, just as it had on the previous visits his father had outlined.  What was he doing…really?  So far, he had experienced eccentrics and bizarre situations that made his own persona look absolutely tame.  Meeting up with this Pakwa was guaranteed to add another notch on his crazy belt.

He sat down at the counter and looked around.  Definitely a café for locals. Not enough imitation Indian lore and color to lure many tourists.  Like a run-down Johnny Rockets in LA, the stainless steel and chrome dominance was accented with a few 8 X 10 antique photos of Native Americans, as well as a silver studded mounting of Roy Rogers atop his horse Trigger, complete with autograph.

A young guy with a case of acne that definitely needed attention pushed a glass of water, napkin and a menu in front of Jared.  “What’ll it be pilgrim,” his John Wayne imitation just this side of deplorable.

“Hi there.  Friend told me your cook, Pakwa, makes a mean hamburger.”

The boy squinted and tilted his head.  “Hamburger?  That’s the worst thing you can get here.  Pak’s specialty is clay fried oysters, Mohegan succotash, and spit-roasted turkey tenderloin.  Then there’s made-from-scratch, Indian fry bread, hand-stretched and fresh-fried. Top the fry bread with mild green chili beef or zesty red chili beef. There is no more wicked dessert in town than fry bread coated with butter and chocolate.”

Jared turned the menu over and scanned both sides.  “Where’s that on the menu?”

“That menu is just for the occasional tourist that ventures in.  You want Pakwa food, you forget the menu.”

Jared pushed the menu back.  “Okay.  Pakwa it is.  What’s his special for today?”

“Before I get your jaws achin’ with anticipation, lemme check if there’s any left.”  The boy wandered back to the narrow serving window to the kitchen area and yelled through.  “Hey, Pak.  Any more wild boar Anasazi bean chili left?”

From the distance, Jared heard an energetic aged voice answer, “one…maybe two servings.”

The boy sauntered back.  “You hear that?”

Jared nodded.

“Now, that’s a local favorite, so better get your order in, ‘cause ‘bout this time, the bank and post office close, and all them guys come here and eat, so…”

The front door swung open and a group of six Navajos and Pueblo workmen made their way to the corner booth.  “How goes it, Larry.  Got any chili left?  Said one of the men.

The boy shot back, “Maybe.”  To Jared, “See what I mean.”

“Okay.  Let’s have one of those last serving of the wild boar stuff,” said Jared with a grin.  And, tell him it’s for Jared Kurzen.  Tell him Sam Brenner sent me.”

***

Jared sat back, took a breath and sighed.  “Damn…talk about a fire dance.”  He rubbed his stomach and pushed the empty bowl away. 

The boy grinned and continued filling the sugar jars. “Never a dull moment after eating a Pak’s specialty.”

“Does that mean I’m in for some digestive entertainment?”

The boy pointed out the window.  “Drugstore across the street, toilet in the back...just in case your innards are extra sensitive.”

“Encouraging,” quipped Jared.  He picked up the check and craned his neck toward the serving window to the kitchen.  “He said to tell me to be patient, right?”

The boy screwed the lid on a sugar jar and nodded. “That’s his answer to most things…including the chili he prepares.  Won’t serve it sooner than two days after cooking.  Stores it in the fridge…says the spirits need to settle down before they can be eaten.”

Jared pulled out a ten-dollar bill.  “You’re kidding me, right?”

The boy shook his head.  “Medicine men never die, they just adjust.”  He tilted his head toward the kitchen.  “Some become cooks.”

Jared rose from his stool, nodding.  “Yeah…well, seems Brenner was consistent with his friends.”

“Pardon,” said the boy.

“Nothing.  So…Pak told you to tell me he gets off at seven and to meet him at the ‘blue door on the plaza?’”

“Like I said.  Can’t miss it.”

Jared continued, “Middle of the trees…just a blue door in a frame.”

“Well,” the boy cautioned, “Better you not think of it as ‘just a blue door in a frame.’  Pak’s great grandfather built that door.  Pak painted it a long time ago, and after donating it to the city, he stops by every night after work, makes sure nobody has vandalized it, cleans up the leaves, and…well, you’ll see.”

Jared idly shook his head.  “I guess blue doors are special here.  They’re all over the place.”

The boy rung up the check and handed the change back to Jared.  “Tradition.  Supposed to keep evil spirits out.”

“Whatever,” said Jared as he pocketed the change, handing the boy a couple of dollars.  “Thanks.”  He checked his watch.  “Got fifteen till seven.  Time to get me some Tums.  Wild boar getting’ wild down there.”

***

A few feet behind the blue doorframe, Jared squatted beneath an oak tree, nursing his stomach with some bottled water.  He popped another Tums just as a figure stepped across the mostly deserted street.  Walking jauntily, Jared figured that wasn’t Pak and leaned his head back and closed his eyes for a couple of winks.  A few moments later, out of the silence, save the low hum of the cicadas in the distance, a quiet voice asked, “Jared Kurzen.”

Startled, Jared’s eyes sprung open.  Sitting cross-legged in front of him was a very old Native American.  His long white hair enveloped his head with a surreal frame.  Facial lines ran deep surrounding the man’s eyes, which were like those of a wild cat sizing up its prey.  A slight smile sent the craggy lines around his mouth backward into his sunken cheeks.

Jared replied, “Pakwa?”

“Pak’s what most call me.  Guess a family member can do the same.”

“Family member?”

Pak stood and turned back to the blue door.  “Your father and I are brothers of another kind.  Come.  Let’s take a pass through the door.”

Jared hesitantly rose and walked up to the door as Pak opened it and gestured he walk though.  Jared shrugged and stepped across the threshold.  He turned back toward Pakwa.  “I was instructed to come here and…”

“…spend some time with me.  I know,” said Pakwa.  “It became time.”  His eyes scanned the outer edges of Jared’s body.  “In spite of your resistance, your aura seems calm enough now.  Come, let’s sit again and I’ll tell you all about the part I’m supposed to play in your father’s drama.  Then, you’ll need a good night’s sleep for the sweat tomorrow.  Please….”  He gestured to the base of the tree and they both sat down.

“Sweat?”