Get Away From Me, You Filthy Redskin
By Tony Hillerman
Oh jeez, not again…
Seems I can’t go a
month without one of you filthy begging Indians popping up on my doorstep. What’s that? A ceremonial war vest, eh? For
me? Looks like a freakin’ bamboo washboard, but what the hell. Maybe I can get
a couple of bucks for it at the flea market.
So you read one of
my books and wanted to tell me in person? Sure, I’m surprised. I’m surprised
that any of you godless savages can actually read the King’s English!
Look, Geronimo, I
don’t know how the hell you got in here. This is supposed to be a gated
community. That damn Rent-A-Cop must have fallen asleep again, or he’s probably
too busy reading his new copy of Hustler.
Either way, I’ll give you exactly 30 seconds to haul ass out of here before I
call the cops!
What’s that? Hell
no, I’ve never been to Many Ruins Canyon! I’ve got better things to do with my
time than drive around some godforsaken Indian reservation looking at sacred
burial sites or whatever the hell it is you do with that worthless scrub land
the government dumped your worthless asses on. I’ve got flunkies who do that
for me. Why do you think the Good Lord created graduate students?
Joe Leaphorn? Yeah,
he’s one of my main characters. No I didn’t base him on anybody I know. I just
imagined Graham Greene with a buzz-cut and patterned him after Sheriff Andy
Taylor from Mayberry, just not as funny. The rest of it is pure Northern Exposure, except for the
details my assistants dig up, if you’ll pardon the expression.
Don’t touch me! God
only knows what exotic diseases you animals are carrying around! You touch one
hair on me and I’ll have my legal team sue you down to your last shred of
wampum! I’m dead serious. Who do you think the judge is gonna believe, a
distinguished writer of Southwestern mysteries or some Apache yokel who looks
like a reject from a crowd scene in The
Black Robe?
Okay, Navajo.
Apache, Commanche, whatever. You all look alike to me. Christ, you people are
touchy!
Didn’t I just tell
you not to touch me? This smoking jacket cost me more than you’ve probably
earned in your lifetime! Now are you going to get out of here? I’ve got Dom
Perignon on ice and a hot Chicano call girl on her way over here and I don’t
want her thinking I’m running a flophouse for a bunch of freaking featherheads!
Now you’d best get
lost, Tonto, or I’ll have the cops here so fast it’ll make your head swim.
Here’s a half-bottle of Old Crow, knock yourself out. But I don’t want to see
your scarlet ass again unless you’re dealing me cards at the blackjack table.
Savvy?
The things I have to
put up with. What the hell possessed me to move to Albuquerque in the first
place? I’ve half a mind to move to Manhattan, but then I’d just have a whole
new bunch of headaches with all those blacks that live there.
I need a drink.
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