Dark Reservations by John Fortunato Page A

date in twenty-two years. So he told himself it wasn’t a date. It was two adults having dinner. What was the big deal? They seemed to get along. And she was easy to talk to. It should be fun. Nothing to it. A fine meal, some chitchat, a little wine, talk about family, career, movies. Tomorrow would be a nice change.
    Then why was he still afraid?
    S EPTEMBER 27
    M ONDAY , 5:00 P.M.
    O THMANN E STATE , S ANTA F E , N EW M EXICO
    Books placed a small cardboard box on Othmann’s desk.
    â€œHow much?”
    â€œShe wanted three thousand,” Books said. “I gave her a grand.”
    Othmann opened the box and unwrapped a dirty hand towel, careful not to drop the item within. It was a mortar and pestle made of stone.
    â€œAny problems?”
    â€œShe smelled. Maybe she’ll bathe now that she’s got some money.”
    Othmann took out several photographs from his top desk drawer. They were images taken at the Acoma Museum. They showed a four-hundred-year-old mortar and pestle used by the tribe to ground ceremonial corn. He smiled. Maybe he could use it to grind up some of his Christmas powder. Have his own sacred ceremony.
    â€œWhen they find it missing, all the cleaners will be questioned,” Books said.
    â€œShe knows I’m good pay. She’ll keep quiet.”
    â€œLike Eddie?”
    â€œNo. Not like Eddie.”
    Othmann picked up the precious artifact and cradled it in his hands. He removed a small card from the printer by his desk. On it, he had documented the history of the item as well as the date he acquired it. He was a meticulous collector and record keeper. At the display cabinet closest to his desk, he pushed a tiny lever underneath the bottom shelf. Click.
    Books pulled the display cabinet forward to reveal stairs, which led down to Othmann’s private gallery.
    S EPTEMBER 27
    M ONDAY , 5:15 P.M.
    M ICKEY ’ S B AR & G RILL , A LBUQUERQUE , N EW M EXICO
    A hand clasped Joe on the shoulder and squeezed.
    â€œI see you beat us to the drinking hole,” Tenny said. He took the seat next to Joe.
    Cordelli parked himself on the other side of Tenny. “What a surprise.”
    â€œCordelli,” Joe said. “I didn’t see you. I’ll be right back. I left my hemorrhoid cream in the car.”
    Tenny laughed. “Zing.”
    â€œI’ll give that to you, Joe,” Cordelli said.
    â€œAren’t you the philanthropist.”
    Tenny whooped. “That’s two. What’s gotten into you tonight?”
    â€œYou know”—Cordelli’s voice went solemn, professorial—“they say people are most funny where they feel most at home. Is that it, Joe? This where you feel most at home?”
    â€œYou’re an asshole.”
    â€œHey, it’s all in fun. Don’t get mad. You look like you’re running dry over there. Let me buy you another.” Cordelli slapped the counter. “Hey, Mickey. You got some thirsty people over here.”
    The bar was starting to fill as professionals from nearby offices trickled in. Joe’s squad would stay at the bar most of the night. There was something about sitting around a table that made a get-together more sober, more real. Maybe it was because people felt the need to control their volume, in order not to disturb the other diners. The bar kept it loose, allowed Joe to pick and choose his conversations. But it sometimes got tiring, avoiding getting cornered in a discussion, bobbing and weaving through the banter like a boxer working the ropes.
    He was on his second beer, courtesy of Cordelli, when Stretch and Sadi showed up. Stretch plopped down on Joe’s left; Sadi sat one seat over. She didn’t look happy. Not so unusual. But she seemed more sullen than normal, if that was possible.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” Joe asked.
    Stretch spun on his stool to face him. “Sadi checked with Begay’s family. No one’s seen him since last week.”
    â€œThat