Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(92)

The margarita was now waltzing pleasantly through my circulatory system, turning my limbs to lead. It took away some of my will to get out of my chair and strangle Guy White with his Gucci belt. What irritated me was that he was right. As much as I might want to, I couldn’t really see him being at the center.

White nodded as if I’d assented out loud, then gazed off toward the ceiling. He looked like he was thinking about rose arbors, philanthropy, anything but decade-old murders.

"Your father was a great rattler of cages," he said after a while. "I would think twice before following that family tradition, my boy."

The words sounded like a threat, but White’s tone conveyed something different. It took me a minute to interpret.

“You respected him," I said.

White examined his perfect fingernails. “It saddens me when a man of talent is brought down by men with less talent, even if that man is my enemy. It saddens me more when those who are supposed to represent the public interest use my name to cover up their own crimes."

His eyes drifted toward me.

"Asante," I said.

White looked gratified. He refilled his glass from the margarita pitcher. “The more dangerous I appear, the more the politicians have to campaign against. Unfortunately, Mr. Navarre, contrary to popular belief, I’ve found that direct retaliation against such people is most often . . .counterproductive?

There was a knock at the door. White uncrossed his legs. The audience was concluded.

“And now you’ll have to excuse me, Mr. Navarre. Either you will choose to believe me, that I had nothing to do with your father’s death—"

“Or?"

"Or you will not. Nevertheless, my boy, there’s nothing more I can tell you. I have a keynote. address to deliver in exactly twenty minutes."

"Idecided something. “You don’t have it—the other disc ."

White almost played dumb. I could see him change his mind just as he opened his mouth. “No," he said. “I do not."

I tried to stand up, and was surprised to find I actually could.·

“Assuming I believe you," I said, "assuming Asante was Sheff’s partner inside City Hall on the Travis Center project, that still doesn’t tell me who the other side is—the ones who control Sheff Construction."

White gave me a look I couldn’t read. Sadness.

Maybe even pity.

“As I said, my boy, some cages are better left unrattled."

We studied one another. Maybe that was when I had the first glimmering of understanding about where it was all going. Maybe that’s why I chose not to push him any further.

When I left, Guy White was listening to Emery’s rundown of their afternoon schedule--benefits, cocktail parties, an award for good citizenship from a local non-profit. Emery was cleaning another gun as he talked.

Guy White was staring out the sunny windows at his gardens, smiling a little sadly now.

57

When I looked out my living room window the next morning, Ralph Arguello’s maroon Lincoln sat in front of Number 90. When I came up to the driver’s window the black glass rolled down and mota smoke rolled out. Ralph grinned up at me like a happily stoned diablo.

“Do I know you?" I said.

“Get in."

I didn’t ask why. We drove into Monte Vista on Woodlawn, past rows of dying palm trees that leaned over the boulevard like they hadn’t quite woken up yet. Mansions squatted next to shacks. The signs and storefronts gradually turned bilingual. Finally Ralph looked across at me.

“I’m meeting a guy at eight-thirty," he said.

“Yeah?"

He nodded. “Business deal, vato. New territory."

We pulled up in front of a dark blue building that had been plopped down in the middle of an acre of asphalt on the corner of Blanco and French. The yellow back-lit sign in front promised "Guns N Loans." At least that’s what it used to say before half the letters had been broken out with rocks.

A tall Anglo man in a wrinkled black suit was waiting at the door, smiling. From the bruises on his face I wondered if he’d been pelted at the same time as his sign. Most of the marks were fading into yellow around his cheeks and neck, but he still had a blue-black knot the size of a pecan over his left eyebrow. The smile just made him look more grotesque.

“Mr. Arguello," the tall man said as we got out of the car. When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple went up a few inches and stayed that way. He shook Ralph’s hand a little too enthusiastically.

"Lamar," said Ralph. “Let’s see it."

Lamar fumbled with some keys. He unlocked two rows of burglary bars first, then the main door. The inside of the pawnshop smelled like cigars and dust. Grimy glass cases filled with guns, stereo parts, and jewelry made a “U" around the back walls. A few beat-up guitars and saxophones had been lynched from the ceiling.

Ralph inhaled, as if to get the full atmosphere of the place into his lungs. Lamar smiled nervously, waiting for his approval.

"Books," said Ralph.

Lamar nodded and went to open the office. I plucked a string on one of the convicted Yamaha guitars. It rattled loosely, like a Slinky.

Ralph looked at me. “Well?"

"Sure," I said, "some lace curtains, a loveseat or two. I can see it."