Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(72)

"Hey, son," he croaked.

At first I didn’t see how those watery white eyes could focus on me enough to recognize who I was. Maybe he thought I really was his son. Then his eyes slid back over to the TV screen and he started talking about the old days with my father. After a while I interrupted.

"Jesus, Carl. How could you not’ve known you were sick?"

He looked away from the TV and tried to frown. He put his hand out for mine.

"Hell, son," he said.

But he didn’t have an answer for me. I wondered how long it had been since Carl looked in a mirror, or had somebody pay him a visit so they could tell him he was wasting down to a skeleton. I made a mental note to find his son in Austin and have that discussion, if I lived long enough.

"Tell me how it’s going, " Carl said. "About your daddy."

“You should rest, Carl. They got you on vitamins or anything?"

He opened his mouth, rolled his tongue into a tunnel, and coughed so hard he sat up. In the state he was in I was afraid he’d broken his ribs, but he just sank back into the pillows and tried to smile.

"I want to hear, son."

So I told him. There wasn’t much point in hiding anything. I asked him if he remembered my dad saying anything about Travis Center, or Sheff, or even vague comments about a big investigation he wanted to do. I told him I couldn’t figure out how my father would’ve stumbled onto the scheme to fix the bidding.

I’m not sure Carl even heard half of what I said. His eyes were fixed lazily on the television. When I was finished he offered no comments. He was staring at some Cowboy cheerleaders in a beer commercial.

"Your daddy and the ladies," he said. "I guess you never heard the stories."

"Too many stories, Carl."

His hand looked so fragile I was surprised how hard he gripped my fingers.

“Don’t you doubt he loved your mama, son. It’s just—"

"Yeah, he loved the ladies too much."

"Naw," said Carl. "Just Ellen."

I don’t know why the name still made me uncomfortable. I’d heard it so many times from people outside the family. At home it had never been an issue. No big deal, really. just every Thanksgiving, my father used to get a little teary-eyed after his third bourbon and Coke. Then he’d raise his glass and Garrett and Shelley would raise theirs too. Nobody said anything. Nobody invited my mother or me to ask. But we knew who they were drinking to. That momentary cease-fire between the three of them was all that was left of Ellen Navarre, my father’s first wife. But the name still made me feel like an unwelcomed guest in my own family.

The studio audience cheered the winner of jeopardy.

"Nothing ever took root for your daddy after Ellen died," Carl said. "Not really."

I wished he would go back to talking about Alzheimer’s, or maybe prostate cancer. Anything but my father’s love life.

"Right before he got shot," Carl said, “he finally thought something was working out, you know. Course he always thought something was working out with some lady."

I nodded politely, then realized what he was saying. “I don’t remember anybody like that."

Carl just looked at me and breathed gravel. I got the point.

" She was married."

"Eh," he said. "They usually were."

For a minute his eyes drifted off, as ·if he’d forgotten what we were talking about. Then he continued.

"Your dad was a hard-nosed son of a bitch, son. But, Good Lord, he could turn soft over a woman. You should’ve seen the roses he bought once for a Laredo whore—"

“Carl," I said.

He stopped. I guess he saw well enough to read my expression in the blue light of the television.

"Yeah, you’re right, son. Enough said."

I sat with him for a while and watched the game shows. The nurse brought in some applesauce and I helped him eat it, spooning the excess up his chin and into his mouth like you would a baby.

After an hour he said: "I guess you need to go."

"I’ll try and come back tomorrow."

"You don’t need to do that," he said. But his hand wouldn’t let go of mine. He looked at me for a minute and said: "You look just like your mama. Just like Ellen."

I didn’t tell him he was wrong. I just nodded, swallowing hard.

"You find this girl of yours," Carl said, squeezing the words into my hand, "and you hang on to her, Jackson."

Maybe he was talking to me, maybe to my father. At that point it didn’t matter. When I left him he was still recounting the old days, telling Vanna White what a son of a bitch my father had been.

"Roses for a Laredo whore," he told her. " Some kind of roots."

Carl Kelley held on feebly to his oxygen tubes like they were the only things still anchoring him down.

45

Maia acknowledged my existence long enough to throw a notepad at me. Then she went back to pretending to read the newspaper.

"He called about an hour ago," she said. "Right after Detective Schaeffer."

The note said: "Carlon—5 hours and counting. Talk to me. " I tore off the note and threw it in the trash can. I missed.

"And Schaeffer is interested in talking about Terry Garza," Maia said. "I stalled him as much as I could."