Jojola had hesitated outside the hole. He'd tracked men into these lairs-some, simple holes in the ground, others, extensive labyrinths built to withstand U.S. bombs-to hunt them like black-footed ferrets hunted prairie dogs back home. His hesitation wasn't so much due to a fear of dying; he'd faced death many times since arriving in-country nearly two years earlier, during his first tour. But Sergeant Jojola didn't want to die underground where his soul would be trapped in the dark, away from the open skies and sun.
Yet, Cop was in there, and so that was where he needed to go, too. What he didn't know when he plunged into the opening and found himself in a maze of tunnels, dimly lit by the occasional small candle in recesses in the walls, was that in the not-too-distant future Cop would be responsible for the massacre of a village of Hmong whom he and Charlie had befriended. And that one day Cop would kill Charlie.
In the tunnel he lost his flashlight and gun. In shock, he waited for his enemy to walk up and finish him, but instead he heard the sound of someone staggering away in the dark. I hit him, too, he thought, he's escaping! He twisted onto his back and tried to rise, but the pain struck him like a lightning bolt and he passed out.
How many hours he'd lain there he didn't know. But he woke when someone grabbed him by the shoulders. He tried to reach his knife in its sheath, but a hand restrained him.
"Goddammit, John, if you stab me I'll never get your dumb ass out of here," whispered a voice.
Charlie Many Horses was probably the only other man in Vietnam who could have tracked him into the hole and through the maze of tunnels. He hauled Jojola, who passed out from the pain twice along the way, out of the lair and then to a rice paddy, where by prearrangement they were met by a helicopter.
Cop had escaped to continue his guerilla efforts. The villagers would die and so would Charlie. Jojola had sworn to kill Cop, but his second tour of duty had ended with his friends unavenged.
Jojola's experience in Vietnam continued to haunt him after he returned to the pueblo-impervious even to drowning in alcohol-until he'd learned to accept it and the fact that no matter how fast he ran through the tunnels, or pulled the trigger when the face appeared, they would all die. He would live and try to be a good man, a police officer to serve and protect his people, and a good father to his son, Charlie, named for the long-lost brother.
And so Cop had lost his power to frighten Jojola. Until recently, when Jojola had a different dream, this one about David Grale.
Grale said, "It's a bomb, John Jojola. A dirty bomb. And behold, a pale horse. And the name of him who sat on it was death… Thus begins the final battle, John, thus begins Armageddon."
Then Grale lifted his hand and in the dark a gun flashed. Again Jojola felt the bullet punch into him as he spun and fell. In the darkness, he was grabbed by the shoulders and turned over to find himself looking up into the gentle, sad eyes of Charlie Many Horses, who cradled him on his lap. Sorry, my brother, there is no time to rest. You must return to New York. Find Grale…or all the villagers will die.
But what will I do if I find him? Jojola asked his dream friend, but Charlie was gone and he lay awake in the dark of his bedroom.
"There's no more time," Jojola told Lucy and Ned as they all left the restaurant and met up with Booger.
"Hi, 'ucy," the giant said and hugged her; she was probably the only human being on the planet who would have tolerated the filth.
"Hi, Booger," she said. "This is my boyfriend, Ned."
"Hi, 'ed." Booger beamed and stuck out a big greasy paw, which Ned shook trying not to remember that he'd just seen the man picking his nose with it.
"You know John Jojola," Lucy said.
Booger looked at Jojola and nodded his head. "Yes, 'e wants to fin' Grale."
Jojola also shook the extended hand. He wasn't repulsed by the odd man. In fact, with his huge mane of curly dark hair and beard that covered most of his face, as well as the dark brown eyes and rounded hump of his massive shoulders, Booger reminded him of a buffalo. A good sign, he thought. The buffalo was one of the most sacred animals to Native Americans. Even his people, who had settled in the area at Taos to grow crops a thousand years before the Spanish found them in the sixteenth century, used to ride out on the plains east of their holy mountain to hunt buffalo in the land of the Comanche.
"Where's Warren?" Lucy asked.
"Right here…fucking bitch blow job," Warren replied, peeking out from behind a Dumpster where he appeared to have been keeping an eye out. "We need to…twat whore…move fast. Roger won't wait."
No one seemed to know or want to say who Roger was, only that he might be able to help Jojola learn what had happened to Grale after that night at St. Patrick's. Ever since Jojola and Lucy had arrived in New York, they'd gone out at night trying to learn from the street people if Grale was alive. Lucy had called into sewer drains and yelled into subway tunnels.
Most of the street people they met who knew of Grale said they believed that he was dead. But others muttered that perhaps there was a connection between Grale and a shadow army of Mole People who roamed the subterranean depths beneath the city-and sometimes the streets at night-hunting evil men. But no one seemed to know for sure if Grale led them, much less how to find him.
Until one evening, shortly before Christmas, Booger and Dirty Warren had suddenly appeared. "Why…turd face…do you want to find a dead…fuck you…man?" Warren asked.
"My friend here, John Jojola, had a dream," Lucy replied.
"Ah, the brave Indian…piece of shit…oh crap, oh crap," Warren said with a little bow. "But you know Grale died…suck my cock."
"We know," Lucy said. "But John thinks he may still be alive."
"It could be a dangerous journey, and all for nothing."
"I still have to try," Jojola interjected. "Can you help?"
Booger had stepped in front of him and bent over until his face was mere inches from Jojola's. The stench of the man's body and the foulness of his breath nearly made him gag, but there was intelligence in the small dark eyes that peered into his. "Es 'oo dangerous," the man said as he straightened again. "Es 'adness and 'eath."
"Madness and death," Warren translated. "But if that is your fate…motherfucker piss breath…who am I to stop you." He'd then told them to meet at the Thai bistro.
Outside the restaurant, Warren took Jojola aside. "It may be too late," he said. "Take Lucy and her family and flee to New Mexico."
"If it's so dangerous," Jojola replied, "why don't you leave?" He searched the man's face and thought, If the other one is a buffalo, then this one is Coyote, the Trickster, with his curious affliction. I should be wary of him, but on the other hand, Coyote has helped me in the past.
"Because…dumb shit…this is my home," Warren replied. "If the beginning of the end starts here, then here I will be."
Booger had then quickly led the way across Bowery and Canal to Chrystie. Few people were out on Christmas night and those who were gave Booger a wide berth. Every once in a while, the giant would stop his shuffling gait and look around, sniffing the air, as if he worried that they were being followed. He plunged through Sara D. Roosevelt Park and across Allen Street until he reached a row of old brick tenement buildings on Orchard Street and stopped outside the one with a sign: Lower East Side Tenement Museum.
Booger and Warren both looked around nervously; then, motioning for the others to follow, they hustled up the stairs and rang the doorbell. After a minute a light appeared inside the museum and came toward the door as if someone were carrying a candle. As was the case, when the door opened and a small, bald man wearing smeared round glasses appeared, holding the candle up to each of their faces.
"May I help you?" he asked, apparently not concerned that a filthy giant, a man muttering obscenities, an Indian, a cowboy, and a girl were standing on the doorstep of a museum that was closed for the holiday. At least that's what the sign on the door said.