The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(67)

"You're right, Clyde. Garrett's a regular Eagle Scout."

"He going to be out on bail for the Buffett concert tonight?"

"He got a quick hearing. The wheelchair helped, the fact he's got no priors. Maia Lee took care of things the best she could. He'll be out."

Clyde looked somewhat mollified. "Buffett music—Buffett knows what it's all about, man. Renegades got to stick together."

He stepped out of my way. "I expect you to be there for Garrett, Tres. You got some makeup work to do."

Part of me wanted to slug Clyde because he assumed he knew what I needed to do, as if he knew the history—who had abandoned whom over the years. Part of me wanted to slug him because I thought he was probably right.

"Call me," I said. "Let us know Ruby got back safe."

He nodded. "End of the day, man, you better stand with your family. And guess what: the end of the day is here."

CHAPTER 28

Southpark Meadows was throbbing with canned music by the time we pulled in.

The parking lot smelled of hay and mown grass. Headlights cut across a haze of dust.

A few late tailgaters hung out drinking beer— women in cutoffs and bikini tops, men in Hawaiian shirts and khaki shorts, humanoids of indeterminate gender dressed as Caribbean life forms. Even the lobsters had drinks in their hands.

Garrett pushed his wheelchair along between Maia and me, occasionally getting his wheels snagged on a rock or a tire rut. Dickhead the Parrot sat on his shoulder, flapping his wings helpfully whenever the chair got stuck.

When we got to the rise, we could see the stage two hundred yards downfield—a wired black box of Mecca, the pilgrims swirling around it a sea of drunk pirates and Key West outcasts. A huge rainbow beach ball bounced over a forest of hands. Caribbean music played from buildingsized speakers. Stage lights pulsed. Around the perimeter, long lines snaked away from the beer booths.

We passed a guy in a foam shark suit, a couple making out in matching crustacean hats, a woman dressed as a tequila bottle.

"Like the BaytoBreakers race in San Francisco," I said to Maia.

She gave me an icy look. I'd been getting my share of those from her today.

"A little," she agreed, "except no one is naked."

"Give it an hour," Garrett promised.

We wove our way around the periphery of the crowd. The smell of ganja was everywhere, the field strewn with beach blankets and lawn chairs and coolers.

Every few yards somebody would recognize Garrett and we'd have to stop for introductions and compliments about the parrot and, invariably, a proffered swig from somebody's secret flask. If anybody knew about Garrett's newfound celebrity status as a murder suspect, no one mentioned it.

Maybe the murder charges didn't matter. At the rate we were going, I figured we'd be dead from alcohol poisoning by the time we found a place to sit anyway.

We finally settled on a knoll to one side of the stage, close enough so Garrett could park his chair and have a fair chance of seeing, far enough away so he wouldn't blast out the parrot's eardrums. Garrett settled back on his Persian cushion and proceeded to get out his jointrolling kit.

Neither Maia nor I had come so prepared—no blanket, no provisions, no funny costumes.

A warmup act came on stage and began an instrumental number to a spattering of applause.

Maia's eyes were fixed on the horizon, studying the stars above the oak trees.

"I've apologized," I told her. "I don't know what else to say."

"I don't blame you for bringing evidence to Lopez's attention. I blame you for not calling me. Not telling me. Not warning me."

Garrett glared up at us from his halfrolled joint. "Could we not talk about this anymore? I'm trying to get stoned. You want to plan my funeral, how about you two go up that way some?"

Then Garrett was besieged by a group of tropicalshirted fans who wanted to admire his bird. Flasks of liquor came out.

Maia and I exchanged looks, then moved up the hill.

We found an abandoned quilt kicked into a U—its owner either gone to get beer or gone toward the stage.

Metal drums trilled on stage. The lights surged.

What I'd taken for a warmup band was actually Buffett's band.

Mr. Margaritaville himself was now coming on stage. The mega screen TVs flashed online to either side of the stage, so that J.B. was either a small orange and red dot walking across the stage or a huge, grinning tan face with blond cropped hair.

The cheering started.

"At least Garrett's talking to you again," Maia said.

"Sure," I agreed. "What better punishment?"

She didn't try to make me feel better.

Buffett launched into something I didn't recognize, but the crowd did. A guy near us raised a beer can and did a pretty good approximation of a rebel yell.

Maia hugged her arms, as if the eightyfivedegree night warranted shivers. "I want you to know, I tried to convince Garrett to get another lawyer. The DA didn't contest my right to represent, but ... I don't want a trial. That's not why I came to Texas. Garrett insisted. I guess he was too shaken to think about hiring someone he didn't know."

At the moment, Garrett didn't appear shaken. He and his friends were nodding their heads to the music, drinking, passing around the joint.