Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(17)

"Trouble?" he asked. The number of vowels and syllables he packed into that one word told me he was a West Texas boy, probably hailed from Lubbock.

"No trouble." I gave him a winning smile.

Lubbock ran his tongue around his lips. He leaned in closer and gave me a short laugh. “I’m not asking if you got trouble, mister, I’m asking if you want it."

I feigned bewilderment, pointing to my own chest.

Lubbock’s face turned into one big sour pucker.

"Shit," he said, a three-syllable word. "You a retard, mister? What the hell you want following us like that?"

I tried another dashing smile. "How about a few minutes of Mr. White’s time?"

“That’s about as likely as pig shit."

“Tell Mr. White that Sheriff Navarre’s son is here to see him. I think he’ll agree to talk."

If the name Navarre meant anything to Lubbock, he didn’t show it. "I don’t give a damn whose damn son you are, mister. You’d best get out of here before I decide—"

“You’ve never been a highway patrolman."

He scowled. It didn’t improve his looks any.

“What?"

Before he knew what had happened, I’d grabbed the handle of his .38 Airweight and twisted it, still in its holster, so the barrel was angled into the side of Lubbock’s chest. His arms jerked up instinctively, like he was suddenly anxious for his armpit deodorant to dry. All the tight lines in Lubbock’s face loosened and most of his color seemed to drain into his neck.

“When you’re stopping somebody in a car," I explained very patiently, "you never wear a shoulder holster. Much too easy to reach."

Lubbock raised his hands, slowly. His mouth was twitching in the corner.

“I’ll be goddamned," he said. Too many syllables to count.

I got the Airweight free of its holster, then opened the car door. Lubbock stepped back to let me out. He was smiling in earnest now, looking at the gun I had leveled at his chest.

“That’s the ballsiest son-of-a-bitch move I’ve seen in a while, mister. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t. You just put, yourself in so much deep shit you don’t even know."

"Let’s go see about getting you that raise," I suggested.

The front door was painted white, with a bathtub-sized piece of beveled glass in the center. Lubbock led me through into a spacious entry hall, then left to a pair of double oak doors and into a private study. Some where along the way he must’ve pressed a security buzzer with his foot, but I never saw it.

Things were going very well until the guy behind the coat rack clicked the safety of his gun off and stuck a few inches of barrel in my neck.

Lubbock turned around and repossessed his .38 Air-weight. He never stopped grinning. The man behind me stayed perfectly still. I didn’t try to turn.

"Good afternoon," I said. “Is Mr. White at home?"

"Good afternoon," the man behind me said. His voice came out smooth as honey over a sopapilla. "Mr. White is at home. In fact, Mr. White is about to kill you if you don’t explain yourself rather quickly."

I put my hand over my shoulder, offering to shake.

"Jackson Navarre," I said. "The Third."

I counted to five. I thought that was it. I started to make peace with Jesus, the Tao, and my credit card agencies, then I heard the safety click back on. Guy White took my hand.

“Why didn’t you say so?" he asked.

13

“Would you pass me the Blue Princess, Mr. Navarre?"

Guy White pointed with his trowel to the flat of baby plants he wanted. I passed them over. For his gardening ensemble, White had changed into a newly-pressed denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Calvin Klein jeans, huaraches on his perfectly tanned feet. He’d traded the 9mm Glock for pruners and trowel. Shadows from the brim of his wicker hat criss-crossed his face like Maori tattoos as he knelt over a five-foot plot of dirt, digging little conical holes for his new babies.

Next to me on the hot stone bench, a jar of sun tea Guy White had brought out with us ten minutes before was already dark amber. Sweat was starting to trickle down my back. My butt felt like a fried tortilla. I looked longingly at the nearby patio, shaded with pecan trees, then at the swimming pool, then at Guy White, who was smiling contentedly and humming along with the drone of the cicadas and not sweating at all.

I’d liked him better when he was holding a gun on me. “I’m quite excited about these," he told me. He broke one plastic container off the flat of plants and turned it upside down to shake the roots loose. “Do you know about gardening, Mr. Navarre?"

"It’s not my specialty. That’s some kind of verbena?"

“Very good. "

"It was associated with sorcerers in medieval times."

White looked pleased. "Is that so?"

He carefully placed the verbena into its new home and patted down the dirt. The little clusters of flowers were cotton candy blue. They matched Mr. White’s ensemble perfectly.

“This is the first year the Blue Princess variety is available," he explained. “From England. It’s only being offered commercially in South Texas. Quite an opportunity."

I wiped the back of my neck. “You always do your planting in the middle of the afternoon?"