Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (15 page)

I got back in my car and drove up to the guard,
slowly. I tried to look mortally bored.

“
Hey," I said.

He had a vibrating smile, this guy, like it would
jump right off his face. He was younger than me. Probably his first
week on the job. The white uniform and his twitchy eyes made him look
like the ice cream man after a nervous breakdown.

"Your destination, sir?" he said, laying
petal-soft hands on the car door. He tried to hide his distaste when
he caught a whiff from inside of the VW. It had been doused by plenty
of rainstorms before now, and some parts had never completely dried.

“
Yeah," I said, yawning. “Two--Aw shit,
two—"'

I snapped my fingers helplessly. I gazed off like I
was having a flashback.

Behind us the Cadillacs were starting to get
impatient. The one in front flashed its high beams. He had places to
go, golf games to start.

"Two—"

I almost thought it wouldn’t work. Then the second
Cadillac honked. The guard jumped.

“
2OO Palamon?" he offered, almost in tears.
“The Bagatallinis?"

I grinned. "Yeah."

"Yes, sir, straight up, past the ninth green,
your first right."

"Good deal."

And I drove through, wondering who the poor
Bagatallinis were if they kept sorry company like me. Maybe I should
drop by I’d been in the Dominion a few times before. Once, in the
last days of their marriage, I’d been sent by my mom to pick up the
Sheriff when he was puking Cuba Libras into somebody’s
million-dollar cactus garden after a social hobnob. But I didn’t
know the place well enough to locate the Sheff house on the first
try.

After two passes around the swan pond, however, I
finally found it. It was a modest place by Robin Leach’s
standards—two white stucco wings that met in a three-story-high
point at the center, the middle portion all glass so you could see
the coliseum-size living room and the interior balconies that looked
down on it. The front yard was all rocks. I looked at the glass
house. I looked at the million stones in the yard. I shook my head.
The joke probably hadn’t even occurred to them.

Dan Sheff’s silver BMW was parked a little ways
down the hill. A brown Mercedes and a restored cherry-red ’65
Mustang were in the driveway. So was an honest-to-God chauffeur,
black suit and all, washing the cars.

It wasn’t his first week on the job. He met me at
the curb before I’d even taken off my shades.

"Can I help you?"

He was a small Anglo man, lean and well muscled, the
kind of guy who’s five feet five with an extra six inches of
attitude on top. The plastic sheen of his face told me nothing. He
could’ve been anywhere between thirty and fifty.

"I don’t think so," I said. "I
usually wait until after the storm to wash my Mercedes."

I’ve never seen anybody smile without making
wrinkles somewhere on their face, but this guy managed it, briefly.
Then he was Mr. Impassive again.

“
Thursday morning like clockwork," he said. "I
get paid anyway, man. And your business is with—?"

“
Mr. Sheff," I said.

He gave me a quick scan from my Triple Rock T-shirt
to my jeans to my deck shoes, which over the years, I admit, had come
to resemble a pair of baked potatoes more than footwear. Mr.
Impassive was not in awe.

"Which one?" he said.

"Dan."

He didn’t even smile. “Which one?"

Ah. A family with as many confusing duplicate names
as mine.

"Junior," I ventured.

If he’d said "which one” again I wou1d’ve
had to flog him with my Ray-Bans. Fortunately he just lied to me.

"Not here," he said.

I guess he didn’t expect me to buy it, because he
didn’t move. He kept his chest between me and the house as if his
chest were an obstacle at least the size of Kerrville.

I glanced over at the BMW.

"Dan’s taking public transportation these
days? Or maybe carpooling in the neighbors’ Lexus to save gas?"

“
Mr. Sheff doesn’t make appointments at home,"
he said. “Unless you’re a friend--"

The idea must have amused him. He made a small sound
in the back of his throat that either meant he had a hairball or he
was laughing.

"He’ll want to talk to me," I said. Then
I tried to walk past him.

His hand wrapped around my biceps like a torque
wrench. I tried to look suitably impressed, which wasn’t hard. He
liked that. The smooth smile came back.

“
No visitors unannounced," he said.

I stood still, offering no resistance. "Not a
bad grip for a guy who must drive power steering."

“
I bench three-fifty cold, six reps."

I whistled. “I drink twelve ounces cold, six reps."

"I mean it, man. You leave now."

I sighed, resigned. I seemed to think about it.

No matter how strong your grip is, it’s always
unconnected where the thumb meets the fingertips, and the thumb is
the weakest part of the lock. The trick is to twist against it fast
enough to break out. It’s really pretty easy, but it looks
impressive. I was halfway up the sidewalk before he realized he
didn’t have me anymore. He came at me again, but he had a serious
disadvantage. He was on the job and I wasn’t. In a bar fight I
would’ve thought at least twice about taking this guy on, but even
the toughest employees are usually hesitant about cold-cocking
somebody in front of their rich boss’s house, at least not without
permission. I had no such restrictions. He tried to grab me with both
arms. I stepped underneath and flipped him into the gravel.

Then I stepped onto the porch and rang the doorbell,
or rather I pulled it—a huge brass chain that would’ve made
Quasirnodo homesick, connected to some ridiculously tiny—sounding
chimes. As if to compensate, a thunder-lightning combo exploded
directly overhead. Raindrops as big and warm as poblano peppers
started to fall.

Meanwhile the chauffeur was sitting up, brushing the
white dust off his black suit. You’d’ve thought he got flipped
every day by the calm look on his face. He just stood up and nodded.

"
Aikido
?"
he asked.

“
Tai chi
."

“
How about that." Then he cleared his throat
and looked at the front door. "You mind if I make the
introductions, man? I don’t feel like job-hunting today."

"You got it." I told him my name. For an
instant his face changed expressions. Then it smoothed over again.

When Cookie Sheff answered the door, the chauffeur
told her: “Tres Navarre to see Mr. Dan Jr."

It only took the society matron a few awkward seconds
to warm up her best smile. Then she held out her hands in welcome, as
if I were late for tea and had been presumed dead.

“
Good gracious, yes," she said. "Please
come in, Tres."
 

23

"You’ll have to excuse the house," Cookie
Sheff said. “The maid doesn’t come until noon."

Maybe the flagstone floor needed to be scrubbed, or
the walk-in fireplace vacuumed. I looked up at the ceiling fans,
three stories above. Maybe they needed dusting. Other than that I
couldn’t see much for the maid to do.

"Please . . ." Mrs. Sheff said, waving me
toward the white leather couch. I opted for a pigskin chair
instead. Cookie perched across from me on the very
edge of her seat.

“
Well." She slid her withered hands around a
half-finished Bloody Mary. “What can I get you?"

Mrs. Daniel Sheff, Sr., had unnaturally golden,
unnaturally smooth hair that fit around her head like a Roman helmet.
Her bright red lipstick went well over the real boundaries of her
lips. Her eyebrows were similarly enhanced. The makeup looked like a
waterline that had been drawn at the height of a flood. Since that
time, however many decades ago, Cookie Sheff’s face had receded.

She was the picture of aging gracefully—graceful if
you didn’t count the kicking and screaming and the surgery. She was
also the woman who had been sitting in Dan’s car in front of
Lillian’s house last Sunday.

“
I came to ask about Lillian, ma’am," I
said. "I assume the police have been by already?"

The Bloody Mary froze halfway to her lips.

"Lillian?" she said. “Police?"

“
That’s right."

She shook her head, trying to smile. "I’m
afraid I don’t . . ."

"That would surprise me, ma’am," I said,
“unless you’ve sworn off phones since you were PTA president at
Alamo Heights."

The smile turned to stone. "I beg your pardon."

"My mother used to tell me that you could boil
every piece of gossip in town down to just seven numbers--Cookie
Sheff’ s phone number."

When she spoke again, after apparently swallowing her
tongue several times, her voice had all the charm and affection of a
drugged bobcat.

“
Oh, yes," she said, “your mother. How is
the old dear?"

“
She looks great."

Her drink was quickly reduced to red ice cubes.

“
Tres," Cookie said, taking on a patient,
mildly chastising tone, "perhaps it should occur to you that a
certain . . . quality of people do not wish their family crises aired
so openly."

“
Meaning I should’ve called instead of dropping
by?"

"Meaning," she said, "that the
Cambridges are my very dear friends."

"Soon to be family?"

She looked satisfied. “So you see why perhaps your
coming here was not in the best taste."

"I feel just awful, ma’am. Now where is your
son, please?"

She sighed quietly, then stood up.

"Kellin?" she called.

Mr. Impassive, already immaculate in a fresh black
uniform, appeared instantly from an interior doorway, a full Bloody
Mary in hand. He walked like he enjoyed the sound his boots made
against the flagstones.

“
See Mr. Navarre out, please," Cookie said.

Kellin looked at me and nodded. Maybe a faint
smile--permission to kill at last.

Then on one of the balconies above me, Dan jr.
appeared, fashionably dressed in a maroon velour housecoat-looking
thing. His hair was sticking up on both sides.

I waved at him and smiled. “Dan," I called up.
“Thought we might have a talk."

His face compacted. Before he said anything he looked
at his mother, who shook her head.

“
What the hell do you want, Navarre?" he said.

“
To find Lillian," I answered. “You
interested or not?"

"Danny," said Mrs. Sheff, “do you think
it’s a good idea to talk to this man?"

Her voice was soft, sweet and cold as Blue Bell ice
cream. Her tone implied that the right answer was “no," and
the wrong answer would probably mean no allowance for a week.

Dan thought about it. Then he looked at me. I angled,
letting him see a little of my amusement. That did it.

“
Come on in the office, Tres," he said. Then
he disappeared from the balcony.

The slight shake of Mrs. Sheff”s head told me there
would be a Conversation at the family dinner table tonight. Then she
gave me a look that was meant to suggest no dessert for the rest of
my life. She took her Bloody Mary and exited up the nearest
staircase.

“
Come on," said Kellin.

He led me into a smaller room, not much bigger than
my apartment, really. Above the fireplace on the right was a recent
oil painting of Cookie, minus the wrinkles. Opposite it, on the left
wall, was a huge black and  white enlargement of a young Dan Sr.
dressed for war—Korea, probably. Directly between them, Dan Jr.
pulled out the chair behind an oiled mahogany desk.

Behind him, outside a heavily curtained picture
window, a true South Texas storm was raging, brief and violent. I
could see my VW on the street, its roof fluttering, threatening to
peel off. Small newly planted trees along the sidewalk were bent to
the ground.

"Have a seat, " Dan said.

He’d combed his hair but was still drowning in
maroon bedclothes. In his hand was a drink that looked like plain
orange juice. I sat down across from him and waited.

After a minute of staring at me he said: " Okay.
What the hell is it?"

"You know about Lillian."

Either he was a great actor or his anger was genuine.
His knuckles curled up white. "I know that you show up, and a
day later she’s gone."

"When did you see her last?"

Dan looked at me with red eyes, then looked down at
the desk. He ran his hand through his hair and a lick of blond sprang
back up like a canary wing.

"You goddamn know when," he muttered. “And
you were still there when I left. That’s what I told the police,
not that they have a fucking clue. If it was up to me you would’ve
been put away by now, Navarre."