Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (12 page)

"When I was starting," he said, almost
under his breath, "I didn’t have shit. You know that? Not
wealthy parents, not college, nothing. Lillian had everything,
including ten years of my time. Now she’s just giving up. The hell
with me. The hell with years trying to build up a name in the
business. You want to know why she’s leaving, you’re asking the
wrong person, asshole. I stuck with her; you didn’t. If you ask me,
it’s a little late to show up now and decide you’re her goddamn
protector."

We stared at each other. judging from Beau’s
expression, I had the option of breaking his kneecap and finding out
nothing more, or letting him up and finding out nothing more. Maybe I
was having an off day. I took the photograph off Beau’s chest, then
I let him up. Beau got to his feet warily.

I looked around the ruined gallery, then picked up a
skeleton trumpet player from the floor, dusted him off, and tossed
him to Beau. He missed the catch. The unfortunate musician landed
between Beau’s boots and broke neatly in half.

“
A man without friends should get a deadbolt,"
I suggested. "I have a feeling, when these people visit you
again, they’re going to lack my charm."

Beau kicked the broken statue away. Under his breath
he said: “I have friends, asshole."

I saw the next line coming, so we said it together:

“
You’re going to regret this."

“
That was good," I said. "You Want to try
it in harmony now? I’ll go up a third."

His next riposte was just as creative: “Fuck you."

“
You artistic types," I said admiringly. Then
I walked out, closing the door carefully behind me. Without looking
back I strolled across the plaza, around the corner of La Villita
Chapel, then turned into a side alley. Even at midday, the shadows
under the old villas and live oaks were deep and easy to hide in. I
had a great view of the front and rear exits to the gallery. I leaned
against the cool of a limestone wall and waited to see what would
happen.

Thirty minutes later Beau came out the rear entrance
of the gallery. He closed up shop and headed across Nueva, still
walking like a man with saddle sores. I followed about a block
behind. The moment I stepped out of the shade of La Villita the
summer air wrapped around my shoulders like a heavy cat. Everything
smelled like warm asphalt, and fifty feet in front of me Beau’s
shape became watery from the light and the heat.

It wasn’t until he stopped on the corner of Jack
White and stood there for a minute that I realized I’d made a
mistake. A car I knew pulled up briefly to the curb, the passenger’s
door opened, Beau got in, and the car pulled away, heading south.

The VW was three blocks away, hopelessly far. I
couldn’t do anything but stand on the corner watching Dan Sheff’s
silver BMW disappear down Nueva Street, just another mirage in the
midday glare.

18

I was starting to feel slightly depressed until I got
home and saw the police cruiser in front of Number 90 again. Gary
Hales, still in his pajamas, was out front, listing backward at about
the same angle as his house. He was talking to Jay Rivas and the two
uniformed cops, probably telling them how I came and went at all
hours and played with swords in the backyard.

Gary shuffled back inside and Jay greeted me warmly
as I got out of my car.

“
Little Tres," he said. “What a fucking
pleasure."

"Jay," I said. "If I knew you were
coming I’d’ve half baked a cake."

He motioned toward the house. The two cops hung back
under the pecan tree, trying not to sweat out of their uniforms. When
we got inside Robert Johnson took one look at our guest, puffed up to
twice his size, did a somersault, then ran into the bathroom. I was
sorry I hadn’t thought of it first.

“
He likes you," I said.

Rivas looked disdainfully at my futon, then decided
to stand. I started hunting through my bags for a fresh T-shirt.

"Late night last night, Navarre?" he
speculated. "You look like a pile of shit."

I let that pass. I brushed my teeth, splashed some
water in my face, laminated my armpits into submission with
extra-strength Ban.

Rivas didn’t like being kept waiting. He went over
to the wall and lifted my sword out of the rack. He looked at it,
snorted, dropped it on the floor. Then he picked up Carlon’s packet
of news clippings from the carpet.

“
Funny thing, " he said. “Seems like just
yesterday we were having this conversation about you staying the fuck
out of trouble. But it sounds like you got the monopoly on stubborn
and stupid."

I put on a UC Berkeley T-shirt and walked up to
Rivas. Calmly, I took the packet out of his hands and put it back on
the table.

“
You want to tell me about last night," he
said, “or do you maybe want to think about it in a cell for a
while?"

"You want to tell me what the hell you’re
talking about? Then maybe I can be more help."

"Lillian Cambridge," he said.

"I’m interested?

"You’re deeply in shit."

If he was waiting for me to display mortal terror, he
was disappointed.

"You’ll have to be more specific, Jay. I’m
usually in deep shit."

"How about this," he said. “Mom and Dad
Cambridge expect daughter Lillian for dinner every Sunday night.
Lillian’s a good kid. She does that kind of thing. She doesn’t
show—she doesn’t answer the phone all night or all yesterday.
Worried parents call the police. Seeing as Dad is the president of
Crockett Savings and Loan and can throw a few million dollars around,
the police tend to take his concerns to heart. Are you following this
so far or should I talk slower?"

"It’d be easier if I could watch your lips
move, Jay, but keep going."

"We check out her house this morning. It’s
been trashed, looks like the lady in question left in a hurry, maybe
not under her own steam. Then we find out from the neighbors that an
orange VW convertible was parked in the driveway late Monday night.
There’s just millions of those still running around town. Little
neighbor girl gives a pretty good description of the guy she saw in
Miss Cambridge’s house. Little girl’s parents recall this same
guy having a fight in front of the house Sunday afternoon. Is this
starting to sound familiar?"

"I don’t guess these attentive neighbors
noticed anything more subtle, like somebody tearing up her house on
Sunday, or carrying her away at gunpoint."

“
You got something to say, I’m listening."

"Jesus Christ," I said.

I went to the kitchen and got a Shiner Bock. It was
either that or beat the crap out of Rivas. At the moment, a beer
sounded more constructive.

"Jay, let me see if I can get through to you on
this. I admit I came back to town because of this lady, but are you
suggesting I waited ten years and then moved back two thousand miles
to abduct an old girlfriend?"

Rivas had one lazy green eye that weighed anchor and
drifted astern when he stared at you. It just heightened his
resemblance to a hairy reptile.

“
You got a temper, Navarre. Old boyfriend meets new
boyfriend—sparks fly. Things happen."

I looked out the grimy kitchen window. Outside, the
afternoon had officially begun. Warmed up to about a hundred and five
degrees, the army of cicadas in the pecan trees had started humming.
The two cops were still standing in broad sunlight in my front yard,
melting. Every living thing with more brains than them was crawling
under a rock or into the air-conditioning to sleep.

Then a second cruiser pulled up. This one said “Bexar
County Sheriff’s Deputy" on its side. I had to smile as a big
man with flattopped orange hair got out, frowning at the SAPD. My
landlord was probably staring out his window too, calmly shitting in
his pants.

"Jay," I said, "I appreciate the
extent to which you’re fucking up this investigation. That takes
real talent. I’m also impressed with the way you follow me around.
Whoever’s paying you for that should give you a bonus."

Rivas held up one finger, like a warning. “Your dad
was way smarter than you, Navarre, and he had more connections.
Still--look where it got him. You should think about that."

I drank my beer. I smiled in a friendly way.

“
You’re a piece of shit, Jay. My father scraped
you off his boots twenty years ago and you’re still shit."

He started walking toward me.

I glanced behind him and said: "If you’ve got
a reason to arrest me, Detective, I’d love to hear it. Otherwise
leave me the fuck alone."

"Sounds reasonable to me," said Larry
Drapiewski. Whatever Rivas was going to do, he stopped himself. He
looked around at Drapiewski, who was leaning in the doorway.
Drapiewski was so big I wasn’t too worried about the AC escaping.
His left palm was resting casually on his nightstick. In his other
hand was the largest
benuelo
I’d ever seen. It looked like a half—eaten Frisbee.

“
Lieutenant," said Rivas, forcing out the
word. "Can I help you with something?"

Drapiewski grinned. There was a coating of sugar
around his mouth.

"Just a social call, Detective. Don’t let me
interrupt anything. I always like to see you city pros at work."

Rivas snorted. He looked at me, then back at the
door.

"Maybe another time," he said. "But,
Tres, you want to talk about your father, how he played around with
people’s lives, screwed their careers to hell, I’d be happy to
have that conversation. You’ve got a lot to be proud of."

Then he started toward the door.

“
And, Jay," I said.

He turned.

"Pick up the goddamn sword."

It was worth it just to see his face. He didn’t
pick it up. He wanted to say something. I wanted him to say it.

Then Drapiewski said: “Good-bye, Detective,"
and moved his bulk out of the doorway.

Rivas took the out.

When the door closed, Drapiewski just looked at me,
his bushy red eyebrows raised. Cautiously, Robert Johnson came out of
the bathroom, lured by the shower of sugar and crumbs that was
falling from the deputy’s
berzuelo
,
then tried to climb Drapiewski’s pants. I don’t think Drapiewski
even noticed.

Larry took a thick bundle of police reports from
under his arm and dropped it on the coffee table.

"Want to tell me about it?"
 

19

By the time I’d told Larry Drapiewski my tale of
woe he had relieved me of my leftover lemon chicken, four Shiner
Bocks, a couple of beef fajitas, and half a box of the former
tenant’s Captain Crunch, dry. Robert Johnson sat on his lap,
sniffing the food, but was careful to stay away from the big man’s
mouth.

"Holy hell," Drapiewski said. He put his
boots up on the coffee table and the room suddenly seemed smaller.
“Lillian Cambridge? As in Zeke Cambridge’s daughter? I
guar-un-tee you, if this goes down as a kidnapping, this town will be
boiling by tomorrow morning. That’s some large dollars moving,
son."

I’ll give him this, the deputy got my mind off my
problems. Now I was thinking about my empty refrigerator and my empty
wallet. I was hoping to God that Larry didn’t want something else
to eat.

"If it goes down as kidnapping?" I said.

Drapiewski shrugged. "Just seems strange I
haven’t heard about it over the telex yet."

"Some kind of waiting period?"

He laughed, sprinkling Captain Crunch across Robert
Johnson’s fur. Robert Johnson vaporized from his lap and reappeared
on the kitchen counter, looking indignant.

“
That’s a damn myth, son. The network treats it
just like an APB, puts it all over South Texas. You wait twenty-four
hours to report something like that, usually the missing person is
dead."

Then he realized who we were talking about.

“
Sorry," he said.

I swallowed. "What about Guy White?"

Larry kept looking at me. “It was a damn stupid
thing to do, pushing yourself in his face. You don’t do that to
somebody who’s had as many people killed as Mr. White has. But if
you’re talking about your lady friend disappearing on Sunday, and
you didn’t see White until Monday afternoon—"

“
I know. The timing’s wrong."

I must not have looked too convinced.

Larry leaned forward, lacing his thick fingers around
his beer bottle. "You know how many true abductions San Antonio
has had in the last decade, son? I remember exactly two—both kids,
neither had anything to do with the mob. If there was any suspicion
of kidnapping, ransom demands, anything like that, the Feds would
become lead agency immediately. So I can only assume there’s
reasonable evidence to let Rivas keep this in-house, to stick with
the idea that Lillian disappeared of her own free will."

"Bullshit," I said.