Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan

by Rick Riordan

  39

  I wasn’t sure whether Pappy Delgado was glad to see me or just happy to meet Maia. I harbored illusions that the old grocer took an interest in my well-being. It was probably closer to the truth that he took an interest in Maia’s white culottes and brown legs. Whichever, it was a slow morning in his little pink Christmas—lighted store, and Pappy decided to give us a guided tour of the produce aisle. On the way he helped me correct my Californian Espanol so I sounded more like a Tejano than a Cuban. Sandia instead of patia for watermelon agua fresca. Forget guinea for banana. He seemed endlessly amused to be schooling the gringo. Finally, while Maia was picking out avocados, Pappy nodded his huge nose her way and grinned at me.

  "Y la chica?" he whispered.

  I told him he was a dirty old man. He just grinned and told me he bathed daily, preferably not alone.

  I called Drapiewski from the pay phone at the corner of New Braunfels and Eleanor and told him we had things to talk about and pan dulce to eat. He grudgingly agreed to come over.

  "You want to give me some context here, Navarre? What’s the problem?"

  “Heard about the murder at Sheff Construction? You guys had some deputies on the scene, I remember."

  He was silent.

  "Okay, how about Terry Garza dead on Austin Highway? We called it in anonymously last night."

  He was still silent.

  "Can I take that as a yes?" I asked.

  "Holy hell," Drapiewski said. Then he hung up on me. Back at Queen Anne, I heated up the pan dulce Pappy’s wife had made in the back of the shop that morning and added a little butter and cinnamon. By the time they were out of the oven, Drapiewski was at the door. He wasn’t in a jovial mood.

  Before he said anything he took a fistful of pan dulce and sat on the futon. On impact, it sank a few feet into the foundation. Robert Johnson was flushed out from underneath and belly-crawled all the way to the closet.

  "All right," said Drapiewski. "Now what the fuck is this about homicides?"

  Then Maia came out of the bathroom. Larry turned redder than he already was and pulled off his hat. He started to get up.

  “Sorry," he said. "Didn’t know you had company."

  Maia smiled and motioned him to stay seated.

  "That’s all right, Lieutenant. I’m enchanted—I didn’t know anyone apologized for saying ‘fuck’ anymore."

  "Ah—" Larry said.

  Maia laughed, then introduced herself. One hand shake and Larry was in love. He grinned cinnamon and butter. He tried to make room on the futon for her and just about goosed himself with his nightstick. Since he’d totally forgotten he was supposed to be pissed at me, I decided to help him out. "Homicide, Larry? You were saying?"

  He tried to scowl at me. Maybe it was for Maia’s benefit.

  "I checked the telex on Garza a few minutes ago. Nothing’s even been posted yet."

  Maia sat back as much as she could on the two inches of the futon not occupied by Drapiewski’s body.

  “Is that unusual?"

  "What’s unusual is that I hear about it from your friend here first." His eyes bored into me with all the accusatory power of a faithful hound dog I’d just kicked.

  "I also followed up on Karnau this morning—had one of my deputies swing by his apartment, then his studio. They were both empty, like Karnau’s left town."

  Maia and I looked at each other. Larry waited.

  “So you want to tell me?" he asked.

  I told him. By the time I got to last night’s soiree in Terry Garza’s trailer, Drapiewski didn’t look too happy. When I’d finished he put his hands together like he was praying and pointed them at me.

  “You walked out on a murder scene after removing evidence."

  "That’s one interpretation," I admitted.

  "And the only solid evidence you have about this construction scam you obtained during a B & E at Sheff’s offices, which pretty much ruins it for the courts."

  I nodded.

  Larry’s huge red eyebrows came together. He exhaled.

  “Son, you probably just ruined the best chance we’d ever have to string Guy White up by his balls for murdering your dad. I would’ve given anything, anytime in the last ten years for that chance and you just—" He stopped, collected himself. I could tell he was counting silently. "All right, let’s say you broached this whole thing as a hypothetical. Okay, fine. I’m not obliged to follow up. But here’s my hypothetical advice: Get your ass down to SAPD and cooperate like hell."

  "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 th
eir 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 except
ional 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."

  No reaction. White looked out over his gardens and waved his champagne glass toward the north.

  "What do you think, Miss Lee?" he said. "I’m thinking about tomatoes over in that corner, next to the mountain laurels. "

  If Maia was trying to look hard and unapproachable, she was failing miserably. She smiled without even looking at the future tomato patch and agreed that it would be a lovely spot for gardening. I swear to God, White’s eyes twinkled at her on command. When he was ready to entertain my questions again, he pushed the croissant carcass and the Express-News away. He leaned forward across the table, looking earnest and helpful.

  "I assure you, Mr. Navarre, Beau Karnau is no associate of mine. I’ve only met him on a few occasions, and I found him . . . tiresome."

  He let his eyes reveal just a hint of annoyance, a benign peevishness toward that quite colorful character Mr. Karnau.

  “And Dan Sheff?" Maia ventured.

  Guy paused momentarily, then decided to smile. I thought for a minute he would pat Maia’s head.

  "What of him, my dear?"

  “Read your paper," I suggested. "I think the Moraga murder story dropped below the fold today, but you’re still getting page one press."