Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(15)

There was an ongoing series of "guest editorials" from the Light written by another of my father’s great admirers, Councilman Fernando Asante. He blasted my father for everything from abuse of police power to poor taste in clothes, but mostly Asante focused on the Sheriff’s opposition to Travis Center, a proposed hotel-tourist complex for the southeast side of town. Back in ’85 Asante was making Travis Center the centerpiece of his first campaign for mayor—pushing the idea that the complex would generate tourist dollars in the poor, largely Hispanic section of the city. My father opposed the project because it would require the annexation of county lands, and more importantly because it was Asante’s idea.

Then there was a report on the fall ’85 election results, which Dad didn’t live long enough to see. The voters showed a healthy sense of humor by voting against Asante for mayor five to one but approving his Travis Center bond initiative by a landslide. Now, ten years and umpteen million dollars later, Asante was still just a councilman and Travis Center was finally complete. I’d seen it from above on my plane’s final approach-a huge bulbous structure, hideously painted pink and red, cutting a gash in the hills on the edge of town like a giant flesh wound.

Finally there were stories about the assassination. There in black and white were all the front page headlines I had nightmares about, plus pages of follow-ups I’d never had the stomach to read. The murder scene, the investigation, the memorial services—all reported on in microscopic detail. Several articles talked about Randall Halcomb, the closest thing to a real suspect the FBI ever discussed in public. An ex-deputy, Halcomb had been fired by my dad for insubordination in the late seventies, then arrested in 1980 for manslaughter. Halcomb was paroled from Huntsville a week before my dad’s murder.

Convenient. Only by the time the FBI found him, two months after Dad`s death, the ex-deputy was curled up in a deer blind in Blanco, shot between the eyes. Inconvenient.

The last thing in Carlon’s files was a photo of my father’s body covered with a blanket, his hand sticking out the side like it was reaching for a beer, while a grimfaced deputy held up his hand to block the camera, a little too slow.

I resealed the envelope. Then I stared at the neon beer signs over the bar until I realized Carlon was talking

to me.

"—this personal vengeance theory," he was saying, “just some ex-con with a score to settle. That’s bullshit. Christ, if Halcomb was acting alone, how come he turned up with a bullet between his eyes once the Feds start looking for him?"

I ate a piece of cheesecake. Suddenly it tasted like lead.

"You’ve been doing your homework, McAffrey. You stay up last night reading these?"

Carlon shrugged. “I’m just saying. There had to be a cover-up here."

“Maybe that’s the journalist in you talking."

“My ass. Your dad was murdered and nobody ever did time for it. Not even a f**king trial. I’m just trying to help."

Years of good living had softened Carlon’s face a little, but you could still see the hard edge in his smile. His eyes were cold and blue. There was energy there, self-confidence, a harsh kind of humor. Nothing that might pass for compassion. He was still the same college kid who pushed cows down hills for fun and laughed shamelessly at racial jokes and broken limbs. He came through for his friends. He probably meant what he said about helping. But if you couldn’t use it for fun or profit it meant very little to Carlon McAffrey.

“Halcomb had his own motive," I reminded him.

“Assuming he’s the one who did the shooting, he wouldn’t have needed anyone pulling his strings."

Carlon shook his head. "My money’s on the mob. My sources at the SAPD tell me I’m right."

"I heard that from the SAPD too. Doesn’t exactly inspire my confidence?

"Your dad died right after he brought Guy White in for trafficking, Tres. Don’t tell me that was coincidence."

"Why should the mob target a retiring sheriff? That would be pointless. The charges against White had already been thrown out."

Carlon wiped a piece of sauerkraut off his cheek. He was looking over my shoulder now, toward the booths on the east wall of the restaurant.

"Good question," he said. “Go ask him."

“Who?"

Carlon pointed with the bottom of his beer bottle.

“Guy White, man."

The booth Carlon was pointing at had two men in it. The one with his back toward me was a skinny, middle-aged Anglo whose mother dressed him funny. His slacks rode up at the ankles, his beige suit coat was too big around the shoulders, and his thinning brown hair was uncombed. He had finished his meal and was now tapping a quarter slice of pickle absently on his plate.

The man sitting across from him was much older, much more carefully dressed. I’d never seen Guy White in person, but if this was him the only thing white about him was the name. His skin was carefully bronzed, his suit light blue, his hair and eyes as rich and dark as mole sauce. He had to be the best—looking man over sixty I’d ever seen. Mr. White was about halfway through with a club sandwich and appeared to be in no hurry to finish the rest. He was chatting with the waitress, smiling a Colgate smile at her, gesturing every so often toward his associate across the table. The waitress laughed politely.

Mr. White’s poorly dressed friend did not.