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stores that pined the fronts of ancient commercial buildings on the industrial end of town.
Moody saw more silver and turquoise than he formerly believed existed. Some of the men wore as much
jewelry as their women, a sight that took some getting used to. In Tampa the only males likely to strut
about so bedecked were pimps.
Nor was all the metal in the familiar form of bracelets and rings and necklaces. There were decorated
belts and hatbands, headbands and boot tips and collar tabs, pins and insignia. Yet the more he saw of it,
the more natural it seemed.
Ooljee tried to talk him into buying a silver watchband set with coral, turquoise, and synthetic bear
claws, to replace the mundane ABSK he currently wore. Though tempted, Moody declined. The band
was beautifully made and reasonably priced, but the detective could too readily envision the reaction it
would produce back at Tampa HQ.
Not everything was fashioned of skystone and silver. Gold and platinum were also used, as were more
exotic metals and stones. Even the smallest shop seemed to be overflowing with inventory.
"Who buys all this stuff?" Moody finally asked his colleague.
"Tourists, business travelers looking for something truly American to take back home. We also buy and
sell among ourselves. The really expensive goods are called Old Pawn. Some of it was actually banged
out of old coins; dimes and nickels preferred. Good, genuine Old Pawn is always hard to find. People do
not have to hock their family treasures to pay the bills the way they used to. Although there is nothing
wrong in doing that. It was a perfectly respectable way to raise cash or pay for goods.
"Have you been studying the sandpaintings?"
Moody replied dourly. "I'm trying, but they all look the same to me."
"I can't believe that." Ooljee did not try to hide his disappointment. "You have too good an eye not to
have noticed differences."
Moody hesitated. "Well, maybe some of the overall patterns gimme a break, Paul. It's like learning
another language."
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One more storefront, one more stop. Like innumerable others, the face it presented to the street was
nondescript. There was the standard fluorescent BUY-SELL TRADE sign out front. The skystone and
silver clutter in the windows
that flanked the narrow entrance was more neatly arrayed man in most. Whoever had arranged the
display had made some attempt to highlight quality instead of trying to cram as many cheap rings and
bracelets into the available space as possible.
Inside the store the lighting was as subdued as the atmosphere. There were drums and pottery for sale,
along with sculptures and rugs. The latter might be genuine, since unlike hundreds Moody had seen these
past two days, these did not display attached cards declaring in superfine print that while they were
Indian-made, they were only Navaho inspired. Which meant, according to Ooljee, that they were not
woven on the Rez but down in Mexico, on mechanical looms operated by industrious Zapotecs.
The store owner was short, white, and active. He advanced smoothly toward them as if on maglide
skates.
The wall behind him was full of paintings. Well, prints, anyway. Scenes of Ganado modern and ancient,
of Canyon de Chelley and Monument Valley, of the Grand Canyon and San Francisco Peaks, of various
cliff dwellings and Indian ceremonials. There were also more rugs, most of them small, some of them
tattered. All colored with handmade vegetable dye, according to Ooljee. This was a store for the serious
trader and collector, not for the casual tourist looking for bright trinkets to take home. The farther back
into its depths one walked, the higher the quality of the goods became.
Ooljee methodically flashed his ID, embedded in its slice of softly glowing Lexan. The owner blinked at
it, glanced somewhat apprehensively in Moody's direction, eyed Ooljee the way he might a box of
jewelry of uncertain parentage someone was trying to sell him.
"I don't do scav, sergeant."
"Everyone in this town parks stolen goods sooner or later," Ooljee replied pleasantly, "but mat is not
what we are here about."
The owner relaxed visibly, though his tone still betrayed some unease. "Shopping? Birthday present,
perhaps, or something for a lady?"
' 'It would be a real present if you could help us." Digging into a jacket pocket, Ooljee extracted the by
now well-wrinkled eight-by-ten fax of the Kettrick sandpainting and shoved it toward the shopkeeper,
who peered at it curiously.
"Any idea what Way this is from?"
"Oh, you want advice? Why ask me? Why not try a museum?''
"We have traveled that road." Ooljee tapped the fax. "The people I have talked with say they have never
seen anything like this."
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