The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #4)

The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #4) Page 32

Clyde shook his head. "She wanted me to know, she'd tell me."

"So much for protection."

Clyde was silent. In the sunset, his eyes were so blue they were translucent, like bottle glass. "You shook her up yesterday. There was no talking to her. I tried ... I'd do anything for her."

"Same as you'd do for my brother."

He stared at the churning water in the hot tub, the dark little orbs of pecans bobbing in the foam. "Garrett might kill a guy who took his woman. He wouldn't do that—" He waved toward the open door of the kitchen.

"I ain't going to let nobody mess with my friends anymore," Clyde decided. "Not the cops, not Pena. I'm going to call a few of my buddies, have them come around tonight, just in case."

"In case what?"

No sound but the hum of the hot tub. The daylight was almost gone.

"I'm not going to trust the police, man," Clyde said. "That's all I'm saying."

"You going to form a human chain of bikers around Garrett?"

"You're not a biker—not a onepercenter. You don't know."

I felt like I was talking to my brother, which suddenly made me realize why Garrett got along with bikers so well. For both, conversation is like spinning wheels in gravel. It doesn't matter if you get anywhere, as long as you make noise and shoot out a bunch of rocks.

"Best of luck, Clyde," I said. "Have a good evening."

I started to leave.

He put a massive paw on my shoulder, pushed me back a step.

"I know you don't like your brother much. But you should respect him. The man says he'll be there for you, he will. The guys in my club know that."

"You're right, Clyde. Garrett's a regular Eagle Scout."

"He going to be out on bail for the Buffett concert tonight?"

"He got a quick hearing. The wheelchair helped, the fact he's got no priors. Maia Lee took care of things the best she could. He'll be out."

Clyde looked somewhat mollified. "Buffett music—Buffett knows what it's all about, man. Renegades got to stick together."

He stepped out of my way. "I expect you to be there for Garrett, Tres. You got some makeup work to do."

Part of me wanted to slug Clyde because he assumed he knew what I needed to do, as if he knew the history—who had abandoned whom over the years. Part of me wanted to slug him because I thought he was probably right.

"Call me," I said. "Let us know Ruby got back safe."

He nodded. "End of the day, man, you better stand with your family. And guess what: the end of the day is here."

CHAPTER 28

Southpark Meadows was throbbing with canned music by the time we pulled in.

The parking lot smelled of hay and mown grass. Headlights cut across a haze of dust.

A few late tailgaters hung out drinking beer— women in cutoffs and bikini tops, men in Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts, humanoids of indeterminate gender dressed as Caribbean life forms. Even the lobsters had drinks in their hands.

Garrett pushed his wheelchair along between Maia and me, occasionally getting his wheels snagged on a rock or a tire rut. Dickhead the Parrot sat on his shoulder, flapping his wings helpfully whenever the chair got stuck.

When we got to the rise, we could see the stage two hundred yards downfield—a wired black box of Mecca, the pilgrims swirling around it a sea of drunk pirates and Key West outcasts. A huge rainbow beach ball bounced over a forest of hands. Caribbean music played from buildingsized speakers. Stage lights pulsed. Around the perimeter, long lines snaked away from the beer booths.

We passed a guy in a foam shark suit, a couple making out in matching crustacean hats, a woman dressed as a tequila bottle.

"Like the BaytoBreakers race in San Francisco," I said to Maia.

She gave me an icy look. I'd been getting my share of those from her today.

"A little," she agreed, "except no one is naked."

"Give it an hour," Garrett promised.

We wove our way around the periphery of the crowd. The smell of ganja was everywhere, the field strewn with beach blankets and lawn chairs and coolers.

Every few yards somebody would recognize Garrett and we'd have to stop for introductions and compliments about the parrot and, invariably, a proffered swig from somebody's secret flask. If anybody knew about Garrett's newfound celebrity status as a murder suspect, no one mentioned it.

Maybe the murder charges didn't matter. At the rate we were going, I figured we'd be dead from alcohol poisoning by the time we found a place to sit anyway.

We finally settled on a knoll to one side of the stage, close enough so Garrett could park his chair and have a fair chance of seeing, far enough away so he wouldn't blast out the parrot's eardrums. Garrett settled back on his Persian cushion and proceeded to get out his jointrolling kit.

Neither Maia nor I had come so prepared—no blanket, no provisions, no funny costumes.

A warmup act came on stage and began an instrumental number to a spattering of applause.

Maia's eyes were fixed on the horizon, studying the stars above the oak trees.

"I've apologized," I told her. "I don't know what else to say."

"I don't blame you for bringing evidence to Lopez's attention. I blame you for not calling me. Not telling me. Not warning me."

Garrett glared up at us from his halfrolled joint. "Could we not talk about this anymore? I'm trying to get stoned. You want to plan my funeral, how about you two go up that way some?"

Then Garrett was besieged by a group of tropicalshirted fans who wanted to admire his bird. Flasks of liquor came out.

Maia and I exchanged looks, then moved up the hill.

We found an abandoned quilt kicked into a U—its owner either gone to get beer or gone toward the stage.

Metal drums trilled on stage. The lights surged.

What I'd taken for a warmup band was actually Buffett's band.

Mr. Margaritaville himself was now coming on stage. The mega screen TVs flashed online to either side of the stage, so that J.B. was either a small orange and red dot walking across the stage or a huge, grinning tan face with blond cropped hair.

The cheering started.

"At least Garrett's talking to you again," Maia said.

"Sure," I agreed. "What better punishment?"

She didn't try to make me feel better.

Buffett launched into something I didn't recognize, but the crowd did. A guy near us raised a beer can and did a pretty good approximation of a rebel yell.

Maia hugged her arms, as if the eightyfivedegree night warranted shivers. "I want you to know, I tried to convince Garrett to get another lawyer. The DA didn't contest my right to represent, but ... I don't want a trial. That's not why I came to Texas. Garrett insisted. I guess he was too shaken to think about hiring someone he didn't know."

At the moment, Garrett didn't appear shaken. He and his friends were nodding their heads to the music, drinking, passing around the joint.

"You'll have to suggest a plea bargain," I told Maia.

"Unless something changes drastically. Manslaughter, maybe."

"He won't go for it."

"Of course not," she said bitterly. "Navarre stubbornness forebears."

A prickly silence formed between us.

"Tell me I'm not crazy," I said. "Pena could be responsible for Jimmy's murder. Or Ruby. Or W.B."

"Garrett's your brother. You don't need permission to take his side."

It wasn't the kind of answer I'd wanted, and I guess it showed.

"You've been acting guilty for days," Maia said. "It's not just finding that casing. What's bothering you?"

Buffett was still playing that song I didn't know. Pot smoke was so thick that every few seconds another wisp of it would cross the moon like a cloud.

"Listening to Ruby," I said, "how she abandoned Garrett after his accident. I guess I hadn't thought about that night in a long time."

Maia studied my face.

In all the years we'd been together, I'd never discussed my family with her much. She hadn't even known Garrett was disabled until she'd met him.

"We found him on the tracks," I told her. "My father, my sister, and I. I knew where Garrett went to hop trains. I waited almost two hours before I said anything to my dad."

"That was twenty years ago," she said. "You were how old, twelve?"

Garrett was up on the hill, having a great old time. A young blond girl, maybe twentythree, had settled into his lap. She coaxed Dickhead the Parrot onto her wrist, then lifted her arm up and down to the beat, forcing Dickhead to hold his wings open for balance like a hang glider.

"Garrett's fine," Maia said gently. "Look at him, for God's sake."

I didn't answer.

I wasn't sure I could explain to Maia that she was giving me too much credit. What bothered me wasn't the idea I might've done more for Garrett, all those years ago.

What bothered me was that I finally understood how Ruby McBride felt. She'd made me remember the revulsion, the horror of Garrett's condition, the desire to run away from him. She'd reminded me of my darkest, most contemptible wish when I was twelve years old—that perhaps it would have been better if I'd just gone to sleep that night, not said anything to my father.

Maia reached out, took my hand.

She was about to say something when her face went blank.

Matthew Pena was walking toward us.

He'd changed out of business clothes, into a sleeveless Gold's Gym Tshirt and workout pants. Unfortunately, he did not appear to have sustained any permanent injuries from Maia Lee tossing him into his bookshelf yesterday. His hair gleamed with gel and his eyes were brighter than I'd seen them before, almost animated. If dead things can be animated.

"A picnic," Pena said. "How cozy."

"Matthew." Maia's tone was steady and cold. "I didn't figure you for a Buffett fan."

He held up the laminated card around his neck. "Gift from a prospective client—backstage pass. How could I say no?"

For Pena, the event could've been ballet or baseball or an art opening. It didn't matter.

The important thing was that he could walk around with that backstage pass on, prove to the diehard fans that he could do better than they could without half trying.

I looked back at Garrett. He saw us, all right. He made a finger gun, fired it at us, then he returned his attention to the young blonde dancing in his lap.

Pena crouched in front of me. "Had a busy day, Navarre? I heard your brother is in a little trouble. If there's anything I can do—"

"Like confess?" I asked.

Pena smiled. "By the way, I thought I'd return this to you."

He took the button recorder I'd left stuck under his desk, tossed it in my lap.

"Expensive piece of equipment," he said. "Shouldn't leave it sitting around. I had my people erase it for you. All it failed to pick up, I'm happy to tell you, is good news. We've isolated the problem in Techsan's software. Stupid mistake on the part of the original programmers, I'm afraid. Easily corrected."

"Surprise, surprise."

"Of course, there's the matter of those confidential documents being posted. I can't promise there won't be a criminal investigation against your brother and Ruby, maybe some more lawsuits, but hey— at least the program will be on track. Your brother's AccuShield stock should go up. By the time he gets out of jail, he'll be able to pay his debts, retire to the lower middle class."