Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(26)

“Lillian never made it to Laredo, " I told him. “I don’t think she ever planned on going. What I’m trying to decide now is if she really left a message Monday morning or if you lied to me. I need to know that, Beau."

I give him credit. Beau didn’t scare easily. Or at least he wasn’t scared of me. His neck veins were so purple I thought they’d explode, but he kept his voice even.

"Believe what you want," he said.

“What were they looking for, Beau?" I gestured at the ruined artwork all around us.

“I don’t have a clue," he said. "Nothing."

I took out one of the photos I’d found and dropped it on his chest.

“Nothing?"

All I saw in his eyes was his opinion of me, and I already knew that.

"So it’s a cut-up picture," he said. “Your girlfriend does photo-collages. You expect me to get excited?"

He said it a little too fast, like it was an answer he’d practiced in the mirror many times, just in case he needed it someday.

"I expect some real answers," I said. “Like why did Lillian decide to leave the gallery?"

I waited. Beau’s face was tightly controlled, but the pressure on the knee ligaments must’ve been pretty bad. Little sequins of sweat were starting to pop up all over his forehead.

"When I was starting," he said, almost under his breath, "I didn’t have shit. You know that? Not wealthy parents, not college, nothing. Lillian had everything, including ten years of my time. Now she’s just giving up. The hell with me. The hell with years trying to build up a name in the business. You want to know why she’s leaving, you’re asking the wrong person, ass**le. I stuck with her; you didn’t. If you ask me, it’s a little late to show up now and decide you’re her goddamn protector."

We stared at each other. judging from Beau’s expression, I had the option of breaking his kneecap and finding out nothing more, or letting him up and finding out nothing more. Maybe I was having an off day. I took the photograph off Beau’s chest, then I let him up. Beau got to his feet warily.

I looked around the ruined gallery, then picked up a skeleton trumpet player from the floor, dusted him off, and tossed him to Beau. He missed the catch. The unfortunate musician landed between Beau’s boots and broke neatly in half.

“A man without friends should get a deadbolt," I suggested. "I have a feeling, when these people visit you again, they’re going to lack my charm."

Beau kicked the broken statue away. Under his breath he said: “I have friends, ass**le."

I saw the next line coming, so we said it together:

“You’re going to regret this."

“That was good," I said. "You Want to try it in harmony now? I’ll go up a third."

His next riposte was just as creative: “Fuck you."

“You artistic types," I said admiringly. Then I walked out, closing the door carefully behind me. Without looking back I strolled across the plaza, around the corner of La Villita Chapel, then turned into a side alley. Even at midday, the shadows under the old villas and live oaks were deep and easy to hide in. I had a great view of the front and rear exits to the gallery. I leaned against the cool of a limestone wall and waited to see what would happen.

Thirty minutes later Beau came out the rear entrance of the gallery. He closed up shop and headed across Nueva, still walking like a man with saddle sores. I followed about a block behind. The moment I stepped out of the shade of La Villita the summer air wrapped around my shoulders like a heavy cat. Everything smelled like warm asphalt, and fifty feet in front of me Beau’s shape became watery from the light and the heat.

It wasn’t until he stopped on the corner of Jack White and stood there for a minute that I realized I’d made a mistake. A car I knew pulled up briefly to the curb, the passenger’s door opened, Beau got in, and the car pulled away, heading south.

The VW was three blocks away, hopelessly far. I couldn’t do anything but stand on the corner watching Dan Sheff’s silver BMW disappear down Nueva Street, just another mirage in the midday glare.

18

I was starting to feel slightly depressed until I got home and saw the police cruiser in front of Number 90 again. Gary Hales, still in his pajamas, was out front, listing backward at about the same angle as his house. He was talking to Jay Rivas and the two uniformed cops, probably telling them how I came and went at all hours and played with swords in the backyard.

Gary shuffled back inside and Jay greeted me warmly as I got out of my car.

“Little Tres," he said. “What a f**king pleasure."

"Jay," I said. "If I knew you were coming I’d’ve half baked a cake."

He motioned toward the house. The two cops hung back under the pecan tree, trying not to sweat out of their uniforms. When we got inside Robert Johnson took one look at our guest, puffed up to twice his size, did a somersault, then ran into the bathroom. I was sorry I hadn’t thought of it first.

“He likes you," I said.

Rivas looked disdainfully at my futon, then decided to stand. I started hunting through my bags for a fresh T-shirt.

"Late night last night, Navarre?" he speculated. "You look like a pile of shit."

I let that pass. I brushed my teeth, splashed some water in my face, laminated my armpits into submission with extra-strength Ban.