Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (8 page)

The skinny guy came down the presidential lawn and
across the street. He put his right hand on the side of the car and
leaned in toward me. When his coat fell open I got a pretty good view
of the .38 Airweight in the shoulder holster.

"Trouble?" he asked. The number of vowels
and syllables he packed into that one word told me he was a West
Texas boy, probably hailed from Lubbock.

"No trouble." I gave him a winning smile.

Lubbock ran his tongue around his lips. He leaned in
closer and gave me a short laugh. “I’m not asking if you got
trouble, mister, I’m asking if you want it."

I feigned bewilderment, pointing to my own chest.

Lubbock’s face turned into one big sour pucker.

"Shit," he said, a three-syllable word.
"You a retard, mister? What the hell you want following us like
that?"

I tried another dashing smile. "How about a few
minutes of Mr. White’s time?"

“
That’s about as likely as pig shit."

“
Tell Mr. White that Sheriff Navarre’s son is
here to see him. I think he’ll agree to talk."

If the name Navarre meant anything to Lubbock, he
didn’t show it. "I don’t give a damn whose damn son you are,
mister. You’d best get out of here before I decide—"

“
You’ve never been a highway patrolman."

He scowled. It didn’t improve his looks any.

“
What?"

Before he knew what had happened, I’d grabbed the
handle of his .38 Airweight and twisted it, still in its holster, so
the barrel was angled into the side of Lubbock’s chest. His arms
jerked up instinctively, like he was suddenly anxious for his armpit
deodorant to dry. All the tight lines in Lubbock’s face loosened
and most of his color seemed to drain into his neck.

“
When you’re stopping somebody in a car," I
explained very patiently, "you never wear a shoulder holster.
Much too easy to reach."

Lubbock raised his hands, slowly. His mouth was
twitching in the corner.

“
I’ll be goddamned," he said. Too many
syllables to count.

I got the Airweight free of its holster, then opened
the car door. Lubbock stepped back to let me out. He was smiling in
earnest now, looking at the gun I had leveled at his chest.

“
That’s the ballsiest son-of-a-bitch move I’ve
seen in a while, mister. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t. You just
put, yourself in so much deep shit you don’t even know."

"Let’s go see about getting you that raise,"
I suggested.

The front door was painted white, with a
bathtub-sized piece of beveled glass in the center. Lubbock led me
through into a spacious entry hall, then left to a pair of double oak
doors and into a private study. Some where along the way he must’ve
pressed a security buzzer with his foot, but I never saw it.

Things were going very well until the guy behind the
coat rack clicked the safety of his gun off and stuck a few inches of
barrel in my neck.

Lubbock turned around and repossessed his .38
Air-weight. He never stopped grinning. The man behind me stayed
perfectly still. I didn’t try to turn.

"Good afternoon," I said. “Is Mr. White
at home?"

"Good afternoon," the man behind me said.
His voice came out smooth as honey over a
sopapilla
.
"Mr. White is at home. In fact, Mr. White is about to kill you
if you don’t explain yourself rather quickly."

I put my hand over my shoulder, offering to shake.

"Jackson Navarre," I said. "The
Third."

I counted to five. I thought that was it. I started
to make peace with Jesus, the Tao, and my credit card agencies, then
I heard the safety click back on. Guy White took my hand.

“
Why didn’t you say so?" he asked.
 

13

“
Would you pass me the Blue Princess, Mr. Navarre?"

Guy White pointed with his trowel to the flat of baby
plants he wanted. I passed them over. For his gardening ensemble,
White had changed into a newly-pressed denim shirt with the sleeves
rolled up, Calvin Klein jeans, huaraches on his perfectly tanned
feet. He’d traded the 9mm Glock for pruners and trowel. Shadows
from the brim of his wicker hat criss-crossed his face like Maori
tattoos as he knelt over a five-foot plot of dirt, digging little
conical holes for his new babies.

Next to me on the hot stone bench, a jar of sun tea
Guy White had brought out with us ten minutes before was already dark
amber. Sweat was starting to trickle down my back. My butt felt like
a fried tortilla. I looked longingly at the nearby patio, shaded with
pecan trees, then at the swimming pool, then at Guy White, who was
smiling contentedly and humming along with the drone of the cicadas
and not sweating at all.

I’d liked him better when he was holding a gun on
me. “I’m quite excited about these," he told me. He broke
one plastic container off the flat of plants and turned it upside
down to shake the roots loose. “Do you know about gardening, Mr.
Navarre?"

"It’s not my specialty. That’s some kind of
verbena?"

“
Very good. "

"It was associated with sorcerers in medieval
times."

White looked pleased. "Is that so?"

He carefully placed the verbena into its new home and
patted down the dirt. The little clusters of flowers were cotton
candy blue. They matched Mr. White’s ensemble perfectly.

“
This is the first year the Blue Princess variety
is available," he explained. “From England. It’s only being
offered commercially in South Texas. Quite an opportunity."

I wiped the back of my neck. “You always do your
planting in the middle of the afternoon?"

White laughed. When he sat back on his heels I
realized for the first time what a large man he was. Even with me
sitting and him kneeling we were almost eye eve.

“
Verbena is a hearty plant, Mr. Navarre. It looks
delicate but it demands full sunlight, aggressive pruning,
well-drained soil. This is the best time to plant it. Many people
make the mistake of pampering their verbena, you see—they’re
afraid to cut the blooms, they over-water or overshade. Treat verbena
with gentleness and it mildews, Mr. Navarre. One can’t be afraid to
be aggressive."

“
Is that your business philosophy too? Is that the
way it was ten years ago?"

Not a wrinkle marred Guy White’s face. His smile
was the smile of the Redeemed, of a man with no troubles in this
world or the next. "I think, Mr. Navarre, that you may be
operating under some faulty assumptions."

I spread my hands. “It wouldn’t be the first
time. Maybe you could set me straight?"

“
If I can." His digging had uprooted a
six-inch earth-worm, and when White stabbed his trowel into the dirt
it cut the worm neatly in half. White didn’t seem to notice. He
removed his leather gloves and took a long drink from his glass of
ice tea before speaking. “I had nothing to do with your father’s
death, my boy."

“
I feel better already."

White shook his head. "I’m afraid if you’ve
inherited Sheriff Navarre’s stubbornness there’s little point in
our talking."

“
He made your life uncomfortable for several years.
There are plenty of people who still say you got away with his
murder."

White pulled his gloves back on and started troweling
the second row of Blue Princess. Under the shadow of his hat brim,
his pleasant smile didn’t waver at all. "I’ve been the
convenient answer for many criminal questions in the past, Mr.
Navarre. I’m aware of that. "

"In the past."

“
Exactly. Would you hand me the 19-5-9, please?"

"Pardon?"

“
The fertilizer, my boy, next to your foot. You may
not know that in recent years I’ve done my best to give back to the
community. I’m pleased to be thought of as a good citizen, a patron
for many causes. I’ve been actively cultivating that role, and I
much prefer it to the undeserved reputation I had in my younger
days."

"I’m sure. Murdering, drug dealing—hardly
the sort of thing you can talk about at the Kiwanis Club."

White stabbed his trowel back into the dirt, up to
the handle this time. He was still smiling when he looked up, but the
lines around his eyes revealed just a bit of frayed patience.

"I want you to understand me, Mr. Navarre. Your
father never made my life as difficult as it was after he a died,
when I was subjected to all sorts of scrutiny, all sorts of
witch-hunters looking for someone to blame for I his murder. I’ve
worked for many years since then to build back my position in the
community, and I am not anxious to have that position compromised
with groundless speculation that should have been put to rest long
ago. I hope I’m being clear?"

While White was talking, Lubbock had ambled across
the lawn. He was now standing respectfully a few yards away, holding
a cell phone and waiting to be summoned forward. White let him wait.

“
Do we understand each other?" White asked me,
very quietly.

I nodded. "How was it you used to kill your
rivals, anyway—bullets through the eyes? I forgot. "

For an instant White’s face froze. Then, slowly,
his smile rebuilt itself. He let out his breath. "You really are
a great deal like your father, my boy. I wish you luck."

He almost sounded sincere. It wasn’t exactly the
response I’d been expecting.

“
Maybe you should be trying to help me, then,"
I suggested.

White ignored the comment. He got up and brushed the
dirt off his Calvin Klein’s, then seemed to notice Lubbock standing
there for the first time.

"Ah," he said, "now if you’ll excuse
me, my boy, I must take this call. Emery here will see you out."

Emery handed Mr. White the phone and nodded for me to
follow him inside. I got up from the stone bench.

"Mr. White," I said.

White had already dismissed me. He was chatting
pleasantly with his caller about the weather in Vera Cruz. Now he
looked back, taking the phone away from his ear.

"just so you understand me: If you’re lying,
if you killed my father, I’ll personally mulch you into your own
garden. "

He smiled as if I’d wished him happy birthday. “I’m
sure you will, my boy. Good day."

Then he turned away, unconcerned, and resumed his
phone conversation about the pros and cons of Mexican real estate. He
walked into his garden.

Emery looked at me and laughed once. He patted me on
the back like we were old friends, then led me back toward the White
House.

14

“
Now this I like," my mother said.

She had come over to the apartment around eight
o’clock, minus Jess, who was watching the Rangers game. For five
minutes she’d commented on my new home’s "interesting
Spartan look," sprayed essential oil to cleanse the place’s
aura, and looked around halfheartedly for anything she could
compliment. Finally she’d spotted the Mexican statuette Lillian had
given me.

The minute Mother picked it up, Robert Johnson hissed
and backed into the closet again. Looking at the statue, thinking
about my last talk with Lillian, I had a similar reaction.

“
I think he wants you to have it," I said. “It
fits your decor better anyway."

Mother’s green eyes sparkled mischievously. She
dropped the statuette into her massive gold lamé purse. "I’l1
trade you for dinner, dear. "

Then we walked down to the corner of Queen Anne and
Broadway.

Sad but true. I’d lived in San Francisco for years,
gone to Chinatown almost daily, but I’d never found lemon chicken
as good as the kind they serve at Hung Fong. Maia Lee would throttle
me for speaking such sacrilege, since I’m including her own family
recipe in the comparison, but there it is.

The restaurant had doubled in size since I’d been
there last, but old Mrs. Kim was still the hostess. She greeted me by
name, not fazed a bit by the fact I hadn’t been there in a decade,
then gave us our favorite table under the neon American and Taiwanese
flags entwined on the ceiling. It was Tuesday night after the dinner
rush and we had the place to ourselves except for two large families
at corner booths and a couple of guys who looked like basic trainees
eating at the counter. Five minutes after we ordered, the tablecloth
was buried under platters piled with food.

"Isn’t it odd that Lillian left for Laredo the
day after you arrived?" Mother asked. Mother had dressed
informally tonight: a brilliant gold and black kimono over a black
cotton bodysuit. Every time she reached over the table the gold and
amber bangles around her wrists slid down over her hands and caught
on the lids of the covered dishes, but she didn’t seem to mind.

"All right, " I said. “So we had a small
fight. Not even a fight, really."

I told her about Dan Sheff, hunk from hell. Mother
nodded.

"I remember his mother from the Bright Shawl."
She waved her chopsticks dismissively. "Horrid woman. Never
trust anyone named Cookie to raise a child properly. Now what else
happened?"