The Devil Went Down to Austin (20 page)

I remember being thankful for the checkered grip on the gun, because my palms were sweating. This time would be so different. I hadn't planned anything closeup before, nor with a gun. This time would count.

I crept forward, stood in the doorway.

He was slumped in a corduroy recliner, his eyes glued to the set. I was amazed at the way he had deteriorated, how little he looked like the photo in my pocket. His face was a war zone of melanomas and capillaries. His hair had thinned, grayed to the colour of pencil lead, but that stupid moustache was still as black and bushy as ever. His belly was a hard little thing, like he'd swallowed grapeshot.

I watched him a long time, waiting to be noticed. Ten feet away, and he didn't even see me. I got so nervous I started to smile.

He sensed something was wrong. He looked over, locked eyes with me, and it wasn't funny anymore.

"What the hell... ?" His voice dragged itself out of his throat. "Pinche kids."

He started to get up, his eyebrows furrowing.

"Come into my house ... ?" he grumbled.

I tried to say what I'd intended, but things weren't going as planned.

He was supposed to stay there, frozen by my gun, and give me time to talk. Instead, he was struggling to his feet, mumbling that he'd give me a thrashing, that I'd best run before he got his rifle.

He took a step toward me.

Someone had told me the pressure on the trigger would be the same as lifting a jug of milk with one finger. I'm telling you, it was easier than that.

My hand bucked from the recoil.

The arm of his corduroy chair ripped open, spitting out cotton filling. The Old Man's expression just turned angrier. He put a hand out to grab me. My second shot bit off part of his palm, left a bloody groove where his heart line ended.

It wasn't supposed to happen this way.

He started to scold me and the third shot caught him in the shoulder, tore it open like a paper package of meat.

The fourth found his chest, right below the sternum. He knelt painfully, as if entering a church pew. Then he fell forward, turned over, and looked straight up into my face.

The ringing in my ears faded. His eyes were going glassy. His throat made heavy wet noises, like gargling.

Four shots. Enough noise to wake every deaf retiree in the neighbourhood.

And I stood there, stupidly, letting him die on me. My knuckles turned white, the checkered grip of the gun grafting its pattern into my palm.

Finally I remembered what to do. I knew the last sound I needed the Old Man to hear.

I grabbed him by his hairy wrists and left blood streaks down the hall as I dragged him toward the bathroom.

The mess I left still amazes me.

But there again, it was Providence.

I learned how little the police really know, how easily they can be manipulated, how desperately they want to see the obvious.

Most importantly, I learned there is no grace to a gun, no intimacy. I panicked. Things got away from me. And I couldn't have a second chance.

That gnawed at me afterward: thinking about ways I could've done it differently, things I never got to say.

But I learned. I got better at prolonging my time, slowing things down.

And, of course, I got to be a much better shot.

The trick with guns is not practicing for greater and greater distance. That's for the firingrange jocks.

The trick is learning to get right up close.

I spotted Dwight Hayes tailing me before we even left the Techsan parking lot.

He was driving the gray Honda I'd seen last night in his mother's driveway. The car was nondescript enough, but Dwight's blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt made up for it.

He stuck out in traffic like a clown who was late for work. We drove up South Lamar, Dwight staying too close, changing lanes with me diligently.

I made the tail as easy for him as I could. I stayed on Lamar all the way to Riverside, then along the river, left on South Congress.

Midday joggers wended their way along the shoreline of Town Lake. Hookers waited on Fifth Street, hoping to sell somebody a memorable lunch break. A homeless guy in a bed sheet was lecturing Asian tourists outside a Mexican restaurant. Above it all, at the north end of South Congress, the red granite rotunda of the Texas capitol loomed like D.C.'s Apache stepchild.

I turned on Sixth and slowed to look for parking outside One Metropolitan Plaza. The garage was on the other side, but I wanted Dwight to see where I was heading in case we got separated. I thought about rolling down the window and pointing for his benefit, but decided it might spoil his fun.

I lost sight of him when I made the turn on San Gabriel.

The security guard in the lobby of One Metropolitan kept his eye on me as I walked toward the elevator. The light from his desk console shone up into his face like he was about to tell a ghost story.

I kept walking, tapping Matthew Pena's leather appointment book against my leg. I was an important parttime member of the UT extension faculty, damn it. I could pronounce Old English names like Hrothgar with a straight face. I was untouchable.

The corporate headquarters for Doebler Oil took up the tenth and eleventh floors. In contrast to the hightech firms of South Austin, Doebler Oil was all stone and bronze and permanence. The reception area exuded wealth so deeply rooted and selfcantered that I almost expected the polished marble walls not to bother giving back my reflection.

I spent half an hour getting the passiveaggressive runaround from several different receptionists, only to discover that the custodian down the hall had the information I needed. Two fivedollar bills and some talk about blues music bought me the fact that Mr. W.B. Doebler always takes a break at the Met Health Club on the thirteenth floor at this time of day.

Sure enough, I found W.B. in a plush maroon and green lounge, slouching on a fake Louis XIV sofa, French doors behind him leading out to a red granite patio and the kind of view of Austin you'd expect for private club prices.

He was wearing workout clothes. His face and neck were striped with sweat, his feet propped on a goldembossed coffee table, and a tall yellow drink listed in his hands.

He was chatting with an older, similarly outfitted gentleman—probably his racquetball partner.

The only other person in the room sat at the bar—a large Anglo man with a dark suit and a gun bulge under his right arm. He might as well have worn a placard that said BODYGUARD. His sunglasses zeroed in on me the instant I entered the room and stayed on me as I approached W.B.'s sofa.

The older gentleman didn't notice me. He was guffawing a lot, slurring his words as if he'd had a few yellow drinks already. He was telling W.B. about his last trip to the Caymans.

I cleared my throat.

"Call for you," I told the older man. "Something about your mutual fund folding."

His face looked like a boiling crab—that moment when the bluewhite shell turns bright red. "Wh what—?"

"Don't know," I apologized. "That's just what they said at the front desk. Better go ask."

The fact that he had a cell phone and a beeper attached to his tennis shorts didn't seem to occur to him. He sprinted out to find the club phone.

I took his seat on the sofa next to W.B. The cushions poofed with the smell of Polo cologne and old man sweat.

"Dangerous prank, Mr. Navarre," W.B. said. "You realize he's on blood pressure medicine."

"Who, Gramps?"

"Gramps is a retired broker. He could buy you with pocket change. He owns stock in my company."

"Your company. All the other Doeblers in Austin know it's your company?"

W.B. held up his glass, drained it to yellow ice cubes. "I suggest you leave. We have nothing to discuss."

His friend at the bar was still staring at me through the silver sunglasses. His face looked vaguely familiar.

I opened Matthew Pena's appointment book. "We have a lot to discuss, W.B."

I flipped to the page I'd marked and read: "April 3, Lunch, 1:00, WBD, Met Club."

W.B. scowled at the book. "Where exactly—"

"It gets better." I flipped back in the book several pages. "January 10, IP on, Mr.

Doebler, McCormick & Kuleto's. Matthew Pena blocked off a whole evening for dinner with you in January, months before he ever decided to move in on your cousin Jimmy's startup company. What's more, McCormick & Kuleto's is in San Francisco. You went to him. You still want me to leave?"

Doebler's cheeks flushed like handprints. He looked over at his friend with the silver shades. "Mr. Engels—advise me on the legality of stealing an executive's datebook.

This is still a crime in the United States, is it not?"

I recognized Engels now. He'd been Detective Lopez's driver last Saturday—the deputy who'd taken us to Garrett's apartment.

"Parttime security work, Deputy?" I asked. "Or is the Met Club bar on your patrol route?"

The ceiling fan circled above the bar, making the light flicker in Engels' sunglasses.

"Your call, Mr. Doebler," he said. "I can take him away."

The way he said it, I got the feeling Engels was receptive to more possibilities than simply driving me down to the station.

W.B. gave me an indulgent smile. "Mr. Engels is a valuable asset. He spent time in the SWAT unit, a few additional years as a firing range instructor. When he was returned to patrol—thanks to some unfortunate politics in the department—I was able to con

vince him to spend his offhours working for me. I find his talents quite helpful."

"Don't blame you. If I met with Pena, I'd take a bodyguard, too."

W.B. rattled his ice cubes. A waiter appeared with a refill, then disappeared back into his little waiter cave behind the bar.

"I don't know what leverage you think that datebook buys you, Navarre," W.B. told me.

"But it buys you nothing. I make a lot of trips. I have dinner with a lot of businessmen."

"You're telling me it's a coincidence. Pena met with you in January, than again in April, just before he tried to buy out your cousin's company, and it's a coincidence."

"Mr. Pena emailed me last Christmas, said he had a proposition. I was coming to San Francisco on business anyway. Pena had a solid reputation, so I agreed to meet with him. Only at dinner did I find out Pena was operating under a misconception. He'd come across an article about Techsan and assumed Doebler Oil was backing Jimmy's startup. He had hoped to deal with me on the idea of a buyout. I told him I couldn't help, that Jimmy had no support from Doebler Oil. Pena apologized for taking my time.

We finished dinner. We shook hands. That was the end of it. When I invited him here to lunch in April, I was merely being courteous."

"If Doebler Oil was underwriting Jimmy," I said, "Techsan would've had plenty of financial help. They would've been difficult to take over. If you'd given Pena indications to that effect, he would've backed off, looked for an easier target. Instead, you gave Matthew Pena a green light to destroy your cousin."

W.B. slid his feet off the table, sat forward. "You sound like a man who's trying to find any theory to absolve his brother of murder. I understand that. But Jimmy didn't need my help to destroy himself, Mr. Navarre. He didn't need help antagonizing your brother, either."

"You could have called Pena, not the other way around."

"To what end?"

"Clara's branch of the family—they've always been an embarrassment."

W.B. put his drink down, pushed it away with one finger. "Mr. Navarre, the Doeblers have given endowments to half the charities in the county. We've been a cornerstone of Austin politics, business, law. The Doebler name means a great deal in this community. The family never desires to present a negative image. All our business dealings are strictly aboveboard."

"Straight from your company brochure," I guessed.

His face darkened. "When we have family problems, they are just that—family problems. We take care of them ourselves."

"Your father," I said. "When he was chairman, he took care of Clara very nicely—forced her to give up her first child, her lover, an unborn baby. He broke her spirit, shuffled her aside, and when she died, he bought her a nice obituary without that nasty word suicide in it. Talk about positive image."

W.B.'s nondescript handsomeness was coming undone. His cheeks were mottled with anger, his jaw muscles pulling his face out of symmetry. Strangely, he looked a lot more like Jimmy this way.

"My father took his duties seriously, and he did not tolerate disrespect. Aunt Clara flaunted her problems. She sought scandal. Jimmy wasn't any better—hopping trains like a bum, making pots, living in that ridiculous dome—"

"You're jealous."

"Don't be absurd."

"You resented your cousin. You would've resented him even more if, after all those years of squandering, Jimmy ended up a financial success. You wouldn't have been able to bear that, would you?"

W.B.'s eyes were every bit as cold and shiny as Engels' glasses.

"Isn't this your department, Deputy?" he said. "Removing pests?"

Engels slid off his stool, came to stand next to my shoulder.

"What were you trying to buy from the sheriff, W.B.?" I asked. "A coverup—following in your father's footsteps?"

"If I see you again, Mr. Navarre, if you ever show your face, I will not be merciful."

Engels said, "Come on."

We left W.B. at the coffee table, studying its goldembossed surface like it was a war map—one on which his forces held only the low ground.

Engels escorted me toward the elevator.

After nine or ten steps, I said, "How long in SWAT?"

Engels kept walking. "Three years."

"And now back to patrol. Must be hard to swallow."

The sunglasses told me nothing.

"Doebler's money can't make up for the demotion," I said. "What was it—you do something out of line? Fail the psych profiling?"

When we got to the elevator, Engels pressed the button. He watched the elevator numbers creep up.

"How much can he buy, Engels? Who else besides you?"

The elevator doors dinged, then opened.