Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan (37 page)

"I’m listening."

"Carlon, what would it take for you to give up
on getting a story out of this?"

He laughed again. “You don’t have that much,
Navarre. This is the spiciest shit I’ve had since the last
Terlingua Cook-off. Murder, blackmail, the mob. We’re talking
40-point orange headlines here."

“
I don’t want it like that."

"It’s already there, man. It might as well be
me that pops the cherry on it."

I looked over at him. just for the moment I wished I
had a bayonet.

“
Friday, then," I offered. “At the earliest.
This is more complicated than I thought."

“
Getting publicity has a funny way of making things
unravel, man. I’ve still got about an hour to make copy for the
morning edition."

"Look," I said, trying to keep my voice
even, “if you stir things up now, if you get the wrong kind of heat
onto the wrong people, somebody else is going to die. I need time to
make sure that doesn’t happen."

"Lillian, right?"

“
Yeah."

Carlon hesitated. Maybe he was thinking about
Lillian, or maybe he was thinking about the black eye I’d given
Beau Karnau. I didn’t really care which.

“
You promise me this will be mine?" he said.

"It’s yours."

“
Promise me it’s big."

“
Yeah."

Carlon shook his head. “What is it makes me believe
you when I know you’re going to screw me around again?"

“
Your innate benevolence?"

“
Shit."

When I got home I sat down and started feeling very
alone. Robert Johnson fighting with my ankles didn’t help. Neither
did another half pint of tequila.

I tried to push the thoughts of Cookie Sheff and my
father out of my mind, but the only thoughts that replaced them were
of Maia Lee. I looked around the room and saw places she had stood,
or eaten
pan dulce
, or
kissed me. In her hurry to pack, she’d left a few articles of
clothing in the bathroom. I’d folded them neatly on the kitchen
counter. I wondered where she was right now, back at work, talking to
a client, cursing at a cable car operator, having dinner at
Garibaldi’s. Half of me was pissed off because I cared at all. The
other half of me was pissed off because I didn’t care enough to do
anything about it. All of me agreed it was time to get out of the
house.
 

53

My friend at the Dominion gates was learning his
lessons. This time, he remembered to check the list before letting me
in.

"B. Karnau," I said. “For the Sheffs."

“
Yes, sir." I guess he didn’t get too many
VW bugs through there. He frowned at my car. “Wasn’t it the
Bagatallinis before?"

I smiled. “Sure. I know a lot of people here."
 
He nodded, his smile quivering as if he
was afraid I might hit him. He checked his notebook, then looked up
with great regret.

"Ah, I don’t see—"

I snapped my fingers, then said something in Spanish
that sounded like I was scolding myself. What I actually said was
that the guard’s mother had obviously mated with a
learning-disabled
javelina
.
Then in English: "No, man, they would’ve put it under Garza. I
forgot."

He stared at me, trying to figure out how I could go
from German to Hispanic in under twenty seconds. I smiled. I had
black hair, I spoke the language, and it was dark. I guess I passed
the inspection. He checked his list again.

Evidently nobody had thought to cross the dead man
off the party list. The guard looked relieved.

"Okay, Mr. Garza. Straight ahead half a mile,
turn left."

“
Cool."

I shot him with my index finger. Then I kicked up as
much smoke as the VW could make just to piss off the jaguar behind
me.

I won’t tell you that San Antonians are the only
people who love to throw a party. Garrett says Mardi Gras is great.
Lillian always talked about Times Square at New Year’s Eve. But in
most cities they’re content to have one major party season and the
rest of the year is normal. In San Antonio, the normal year is about
two weeks long in the middle of March. The rest of the time it’s
party season.

The Sheffs’ party that night may have been a little
classier than most, but it was just as packed and just as crazy. I
could tell they were deeply in mourning for their dead employees Mr.
Garza and Mr. Moraga. The walkway up to the mansion was lit with
multicolored luminarias. The huge glass front of the building blazed
gold, and a country band was cranking out the Bob Wills tunes from
somewhere inside. A mob of rich folk spilled out the front doors and
into the gravel front yard, laughing, drinking by the gallon,
planning sexual escapades that wouldn’t ruin their designer
clothes. I guess I stood out a little. I’d put on a fresh T-shirt
and jeans, but the tequila bottle in my hand was easily the most
expensive thing I had on. Or maybe it was the look on my face that
made people stop talking as I walked through the front yard. I pushed
past a few city councilmen, some local business leaders, a group of
elderly women criticizing the younger women’s dresses. A lot of the
people I recognized from the old days. Nobody said hello.

I went around the side of the house, put down my
tequila bottle, picked up the outside garbage bin, and went into the
kitchen through the servants’ entrance. The place was bustling with
caterers, tortilla-makers, waiters. As I started emptying their trash
cans into mine I spoke to the nearest group in Spanish.

“
Holy shit, can you believe how much these
cavrons
are eating? The
ceviche
is almost gone, man. You’d better bring in another few gallons."

In a few minutes I’d put fresh liners in all the
cans, whipped the tortilla-makers into a frenzy of activity, and
moved across the room without anybody asking who the hell I was. I
patted a waiter on the back and handed him my garbage can.

"Hold this for a minute," I told him.

Then I slipped into the hallway.

Once upstairs I only had to look in three doorways to
find what I wanted. Cookie had laid out a pile of dresses on her bed.
The vanity against the back wall was an explosion of makeup
containers. The whole place smelled like very old strawberry
potpourri. On the rolltop mahogany study in the corner, a laptop
computer was waiting for me.

I didn’t need Spider John’s help for this one.
Nothing was protected. Even half-drunk, it only took me about ten
minutes. Then I went back out through the kitchen and came into the
party through the front door.

Dan was nowhere to be seen, but on one of the upper
balconies that looked over the living room, Cookie  Sheff was
laughing at the mayor’s joke. Tonight her luminous blond hair was
bigger than ever. Her makeup would’ve worked just fine with 3-D
glasses. She had decided on wearing a black sequined evening gown
that was probably supposed to look alluring but just made her angular
body look like it had been constructed from Tinkertoys.

I headed for the side office where Dan and I had last
talked. When I looked up again Cookie had noticed me. I smiled and
waved. Except for the makeup, the color drained out of her face. Then
she excused herself politely from the mayor and left the balcony.

The office door was locked. I took out a piece of
laminate from my pocket. Ten seconds later I was inside. Dan wasn’t
there either. Lillian’s parents were. The Cambridges cut short
their conversation and looked up as if they were expecting someone
else. Sitting behind Dan Sr.’s desk, lvir. Cambridge looked weary.
He was hunched over into a pale triangle of light from the desk lamp,
staring up at me over bifocals. Mrs. Cambridge stood next to him,
holding tightly to her own wrists. She’d been crying.

“
God damn you," said Mr. Cambridge to me. He
started to get up, hands straightening his tuxedo.

“
Zeke—" murmured his wife. She came toward
me, her hands trembling a little. “Tres—"

I guess that’s when she saw the look on my face.
She hesitated. But Lillian’s mother wasn’t one to be stopped long
by a derelict’s expression and the smell of liquor. Tentatively she
touched my arm.

"Tres, you shouldn’t really, dear—I mean,
things are so complicated right now. You shouldn’t—"

"God damn you," Zeke Cambridge said again.
“Don’t you ever stop?"

He swept some knickknacks from the top of Dan Sr.’s
desk onto the floor.
 
We glared at
each other. It didn’t feel like much of a triumph when he looked
away first. He was tired, old, distraught. I was half-drunk and I
didn’t give a damn. Mrs. Cambridge held my arm a little tighter.

"How are things complicated?" I asked,
trying to see straight. My eyes had started burning and I wasn’t
sure why. “Lillian’s missing, nobody’s doing shit about it,
and, you’re sitting in the private study of the woman I’d vote
Most Likely to Abduct Someone. How is that complicated?

Zeke Cambridge scowled. His huge gray eyebrows came
together.

“
What the hell are you talking about, boy?"

“
Please, Tres," Lillian’s mother said.

The door behind me opened. Cookie stormed in,
followed by my friend the chauffeur. Kellin was almost smiling. I
don’t think he would’ve waited for permission this time before
killing me if Zeke Cambridge hadn’t raised his hand.

"Zeke, Angela," Cookie crooned, “I’m so
sorry. Kellin, see this person out immediately."

“
Wait a minute," Mr. Cambridge said. “First
he explains himself."

"Tres." Lillian’s mother was almost
pleading now.

“
There’s been a murder. Mr. Karnau, Lillian’s
partner. The police are very concerned that—"

"The police." Zeke Cambridge spat the words
out. "If the police had handled things correctly, this son of a
bitch would be in jail by now."

The silver-framed photo of Dan Sr. was the only
target left on the desk for Zeke Cambridge’s anger. He slapped it
away with the back of his hand.

Everyone was quiet. When Lillian’s mother tried to
speak, Cookie cautioned her with a shake of her head.

“
Mr. Navarre," said Cookie, very carefully, “I
believe I asked you to stay away from my home. I do not appreciate
you disturbing my party, breaking into my house, and bothering my
friends. Especially now. If you do not leave immediately, I will call
the police."

I looked at her. Her eyes were as blue as her son’s,
only much smaller and a thousand times harder. They looked past me,
as if they’d frozen onto one particular point in the distance
decades ago and couldn’t be bothered with anything closer.

“
You afraid I might give them a slightly different
take on the situation?" I asked.

Zeke Cambridge was watching Mrs. Sheff now, his anger
getting diluted with confusion. He said: "What the hell is the
son of a bitch talking about, Cookie?"'

Out in the main room, the band blazed into a
hyperactive version of “San Antonio Rose." Somebody did his
best drunken “yee-haw" into the microphone. I felt
disoriented, like someone was spinning me around for
pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.

Mrs. Cambridge took my arm again. She spoke with the
same kindly tone she’d used on numerous Thanksgivings to plead for
peace at the dinner table.

“
Tres," she said, "there’s really
nothing you can do. Please don’t start this."

Her face looked blurry to me. She was crying.

“
What did Rivas tell you about Lillian’s
disappearance?" I asked her. "Or did the Sheffs even let
you talk to him?"

Cookie sighed. “That’s enough."

Kellin knew better than to grab me this time. He just
came and stood next to me, relaxed, alert, arms ready. I ignored him
and kept my eyes on Cookie.

“
Where is the future son-in-law?" I said. “He
and I were just having a nice chat about Randall Halcomb over a
couple of beers."

“
You leaving?" said Kellin. He sounded
pleasant enough. Somehow, though, I got the feeling he really wanted
me to say no.

"Zeke, Angela," said Cookie. “You
shouldn’t be bothered with this, and I can see that Mr. Navarre is
not considerate enough to cease prying. Let me speak to him for a
moment."

It might’ve been a hypnotist’s command. Zeke
Cambridge stood up without argument, and took his wife’s arm. They
drifted out of the room, looking half-asleep, Mrs. Cambridge still
crying without a sound. Cookie sat down behind Dan Sr.’s desk.
Then, with a look of mild distaste on her face, she waved me to the
chair opposite. Kellin and I exchanged looks of mutual
disappointment.

"Now, Mr. Navarre," Cookie said. Her tone
foretold of restriction, loss of allowance, no TV for a week.

"Perhaps we should have a talk."
 

54

“
Kellin, I’d like a glass of red wine. I don’t
believe Mr. Navarre needs anything?