Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (42 page)

"Motherfucker," Kellin grumbled.

I let him swing at me for a while—missing. We moved
across the roof, into the water, back toward the roof house, back
into the water. Meanwhile Ralph got Lillian down the stairs—that
was all that mattered. And Kellin was losing his cool.

“
Get your goddamn hands off me," he yelled.

A left uppercut. I wasn’t there. I kept moving with
him, waiting for the right opening. It was going fine until I fell
for a feint so obvious Sifu Chen would’ve kicked me out of class
for missing it. Kellin was learning his lesson. He jabbed right, got
me to turn, then turned with me and embedded his left fist in my
kidneys with the force of a twenty-pound champagne cork. With a few
seconds preparation, it is possible to compress the chi in your
diaphragm and take a hit like that with almost no pain at all—if
I’d had a few seconds. Instead I went down, just managing to hook
Kellin’s leg as he stepped back. He joined me in the dirty
rainwater.

We were both flat on our butts for a moment, cursing,
but unlike me Kellin wasn’t cradling a hot bowling ball in his
intestines. By the time I stumbled to my knees he was on his feet and
running.

I wiped the roof sludge out of my eyes and looked
back at the door to the stairwell. No Kellin. just an empty doorway.
I heard Lillian’s giggles echoing from somewhere down below.

Wait a minute. Feet banging on metal.

I turned. Kellin was just reaching the far side of
the catwalk. My body was telling me to stay doubled over, to curl up
in the rainwater and take a nap. Instead, I forced myself to get up
and follow.

I didn’t have Ralph’s phobia—not until I
stepped onto the catwalk and it started bouncing up and down,
creaking under my weight. Below there was nothing but five stories of
blackness. The smokestack loomed out of the void, white and huge; its
diameter was big enough to house a tennis court. Above me it rose
another five stories like some massive antiaircraft gun. Kellin was
only a few feet up the ladder now. He seemed to be having trouble
with his right ankle.

I made it across. The concrete sides of the
smokestack were surprisingly smooth and cold. The ladder rungs were
wet. Kellin was breathing hard above me, still cursing. His hand was
about two rungs below the bottom of the door.

I didn’t know why he wanted back in that room. I
just knew if it was more important to him than lighting over Lillian,
I couldn’t let him get there.

I got his ankle, the right one, as he was pulling
himself into the doorway. He kicked back, reflexively, and I twisted,
using his own kick to bend the joint. He screamed. It would’ve been
perfect if I hadn’t lost my balance.

For an instant I was hanging on only by my left hand,
my feet dangling freely over nothing at all. My other hand let go of
Kellin, then grabbed for a rung. I scraped against concrete instead.
I felt my fingernails rip. I was watching the Tower of the Americas
tilting sideways in the distance, wondering why it was like that. I
wondered if that revolving restaurant at the top of the Tower was
still open, the place my dad used to go for his birthdays. I was also
thinking what an inane final thought that would be. Then my foot
found a rung. Kellin could’ve kept me out of the doorway easily if
he had been there. He wasn’t. When I pulled myself into the tiny
cement chamber he was limping off to the left, toward a milk crate
full of hanging files that was sitting on the floor next to another
metal door. On top of the files was a revolver.

The maintenance area wasn’t much more than a
hallway. It was only about six feet deep, but lengthwise it curved
around with the circumference of the smokestack, ending in a metal
door ten feet down on either end. The fuse boxes and metal cables
along the inner wall were probably once used to light up the “ALAMO
CEMENT” signs on the sides of the stacks. There was also some
bedding on the floor, an open wicker picnic basket, some clothes
scattered about.

Kellin heard me behind him and turned. His uniform
was covered with sludge and white dust from the side of the
smokestack. His short-cropped hair looked like a Brillo pad that had
just been used. And his face, for once, was anything but impassive. I
suddenly realized that he was much older than I’d first
thought—closer to fifty than thirty. He was pointing the gun at me
now. You can never be faster than a squeeze of the trigger, no matter
how fast you can hit or kick. I knew it, he knew it. I wasn’t
stupid. I smiled and spread my hands, admitting defeat. He smiled
back at me.

Then I kicked the .38 out of his hand.

The shot went past my left ear and tore a chuck of
concrete out of the wall. The gun landed in the corner. For a second
Kellin looked amazed at how stupid I had been, right before I pulled
him forward and flipped him onto the concrete on his back, hard.

I’ll give Kellin credit. He got up.

My right hand was starting to get sticky from the
blood. The ruined fingertips throbbed so bad I was afraid to look.

“
Is the lady of the house in?" I asked Kellin,
who was now backing up to the exit.

He wiped the grime off his forehead with the back of
his hand, then glanced over at the gun. He smiled at me.

"No offense, man," he said. "But you
don’t know shit about what’s going on here."

"Fill me in."

He shook his head. "I was there," he said,
still smiling almost pleasantly. "With that stupid shit Halcomb
we set up for the fall. I was driving. Pretty damn funny watching
Randall plow that fat fuck into his front lawn. Your face, man--"

He started laughing. Then he went for me, figuring I
was disoriented.

I was.
Tai chi
would’ve demanded that I use his own force to send him into the
wall behind. I didn’t. I pushed back—force against force, a
totally incorrect approach. Kellin was obviously appalled. At least
he looked that way when he went out the door. His hands kept reaching
for something, but there wasn’t anything there. There was no sound
at all until he reached the bottom and even then nothing much—a
faint metallic clap like the echo of a snare drum, nothing nearly as
loud as my heartbeats.

I sat down on the blankets. I wrapped my bloody hand
inside one of Lillian’s old T-shirts. I needed to get out of there.
Instead I sat and stared out the door. I must’ve gotten up and
looked around after a while. I remember looking through a few of the
files in the milk crate, learning all about the real owners of Sheff
Construction.

All I really needed to do was look in the picnic
basket. There were a few slices left, wrapped in a linen napkin and
smelling wonderful. Obviously fresh baked today. The lady of the
house had not been in. But she’d sent some banana bread.
 

60

It was a long ride to the West Side in Jess’s
pickup truck. The engine was bucking resentfully, my hand was
bleeding, Ralph was still shaking from acrophobia too badly to drive,
and Lillian was sandwiched between us mumbling lines from Dr. Seuss.
So far she had not recognized either of us, but she seemed perfectly
happy to go for a ride.

After her second complete and flawless recitation of
Green Eggs and Ham, Ralph and I looked across at each other.

"
Hijo
,"
he swore.

"Yeah," I said.

I tried to force my mind not to think about what I’d
learned up there in the Alamo Cement smokestacks. It didn’t work.
By the time we pulled up in front of the Arguello family home off
McCullough, I’d put it all together and I was trying like hell to
deny that the pieces fit. But they did.

Mama Arguello was quite possibly the shortest, widest
person in the world. She was standing in the doorway, the entire
doorway, when we drove up. Her faded plaid dress barely managed to
contain her awesome cleavage. Her hair was pinned up in a black
wedge; her eyes, like Ralph’s, were hidden behind thick
prescription glasses. The fact that her hands were covered in flour
didn’t stop her from grabbing Ralph by the cheeks and dragging his
face down to kiss hers.

“
Ay," she said, “is my boy in one piece? An
amazing thing."

Then she came to hug me. Maybe she remembered me from
high school. I’m not sure. I think she would’ve hugged me anyway.
Her neck was bristly and smelled like chocolate. Then she hugged
Lillian, who giggled. Mama Arguello looked at Lillian again, more
critically this time.

"Ay," she said, "what kind of drugs
are these?"

I showed her the family-sized bottle of valium I’d
retrieved from the smokestack.

She scowled, gave it back to me, and asked me to read
the label. I did. Finally she announced her remedy:

"Raspberry leaf tea."

Then she was gone.

Ralph and I got Lillian to lie down on the
plastic-covered couch. She was frowning now, yawning, starting to
look around in confusion. I decided to take that as a good sign. I
sat and spoke to her for a minute while Ralph used the phone. He had
some friends who were extremely interested in retrieving his car for
him, especially since it was right next to a beautiful red Mustang
that just needed some new tire valve stems. Then I used the phone. I
called and asked Larry Drapiewski a favor. When I came back I stroked
Lillian’s hair until her eyes closed and she started snoring
lightly.

"What do you think,
vato
?"
Ralph asked.

I looked down at Lillian asleep. With her face
relaxed, her reddish-blond hair tousled, and her freckles dark, she
looked about sixteen years old. And I should know—I remembered her
at sixteen. And twenty. And now· — Jesus. Half my life I’d
either been in love with her or convincing myself that I wasn’t.
Which made it strange, now I kissed her forehead one more time, then
asked Ralph: "Will your mom mind taking care of her for
tonight?"

Ralph grinned. "She’ll have her up and helping
with the cleaning in no time,
vato
.
You watch."

"Will you stay with her?"

“
You look at yourself in the mirror lately, v
ato
?"

“
It’s easier if I take it alone from here. And I
want Lillian to be with somebody she knows if she comes around."

He didn’t like it. "Take a piece, at least."

“
Not where I’m going, Ralphas."

He shook his head. "Jesus, man, you’re a
hardheaded
hijo-puta
."

That’s when Mama Arguello came back in with the tea
and smacked Ralph on the arm for bad language. I tried to leave, but
Mama Arguello insisted on bandaging my hand first and cleaning my
face with a dish towel. She fed me homemade tortillas until my
stomach stopped revolting. By the time I got out of her living room
it was almost 10 P.M.

"We’ll take care of her for you, Mr. Ralph’s
Friend," Mama insisted. “You don’t worry."

Then she went back inside to force-feed Lillian some
raspberry leaf tea. Ralph walked me out to the truck.

"Sorry, Ralphas," I said.

He just shrugged. "Eh, man, just means I got to
be here when my stepdad gets home. He comes in drunk, I’ll try not
to kill him in front of Lillian."

"I’d appreciate that."

"Yeah."

I started the engine, which came out of the stall
already bucking mad. Ralph shook his head and grinned.

"Some sorry wheels, man. You even know who
you’re going to see?"

"Yeah. The ghost of a father."

I looked back in the pickup bed, where a milk crate
full of old files was rattling around. That’s when Ralph’s
stepdad drove up, parking his Chevy half on the curb.

“
Yeah, well," said Ralph, looking over. "If
it turns out to be mine, let ‘me know. I kind of miss the old man."

Then he turned away and headed up the steps of the
front porch. I think he locked the door behind him.
 

61

I almost decided to scrap my plans when I saw t he
car in the driveway.

Dan Sheff’s silver BMW was parked crooked, pulled
so close to the house that its nose was buried in the thick
pyracantha bushes. Someone hadn’t closed the passenger door hard
enough to turn off the dash lights. As I got closer I could hear the
BMW complaining about the situation with a muffled "eeeee— "

The house’s porch light was off. I tried the black
iron handle of the front door and found it securely fastened. At the
far end of the house, where the study was, one heavily-curtained
window glowed orange around the edges. Otherwise no sign of life.

I took the side path around the house, crouching
under hackberry branches and trying not to trip on the uneven
flagstones. The poodle in the neighbor’s yard yapped at me once
without much enthusiasm. I jumped a short chain-link gate, then did a
little searching on the back porch. The spare key for the kitchen
door was still underneath the plaster St. Francis on the third step
where it had been ten years before.