by Rick Riordan
"You ever get frustrated with her playing your songs?" I asked. "Getting all the attention for your music?"
Brent kept playing quietly, looking at the hills as he worked his fret board, occasionally twitching his eye as he reached for a harder note. His face and his hands reminded me of a deepsea fisherman's as he worked his rod and reel.
"She was grateful at first," he said. "Told me she couldn't have done it without me-that she owed me everything. She gives you those bright eyes-" He smiled, a kind of sad amusement. Suddenly he looked like his father, a leaner version, less gray, weathered a little sooner and a little more harshly, but still Willis' son. "Guess you're the cavalry now, ain't you, Navarre?"
"You never thought much of Milo hiring a private eye."
"Nothin' personal," he said. "Seems to me Les has ditched us, Milo's trying to prove he's got things under control. It's not-I appreciate-" He stopped himself, not sure how to proceed. "Miranda was talking about you yesterday. She seemed to feel a lot easier about things-said you were a good man. I do appreciate that."
He meant it, but there was an uneasiness in his tone I couldn't quite nail down.
"Something about her Century Records deal is bothering you."
He shook his head uncertainly.
"Has Les tried to call you?"
Brent frowned. "Why would he?"
"Just a thought. You don't figure he would've contacted Miranda?"
"Les is gone for good. That's pretty obvious, ain't it?"
"Is that what Allison's hoping?"
Brent played a few more chords. His focus moved farther away by a few hundred miles. "It never should have happened between me and her."
"None of my business."
Brent shook his head sadly.
For no reason I could see he decided to start singing again. It was a pretty tune-one of his slow ones, "The Widower's TwoStep."
Coming straight from Brent the song was a hundred times sadder. I could almost feel the weight of the tractor shed apartment on his back, imagine a young woman in there, pregnant, dying from some condition I couldn't even remember the name of.
I got myself another Dixie cup full of whiskey. The liquor made a warm heavy coating around my lungs.
When Brent finished the last verse we were quiet for a long time. The sun was nice.
The circling buzzards and the horse pawing up the field and even the frantic, coked up movements of the chickens were all getting more and more fascinating the more I drank. I could've settled into that lawn chair for the rest of my life, I figured.
"You get any money from the songs?" I asked. "Allison was saying something-"
Brent nodded. "Quarter royalties."
"A quarter?"
"Half to the publisher."
"And the other quarter?"
"Goes to Miranda as cowriter."
"She cowrote the songs?"
"No. But it's standard," Brent said. "The artist who records the song gets half credit for writing it even if they didn't. Looks better on the album that way. It's a tradeoff for them choosing your material."
"Even if she's your sister?"
"Les said it's standard."
I watched the turkey buzzards. "Seems like Miranda could've made it unstandard."
He shrugged. I couldn't tell whether he cared or not. I wondered what conversations Allison had had with him about that.
"Les ever stay at the ranch house?" I asked.
He nodded reluctantly. "Once. I was following him back from a gig one night, he run himself off the road from all the drink and pills. Had to convince him to come back here and sleep it off. He wasn't a happy fella. He talked a lot about selfdestructing that night."
"How'd you handle it?"
Brent played a chord. "Told him I'd been there."
He sang another song. I drank more. My feet were pleasantly numb and I was enjoying the sound of Brent Daniels' voice. I felt easy and comfortable for the first time in days.
Not thinking about whether I wanted to become a licensed P.I. or a college teacher or a neon blue bearded lady for Cirque du Soleil.
Brent and I talked some more in between songs. It was like having a bilingual conversation-shifting in and out of singing and talking until there stopped being a difference. After a while Brent started doing other people's music-"Silver Wings" and
"Faded Love" and "Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground." Stuff that reminded me of my dad's record collection. God forbid maybe I even mumbled along with Brent as he sang.
Things got blurry after that, but I remember during one of the silent places saying, "Les hasn't played straight with anybody this whole time. He wouldn't be worth protecting."
I wanted to look at him, see his reaction, but my eyes were closed and I was enjoying them that way.
"I gave up on protection a long time ago," Brent said.
His voice was a sad sound, the chords bright and airy behind it.
The last thing I remember, he was singing something about a train.
I woke up with the feeling that somebody had hooked me to a reverse IV. All the fluid had ^r drained out of my mouth and my eyes and my brain. When I moved my head everything turned white. I realized, belatedly, that I was feeling pain.
I sat up on the metal cot and rubbed my face where it had pressed itself into the texture of the rayon. One of the yellow curtains was open and light was pouring directly onto my chest.
Other things came into focus-a folding card table with a bucket of silverware on it. A wooden bunk bed, the bottom bunk stripped to the springs. A Playboy wall calendar that was still stuck on Miss August. The walls were the same inside the little tractorshed apartment as they were outside-rough wood, painted red. What few pictures there were hung from bare nails. Brent's carving knife was stuck directly into the wall above the tiny sink. There was no oven-no kitchen to speak of. Just a hot pad and a coffeemaker and a minirefrigerator.
It was possible that a woman might've lived here once, but you couldn't've proved it.
I tried to get up.
I tried again.
When I finally succeeded I realized where all the fluid in my body had drained to. I looked around for the rest room.
It was a tiny closet behind a shower curtain. Everything was close together. The sink overlapped the toilet tank and the shower drained directly into the tile floor so you could, conceivably, use the toilet and take a shower and brush your teeth all at the same time.
I only tried option number one.
It wasn't until I rummaged in the medicine cabinet, hoping for aspirin, that I found some reminder of the woman who had once lived here-orange prescription bottles, at least ten of them, all typed faintly with the name Maria Daniels. Insulin A. Prenatal vitamin supplements. Glucophage. Several other names I hadn't ever heard of. Some were open, as if she'd just taken her prescription this morning. As if nothing had been touched in the cabinet in two years. In the corner, behind the container of white Glucophage tablets, was a baby teether still in its plastic wrapper.
I picked it up. Little glittery shapes-diamonds, squares, stars-floated through the liquid inside the plastic ring, sluggish and sterile.
Behind me Brent Daniels said, "You're up."
I closed the cabinet.
When I turned Brent was trying his best not to notice what I'd been doing. He fingered the edge of the shower curtain.
His hair had dried, and his face was cleanshaven. Except for the eyes, he didn't look like a man who'd been drinking as heavily as I had.
"Miranda called," he told me. "Said Milo was going to be mixing for the rest of the afternoon and did I want to pick her up early. I could, or-? "
"I'll drive up."
Brent nodded, like it was bad news he'd been expecting. He gestured behind him with his chin. I followed him out into the apartment, which was just big enough for the two of us.
Brent opened a cabinet above the little refrigerator and retrieved a bag of flour tortillas and a can of refried beans.
"Hungry?"
My stomach did a slow roll. I shook my head no.
Brent shrugged and cranked up the hot pad. I stared at the picture that was taped inside the pantry door-a black and white of a woman with short brunette hair, a slightly moonish face, an almost uncontainable smile, like she was being tickled.
"That Maria?"
Brent tensed, looked around to see what I was talking about. When he realized I meant the picture he relaxed.
"No. My mother."
"You were how old?"
He knew what I meant. "Almost twenty." Then, like it was something he was obliged to add, something he'd been corrected on many times, "Miranda was only six."
Brent threw a tortilla directly on the hot pad. He watched as it began to puff up and bubble. The tortilla was probably old and flat but after a minute on the grill it would taste almost as good as fresh. The only correct way to heat a tortilla.
"Willis might not be too happy with you driving to pick Miranda up," he speculated.
"But you don't mind."
He flipped the tortilla. One of the air bubbles had cracked open and the edges had blackened.
"Maybe I will take some," I decided.
Brent made no comment, but got another tortilla out of the bag.
"I don't mind," he finally agreed. "Dad…" He trailed off.
"He's got an unpredictable temper, doesn't he?"
Brent was staring at the picture of his mother.
" 'Billy Senorita,' " I said. "The only song Miranda wrote herself-it was about your parents."
Brent stirred up the refried beans. "The fights weren't as bad as that."
" But scary to a sixyearold."
Brent stared at me. He let a little anger burn through the dead ash. "You want to think about something- think how Willis feels, hearing that song every night. Put him in his place, all right. Worked like a charm."
I did what Brent said. I thought about it.
Brent added a little pepper and a little butter and salt to the beans. When they were smoking he spread them on the flour tortillas, folded them, and handed one to me. We sat and ate.
I stared out the side window into the tractor shed. An enormous orange cat was sleeping on the seat of the rusty John Deere. A couple of doves were in the rafters above. My gaze shifted over to the ceiling above me.
"What's up there?" I asked.
"Attic now. Used to be the sewing room."
"Sewing?"
Brent looked at me, a little resentful that he had to say anything else. "Maria."
I turned my attention back to my bean roll.
"I want to tell you something," I decided.
Brent waited, not concerned one way or the other.
Maybe it was his passivity that made me want to talk. Maybe the midday whiskey hangover. Maybe it was just easier than telling his sister. Whatever it was, I told Brent Daniels pretty much the whole story-about Sheckly's bootlegging, about Jean Kraus, about how people that were in a position to give information on Sheckly's business were disappearing, either by choice or not.
Brent listened quietly, eating his bean roll. Nothing seemed to shock him.
When I was done he said, "You don't want to go telling Miranda all this. It'll kill her right now. Wait for her to finish her tape."
"Miranda may be in danger. You too, for that matter.
What was Jean Kraus arguing with you about-that night at the party?"
Brent smirked. "Jean, he'll argue about anything. That don't mean he's going to kill me and my family."
"I hope you're right. I hope Les doesn't bring you folks the kind of luck he brought Julie Kearnes. Or Alex Blanceagle."
Brent's eyes started collecting shadows again. "Miranda doesn't need this."
"But you're not concerned. You don't worry about Les making problems for you."
Brent shook his head slowly.
He was a hard person to judge. There could've been a lie there. Or maybe not. The weathered face and the years of hardness covered up just about everything.
"Tough for me to let somebody in here," he said finally. He stared off at the rough red walls of the apartment.
I sat there for another few seconds before I realized he'd just told me to leave.
44
By the time I picked up Miranda at Silo Studios, another promised cold front had edged its way south and stalled, pressing humid air and gray clouds over Austin like a sweaty electric blanket.
The folks seventy miles north in Waco were probably cool and comfortable. Then again, they were in Waco.
Milo Chavez was too busy to speak to me. He and one of the engineers were glued to the sound board, listening in awe to the new vocal tracks Miranda had laid down over the last two mornings.
"Fifteen takes," Milo mumbled to me. "Fifteen goddamn takes of 'Billy's Senorita' and she blew it away in one try this morning. My God, Navarre, losing that first demo tape was the best thing that ever happened to us."
He laid his hand on the little BOSE speaker like he was consecrating it.
Chavez agreed to let me take Miranda back to S.A. early as long as I got her to her appearance tonight on time. Miranda said she was starving. She suggested lunch on the way back to town. I had a conscience attack and called my brother Garrett to see if he could join us. Unfortunately he could.
When we got to the Texicali Grille we found Garrett at an outside table. He'd pulled his wheelchair under one of the metal umbrellas and Dickhead the parrot was waddling stiffly back and forth on his shoulder. Danny Young, the owner of the Texicali, was sitting backward in the chair across the table.
Danny was a family friend, connected to the Navarres through a network of South Texas kin and nearkin that I never could quite remember.
Many years back Danny had moved his restaurant business from Kingsville to Austin and decided to grant himself an honorary double degree in alternative politics and burgerflipping. He announced that the half of Austin below the Colorado River must secede from the growing yuppiness of the north, so he hoisted a green XXXL Tshirt up the flagpole at the Texicali and started calling himself the Mayor of South Austin. I think Danny's political platform said something about flip flops and salsa and Mexican beer. I'd told him he could annex San Antonio anytime he wanted.
Danny's hands took up most of the top of the chair back. His greying brown hair was pulled into a ponytail and when Garrett said something about Samsung Electronics moving to Austin, Danny laughed, flashing the silver in his teeth.
"Hey, little bro." Garrett waved at me. Then he saw Miranda and said, "Damn."
She was dressed seven hours early for her fifteen minute spot at Robert Earle Keen's Halloween Night Show. She'd chosen a cotton blouse made of big orange and white squares, a black skirt, tan boots, lots of silver jewellery. Her hair and makeup were airbrush perfect. Most of the time I would've called the look too much, too Big Hair Texas for my tastes. This afternoon, on Miranda, it worked for me.
I shook hands with Garrett and Danny.
I started to introduce Miranda but Danny said, "Oh, hell, we've jammed together."
Miranda laughed and gave Danny a hug and asked him how his washboard playing was coming along. Danny told Miranda she'd sounded just fine on Sixth Street last month.
Garrett kept looking at Miranda. He wasn't having much luck getting his mouth closed.
The parrot eyed me cautiously, like he was forming a vague memory of unhappier times, before Jimmy Buffett and ganja.
"Noisy bastard," he decided.
Danny gave Miranda one more hug, then asked us all what we were having. Garrett told him just about everything, especially Shiner Bock. My stomach went into a little gallop, reminding me about the large quantity of whiskey I'd subjected it to for lunch.
"Make mine iced tea," I corrected.
Danny looked at me funny, like maybe he didn't know me after all, but he went inside to place the order.
"The renowned Miss Daniels," I introduced. "My brother Garrett."
/> Miranda said, "Pleased to meet you."
Garrett shook her hand, looking at me while he did it.
He asked me some silent questions. I just raised my eyebrows.
Garrett gave Miranda one of those toothy grins that makes me wonder if he goes to the orthodontist to get his teeth unstraightened and sharpened on purpose. "Love your tunes."
Miranda smiled. "Much obliged."
"I thought you only liked them," I reminded Garrett. "I thought she wasn't Jimmy Buffett."
Garrett told me to shut up. So did the parrot.
Miranda laughed.
"Here, asshole." Garrett fished something out of the wheelchair's side pocket and handed it to me. It was about the size of a computer disk, wrapped in brown paper and sealed with a black and white peace sign sticker.
When I started to protest, he held up his hands in defence. "Did I say anything? Take the damn disk-it's nothing. Some security programs I thought you could use. Don't even consider it a present."
Miranda looked back and forth between us, a little confused.
"Nothing," I promised her.
"Absolutely nothing," Garrett agreed. "Everybody turns thirty. Forget it."
It was Miranda's turn to open her mouth. She looked at me indignantly.
"I'm hoping somebody will gift me a noose," I said. "For my brother."
"You didn't-" Miranda started to say something else, then realized she didn't know quite what.
Garrett was still grinning. "He's embarrassed. Getting old. Not having a day job yet."
"Or maybe hanging is too quick," I speculated.
"Dickhead," squawked the parrot.
Miranda looked back and forth, at a loss for words. It's a look I've seen a lot from women who find themselves between two Navarre men.
"End of subject," I announced. "Tell Miranda how you're reconfiguring your computer to take over the world."
Without too much more encouragement Garrett started telling us about the bastards running RNI, then about his latest unofficial projects. After a while Miranda stopped staring at me. The conversation swung around to Jimmy Buffett, of course, which segued into Miranda's pending fameandfortune deal with Century Records. Garrett tried to convince Miranda that she could do a bangup cover of Buffett's "Brahma Fear" on her first album. After the second round of Shiner Bocks, Miranda and Garrett had just about worked out the arrangement.