Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (29 page)

"That’s it?"

He exploded. “God damn it. You better believe the
FBI will be in this sooner or later. When that happens they’ll take
one look at the way you’ve screwed up the scene, and your ass will
be flying at half-mast on the Feds’ flagpole. Then I won’t be
able to do anything for you."

As we stared at each other, the ice cream truck
trolled by outside. Since last week, its version of "
La
Bamba
” had worn down a few octaves to a
funeral march.

"And what about Rivas’s investigation on
Lillian? What about the homicides?"

Drapiewski slowly brushed the pink sugar off his
hands. "Let’s just say it would be damned unusual for me to
ask SAPD straight out without a reason."

We sat there at an impasse until Maia decided to
help. She rested her hand on Larry’s knee and smiled sadly,
earnestly. "Could you find a reason, Lieutenant?"

Larry shifted uncomfortably, mumbling something to
himself. He looked down at Maia’s hand. His expression broke.

"Aw shit," he said. "Friday I’m
doing some off-duty security work with a buddy of mine from CID.
Maybe we could talk."

Maia’s smile to Drapiewski was probably worth it. I
was too busy watching the linoleum in the kitchen.

"And if Friday’s too late?" I asked.

Larry stood up. His hand on my shoulder felt like
warm lead.

“
Get your ass downtown, Tres. Before Friday. And
stay the hell away from Guy White."

We were silent.

"Damn it, son," he said. “There’s
nothing else I can do."

"You got any connections with the Blanco
Sheriff’s Department?" I asked. "Randa1l Halcomb was
killed out there. I’d like to know more about the scene."

Larry frowned.

"We could go out there alone . . ." I said,
glancing at Maia.

"All right," Larry grumbled. "I’m
off at noon. I’ll pick you up then, long as you do me two favors."

I gave him my winningest smile. “Anything for you."

"Stay put," he said.

“
And?"

"Stop reminding me of your goddamn father."
 

40

I was hoping Drapiewski would settle for one out of
three. We didn’t stay put and we didn’t stay the hell away from
Guy White.

My first mistake was trying to get through
Brackenridge Park on a Sunday morning. The minute we turned onto
Mulberry we were stuck in a line of station wagons and low-rider
Chevies, heavily pinstriped pickup trucks with sunbathers sprawled
out in the cabs. Since we weren’t moving anywhere, drivers in
opposite lanes carried on conversations in Spanish, exchanged beers
and cigarettes, flirted shamelessly with the passengers who were
invariably girls with red hair and tight black tube tops, even
tighter cutoffs. The smell of
barbacoa
and hamburger smoke drifted through the trees as thick as fog. Picnic
spots had been staked out as early as the night before along the
riverbanks, so as near as I could tell the people in the cars just
cruised in very slow circles, eating their Sunday lunch while they
drove. Maia got several propositions and enough whistles to fill an
aviary. Nobody whistled at me.

Since there was nothing else to do, I pointed out the
miniature railroad tracks, the rent-a-pony stables, the place where
the Great Brackenridge Train Robbery had taken place.

Maia looked at me for a translation. "The what?"

"My dad’s claim to law enforcement fame,"
I told her. "A group of basic trainees from Lackland got let
loose on Day 25, drank some beer, decided to steal a few ponies and
play Jesse James. They put bandannas on their faces, laid this dead
tree across the tracks, then hid in the woods and waited for the
kiddie train to come by. Robbed it at gunpoint and made a getaway."

"Charming," said Maia.

I held up my hand. "There’s more. My dad was a
deputy at the time. Now that I think about it, that afternoon’s the
only occasion I remember him being off-duty and sober at the same
time. I think he was taking me to the zoo. When he spotted the
robbery he told me to stay put. A local station got some great
footage of him, all three hundred pounds, waving his shotgun like he
was judge Roy Bean and lumbering after this group of drunk pinheads
on ponies. Afterward he got drunk and gave the media a dynamite
interview about bringing law to the Wild West. The next year they
elected him sheriff."

"The media?"

“
Basically," I said.

Maia nodded. I think she was staring at me to find my
father’s genetic code, trying to decide whether chasing
pony-mounted bandits with a shotgun was a dominant or recessive
trait. Whatever she concluded, she kept it to herself.

We finally made it into Olmos Park and turned onto
Crescent. When we pulled in front of the White House, we found that
Mr. White had been renovating. He’d had a presidential fountain
installed in his front yard, and three workers in sweaty denim were
busy digging trenches and laying down copper pipes, trying to finish
the plumbing. White had also installed a three-hundred-pound Hispanic
linebacker at the front door.

The new doorman looked at us with a confused
expression as we walked across the lawn.

"Howdy," I told him.

His head sloped straight down into his shoulders like
a lamp shade. His features were so flat they almost looked smeared.
The only things that added any contour to his face were his hair and
his sunglasses—both were huge, shiny, and black. He looked like he
had once tried to listen to a calculus lecture and had never quite
gotten over it. His eyebrows were drawn together, his mouth frowning,
open.

"BeeBee," he said.

Maybe it was his name. Maybe that’s as far as he’d
ever gotten with the alphabet. Whichever, he didn’t seem to have
much to add. He crossed his arms and waited for us to go away or try
climbing over him. I looked at Maia. She shrugged.

“
Hablas major Espanol
?"
I asked.

BeeBee watched me as if I were the most amazing
insect in the world. If I were any more entertaining I was afraid
he’d start drooling. Behind us the fountain workers were taking a
break. Out of the corner of my eye I saw them toweling the sweat off
their faces, watching us. One of them quietly bet five dollars.

"Okay," I said. "We’d like to see
Mr. White. If you’d tell him we’re here."

BeeBee seemed to be watching my mouth, trying to
learn the words. ‘

"Or you could just stamp your foot," I
suggested. "Once for yes."

"Maybe if we just asked inside?" Maia said,
smiling innocently. When she tried to walk through the door BeeBee’s
arm blocked her at the waist. Then a shape moved behind the beveled
glass door. My old friend Emery opened it and stood in the entrance.
He didn’t look particularly thrilled to see me.

Today he was wearing a pin-striped suit that was
about three sizes too big. His shirt collar was so huge it wrinkled
up like an asshole around his neck when he tightened his orange tie.

I offered him my hand. " Que pasa, buddy?"

Emery made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh
and an asthma attack. “You are one stupid son of a bitch." He
put several extra syllables in the word stupid, just for emphasis.

“
We’d like a few minutes of Mr. White’s time,"
I said. "You remember the drill from last time?"

Emery shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

"That’s a good one." He looked at BeeBee
for support. "Ain’t that good?"

BeeBee was no help. Even though Maia had backed off,
BeeBee’s arm was still blocking the doorway. He’d probably
forgotten why it was there.

“
Mr. White isn’t disposed to take visitors on a
Sunday morning," Emery said. "Mr. White made it pretty
clear that includes you, Mr. Navarre. I’m real sorry."

BeeBee stepped forward so I could admire his chest
while Emery tightened his orange tie a little more.

"He might be interested in what we’ve got to
say, this time."

Emery gave me a lopsided grin. "I surely doubt
that, Mr. Navarre."

I looked at Maia. She smiled sweetly.

"Gentlemen," she said, "you are
absolutely sure you couldn’t just ask Mr. White? Really, I think it
would be best."

“
She thinks it would be best," Emery repeated
to BeeBee. BeeBee nodded as if he might get it after a few more
repetitions. Emery grinned so much his cheeks turned into canyons. "I
think you should just go on back to Japan, honey, and Mr. Sheriff’s
Boy here can go on back to Frisco. That’d be a whole lot easier."

People always show you their impressive high kicks
when they boast about martial arts. They neglect to tell you that the
higher you lift your leg, the more you are telling the world: "Here
are my balls. Please hit them hard." Sure, a high kick has more
reach, but in truth the quickest, safest, most devastating kick, and
the one that is hardest to defend against, is a good low kick to the
shin. It worked wonders on BeeBee. He crumpled backward into the
foyer without ever losing his confused expression. Of course it
didn’t help his comprehension when he cracked his head against the
marble floor. Emery was less fortunate. Maia grabbed him by his
orange tie and slammed his head into the beveled glass door, then
dropped him on top of BeeBee.

"Japan," she spat.

I was gratified to discover that Emery was keeping
the .38 Airweight in his belt these days. Maia took it. I think she
would’ve kicked Emery in the ribs just for good measure if we
hadn’t had more company to deal with. We’d barely stepped into
the foyer when two more linebackers came down the grand staircase
that circled the back wall of the living room. Their uniform of
choice seemed to be Italian suits. Their weapon of choice seemed to
be 9mm Glocks.

At first they were too busy running down the
staircase to fire effectively, and when they got to the bottom they
had to circle to either side of a column-shaped glass-and-rosewood
display case full of crystal statuettes.

" Good morning, " I said. "Mr. White
at home?"

I stepped forward. Nice and easy, I thought.

Maia, the calm and reasonable one, chose instead to
start firing Emery’s .38 at the display case. It’s amazing what a
beautiful grenade you can make out of some hollow tip bullets and a
bunch of Waterford crystal. Shards of glass reindeer, penguins, and
delicate swans turned everything in a fifteen-foot radius into a
winter wonderland, including the two men’s faces. They were still
yelling on the steps as Maia walked up to the staircase and picked up
the two Glocks they’d dropped. After I had checked for holes in my
body and made sure that I hadn’t soiled my trousers, I asked her:
“What did you figure the odds were they’d ventilate my chest
before you managed to pull that off?"

She kissed my unbruised cheek. "I didn’t
figure."

"Just making sure."

We tried the oak double doors on the left. Before I
really knew what I was doing my arms came out, grabbing, and my waist
instinctively twisted and sank into lui position, "pull down."
The guy with the blackjack went over my knee face-first into the
doorjamb.

"This way, " I suggested to Maia.

At the French doors that led to the backyard, Guy
White stood waiting for us, his parabellum pointed lazily in our
direction. He had apparently just walked in from the patio, and was
leaning against the door frame in his khakis, an untucked blue
button-down, and slippers. His mole-colored hair was carefully combed
and gelled, and his expression was completely peaceful.

"You are the most persistent man," he told
me.

Fortunately there was no Waterford crystal to shoot
at in the room. Maia dropped her three guns on the nearby desk.

Guy White smiled at her. "Thank you, my dear."
 
Then he lowered his Glock and waved his
other diamond bedecked hand toward his seven-acre backyard.

"I have some exceptional croissants from Pour la
France," he said. "I was just reading Roddy Stinson out in
the gazebo. Won’t you join me?"
 

41

"Beau Karnau," said White. "Quite a
colorful character. "

He laughed without making a sound. Then he sat back
in his white wicker chair and proceeded to dissect his croissant. He
peeled off each layer and ripped it into small squares with perfectly
manicured fingers. If the croissant had been alive I think White
would’ve had the same unconcerned smile on his face.

"You know him, then," I said.

I drank my mimosa out of my crystal glass. It was
mixed from Veuve Cliquot instead of Dom Pérignon, but the orange
juice had probably been fresh squeezed by illegal aliens who had just
been flown in from the Valley that morning, so I had decided not to
send it back. White said: "Only peripherally, because of my
patronage to local art galleries. Why do you ask?"

"Curiosity. And the fact that Karnau’s just
about the only one besides you and me with an interest in the disk
who isn’t dead at the moment."