Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (25 page)

Inside the gallery, halfhearted Western swing warbled
from a few wall speakers. Somebody had put an old saddle on the table
next to the sign-in book. Twenty or thirty people were drifting
around the room looking at bad photos of authentic cowboys. One of
the guests was wearing a starburst Jerry Garcia tie, clipped with a
wrinkled green press pass that had been old during Watergate. He came
up next to me from behind the beer keg and quietly belched garlic.

"The beer is free," Carlon McAffrey said,
"but these little sandwich things suck."

In one hand Carlon had a spiral notebook pinched
between two fingers and a stack of canapés in his palm. He handed me
his cup of Lone Star from the other hand so he could shake with Maia.

"Carlon McAffrey," he said. “You’re not
Lillian."

Maia smiled. "Likewise, I’m sure."

Carlon nodded. He was nice enough to puff his cheeks
out for the next belch, holding it in.

"You hear about your buddy Sheff?" he asked
me.

"Somebody made his office into a drive-through
morgue last night."

"I heard."

Carlon waited. I looked disinterested. Finally
Carlon’s blue eyes detached from my face and made a circuit of the
people in the room, looking for new prey.

"Okay," he said. “I’ve seen ranches,
I’ve seen cows, I’ve seen Councilman Asante schmoozing it up in
back. So far I see nothing worth a headline."

I looked around the corner, into the back room of the
gallery. Sure enough, against the side wall, his beer set casually on
top of a metal sculpture, Fernando Asante was holding court. He had
on an after-hours outfit--black jeans, white silk shirt over his huge
belly, a denim jacket with the Virgin Mary embroidered in sequins on
the back and on the breast panels. Two plump ladies in satin dresses
stood on either side of him. A few businessmen laughed at his jokes.
The curly-haired Anglo bodyguard I’d seen at Mi Tierra lounged
nearby. He was the only one who didn’t look enchanted to be in
Asante’s presence.

What the hell. I gave Carlon back his beer.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Lois Lane," I told
him. "I have to go say hello to somebody." .

I looked at Maia to see if she was coming.

Maia looked at Fernando Asante, who was laughing at
his own joke and patting the rump of the nearest satin cherub. Then
she looked at Carlon, trying to eat canapés out of his palm. She let
me steer her toward the back room.

Asante gave me his best gold-toothed smile as we came
up. He gave Maia a head-to-toe appraisal and seemed to End her a good
risk. When he nodded at his fan club, they excused themselves in
unison, all except for the bodyguard.

"Jack," Asante said. "Good to see you
again, boy."

He loosened the silver Texas-shaped bola around his
neck. He offered me a well-manicured hand to shake.

I declined.

"Councilman," I said. "Hell of an
outfit. That jacket weep on holy days?"

He just smiled and shook his head, then leered at
Maia. "I like patronizing the arts, ma’am. I always do admire
beautiful things."

Maia smiled warmly. “You must be Mr. Asante."

Asante looked gratified. His face just oozed Charming
Elder Statesman.

"That’s right, princess," he said. "And
you are?"

"Endlessly amused by the tabloid stories Tres
reads me," she cooed. "Is it true, the one about you and
your secretary in the same pair of underpants?"

Asante’s pupils dilated down to pinpoints. His
genitals probably followed suit. Somehow he managed to keep his smile
intact.

“
I can see Mr. Navarre has been around you a little
too long, princess," he said.

Maia leaned close, as if to tell him a naughty
secret. "Actually I taught him everything he knows. And if you
call me ‘princess’ again I’m going to throw up on your Virgin
Mary."

"Speaking of nausea," I said, "I
didn’t know you were a fan of Beau’s work, Mr. Asante. Do you
know him?"

He wasn’t quite sure who to look at now. He
regarded Maia like a dog might look at a snake, trying to determine
how dangerous this little thing was. The bodyguard had moved a little
closer, just enough to share the gallon or two of Aramis on his
chest. My eyes began to tear.

Asante looked from Maia to me. "Why, Jack? You
looking for an autograph?"

"
Just curious," I said. “I wanted Beau’s
professional opinion on some photos I’ve come across."

I waited for a reaction, but I might’ve been
talking about the Rangers’ chances in the finals.

A man in a yellow silk shirt and black genie pants
came up to us, apologized, and peeled a red sticker off a sheet of
labels. He pointed to a photo behind the councilman. "This one,
Mr. Asante?"

The photo was about eight by eleven, with Beau’s
name scrawled at the bottom. It showed an abandoned ranch house on a
hill overlooking the Texas plains. In the nighttime sky behind the
house was a bloated full moon and a single meteor streak. In the
foreground, rusty iron gates rose up; the name “Lazy B" was
arced across the top in black metal cursive. One gate was open and
unhinged.

Asante looked back at it lazily. "Sure, son.
That’s fine."

The gallery employee marked the picture sold,
apologized again, and left.

"Lazy B," I said. “That stand for
‘Bastard,’ maybe?"

Asante ignored me. "Good bargain. I’m told
it’s one of Karnau’s best, one of his older shots," he said
to Maia. "I always buy something, long as it’s small and
priced to sell."

He leered at her like that was a private joke. Then
he looked back at me.

"And how’s the job market for you, son?
Haven’t given up yet?"

"Actually," I said, "I was wondering
if your friends at Sheff Construction could find me some work."

Asante stared. "Pardon?"

"I figure there’ll be a lot of money in this
new North Side arts complex you’re planning. Biggest pork barrel
since Travis Center, bigger maybe. I also figure it’s a sure thing
Sheff will get the contract. That’s your arrangement with them,
isn’t it?"

Asante looked at his bodyguard, nodding that he was
ready to move on. The Aramis Man came and stood next to me.

"Misinformation is a dangerous thing, Jack."
Asante said it almost blandly. "The City grants contracts by
anonymous bidding. When we approve a bond package for a new project,
we only then look for the right firm--goes through numerous
committees and the Chamber. I really have very little to do with it.
Does that clear things up for you?"

"Shucks," I said. "No kickbacks or
anything?"

Asante couldn’t have smiled colder.

"You know if I were you, Jack," he said,
leaning forward to deliver some private advice, "I’d take this
young lady back to California. I’d go back where the prospects are
better, the life expectancy is longer."

He showed me his gold teeth. Up close, his breath
smelled like used motor oil.

"I’ll file that in the proper place," I
promised.

Asante took his beer from the top of the statue,
nodded politely to Maia. "Good night, Jack."

He walked away with his bodyguard in tow.

Maia raised her eyebrows. She looked like she was
about to exhale for the First time in ten minutes when Carlon came
up, hands still full, and nudged me with his elbow.

"Okay. Back window, now."

I stared at him.

He kept walking toward the back of the room, not
waiting to see if we would follow. When we caught up he was standing
on the tips of his huaraches, peering down through a tiny
metal-barred window into the alley behind the warehouse.

"Okay," he said, "Dan’s blond,
right, drives a silver Beamer?"

“
Yeah."

Carlon frowned. "You want to tell me why he’s
delivering a sack lunch to Beau Karnau in the alley?"

Maia and I looked out. It took a few seconds for our
eyes to adjust to the darkness outside before we saw the two figures,
one blond, sitting with arms folded on the hood of the silver BMW,
the other a balding brunette, visible because of his stark white tux
shirt. Sure enough, Beau was holding a brown lunch bag, shaking it in
Dan Sheff’s face like he was unhappy with it.

"Maybe Dan forgot to pack a dessert," I
said.

Dan just sat there, silent. In the shadows, I
couldn’t see his face, but his body looked stiff, tense with anger.
Then, while Beau was midsentence yelling at him, Dan delivered the
same haymaker swing he’d tried on me in Lillian’s front yard last
Sunday. This time it connected. Beau went over backward and the lunch
bag spilled thick green bricks of cash across the alley, into the
light from the gallery windows.

“
Or maybe he didn’t," said Carlon.
 

35

After Dan Sheff’s taillights disappeared down East
Arsenal and Beau started staggering back through the alley, Carlon
paid the gallery owner with the yellow shirt and the genie pants
fifty dollars for the use of his office. It was probably the most
money the gallery owner had seen all night.

We waited less than five minutes before Beau came in
to clean up. His tux shirt was stained and half-untucked from his
jordaches, his left hand was cupped over the eye Dan Sheff had just
punched, and he was cursing somebody’s great-grandmother. I stepped
in next to him and slapped his good eye with my open hand. I probably
could’ve just punched him, but I was in a bad mood. The palm strike
in
tai chi
is arguably
the most painful attack. It’s a soft strike, the way a whip is
soft. Sometimes it takes a layer of skin off. I didn’t want any
more stand-offs with Mr. Karnau.

Beau’s cursing cut off in a startled grunt. Now
blind, he stopped walking, but I kicked his legs out from under him
and kept him going forward, directing his fall into a director’s
chair. The chair groaned but didn’t break.

"Shit," said Carlon.

I took the brown paper bag off the floor where Beau
had dropped it and spilled the contents on the desk in front of
Carlon. The green bricks were stacks of fifties. For a second I
thought Carlon would have a coronary. Beau stayed very still, both
eyes covered, head down. He sounded like he was struggling to
remember the tune of a song. When he finally looked up out of two
swollen eyes, he had to stare at me for two minutes before he
realized who I was. Blood washed through his face. He thought about
getting mad, then seemed to realize he didn’t have the energy for
it.

"Great," he mumbled. "Wonderful."

I touched his right eye. He winced.

"Dan decided to charge some interest this time,"
I observed. "What’s the problem, Beau? Eddie couldn’t
be your delivery boy this time?"

"Tres—" Maia began. I ignored her.

With a pair of rapidly swelling eyes it was hard for
Beau to look mean, but he was trying his best. I took the ceramic
steering wheel from the broken road-trip statuette out of my pocket
and tossed it in Beau’s lap.

"I didn’t plan on it, but it seems I’ve
started collecting your stuff. "

Karnau’s face was paralyzed for a moment, then
there was a glimmer of recognition.

"What the hell—"

"Beau," I said, "let me give you some
perspective here. I have one disk; you have the other. Without both
of them, I’m betting you don’t have shit to keep the people
you’ve been blackmailing from eating you alive. You want to talk
about that?"

"I don’t—" he started to yell.

Then he just stopped and stared at me. He brought his
fingers to his temples and started making little circles with them.

Maia said: "Mr. Karnau? It would be best if you
talked to us."

He focused on her, dazed. Then his face hardened.

"You sound like a fucking lawyer," he said
finally.

Maia tried a smile. "I’m not representing
anyone."

That made Beau laugh, a shrill little sound.

"Wonderful," he said. "That’s all I
need."

He picked up the ceramic steering wheel and threw it
back at me. "I don’t have shit to say to you. And I don’t
have a clue what you’re talking about."

I looked at Maia.

" ‘I’m not representing anyone,’ " I
repeated. "Great line. Opened him right up."

Maia shrugged.

Carlon was sitting behind the owner’s desk, chewing
slowly on a canapé. He was using one of Beau’s unmatted prints for
a beer coaster. His blue eyes reminded me of a buzzard’s—the way
they look on while the bobcats are finishing up a carcass, hungry,
patient, highly interested.

"So where’s your dad’s murder come in?"
he wondered.

Beau’s forehead turned maroon. "Who the fuck
is this?"

"We’ve got a lawyer," I told him. "And
we’ve got an entertainment writer from the Express-News ready to go
for your jugular. What I suggest, Beau, is you just answer yes or no
when I ask you something. You tell me you don’t know what I’m
talking about one more time, I’ll make sure Carlon here spells your
name right in the Sunday edition. Got it?"