The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(90)

And rationally, you realize what happened. He dove under the deck, thinking of the novelty of swimming beneath a building. He didn't realize the old spools of wire were down there, bricks, fishnets, hooks, crayfish traps. And then he became tangled, and realized that the sounds above him were the last he would ever hear— people walking, the voices of diners, the clink of dropped plates, all amplified through the aluminium pontoon floats and the water. He drowned in the dark, and stayed there for days while above him, rich folk toasted the sunset with Chardonnay. Yacht purchases were discussed. Engagement rings were unveiled over crabcakes and microbrewery beer.

Businesses were planned, incorporation papers signed. And nosy spectators watched the divers at the public access beach down the shoreline, wondering what the fuss was about, complaining how it affected their speed boating.

Rationally, you understand how it happened. You understand that this is just one more bad memory to associate with a place— another policeman's marker.

The worst part is, you can't help thinking that the old Chinese grandmother was right—some spirit, some dark thing in the water, took a liking to that boy. And it bothers you that you were the one who knew where to look.

CHAPTER 37

"I don't know any Clyde," the boat jockey insisted.

He couldn't have been over nineteen, but he appeared to be the man in charge. He was frantically filling out paperwork while two even younger jockeys worked the docks—using the forklift to lower a Fountain 32 Lightning into the water.

Several affluentlooking couples stood behind us, waiting their turn.

"Clyde Simms," Lopez said. "You know—big ugly white guy. Runs the place."

The boat jockey shook his head. There were two twentydollar bills folded in his fingers, a tip from the previous customer.

"Yes, sir," he said. "If the manager's name is Clyde, I'll take your word for it. I don't know him. He isn't around."

"That the office?" I asked.

I pointed to a set of stairs on the side of the warehouse, leading up to a secondstory door. Parked below the stairs were two Harley Davidson VTwin hogs—both FLSTF

models, black and chrome. Leather cones jutted up behind each seat—perfect for holding either longstem bouquets or shotguns. I was betting that the owners, wherever they were, were not florists at heart.

The boat jockey said, "I'm sorry, you can't—"

Another customer shouldered his way to the counter and put his elbow between the boat jockey and me. He brandished a claim ticket.

"My boat," he said. "It's three o'clock and my boat isn't in the water."

"No, by all means," I said. "You go right ahead."

The newcomer gave Lopez and me the briefest sideways glance, just long enough to determine we weren't members of his country club, then turned his attention back to the boat jockey. "Well?"

The jockey looked up and just about had a paperworkshuffling coronary. "Mr.

McMurray."

"That's right," Mr. McMurray said, with more than a little satisfaction. "Now where's my boat?"

The jockey launched into some explanation about how the bottom paint wasn't dry yet and Mr. McMurray started smiling, no doubt anticipating a really good asschewing on the hired help.

Lopez said, "We'll just help ourselves, thanks."

We made a beeline for the outer stairs of the warehouse. When we got to the top, I glanced back. The boat jockey was watching us nervously, trying to get our attention, but he didn't dare yell or leave the nottobepissedoff Mr. McMurray.

Lopez opened the door and we went inside.

The room was a fifteenfoot square—one interior door, one chair, one metal patio table. There was a pile of boatcleaning supplies in the corner. The old grizzled biker who'd been talking to Garrett at the Jimmy Buffett concert was sitting at the table play

ing solitaire, which struck me as weirder than anything else I'd seen that day.

Lopez got a twinkle in his eye. "Well look who's here. If it ain't Armand."

Armand studied us from head to toe, then slowly got up. His beard reminded me of Garrett's, except it was longer, braided with lug nuts.

He nodded toward Lopez. "Who the f**k you?"

His Cajun accent was as grimy as the Cafe du Monde's dumpster.

"How quickly they forget," Lopez lamented. "You don't remember Del Valley, Armand?

Our little talk about that double knifing? Man, I'm hurt."

Armand's eyes narrowed. "Ain't no cop, you."

I couldn't tell whether Armand was being obtuse or stubborn or what, but he was pressing Lopez to pull a badge Lopez didn't have. He'd intentionally not brought it—wanted no accusations later that he'd been here under colour of law.

"Listen," Lopez said. "No need to get any more gray hairs. My friend here just wants to see his brother."

Armand studied me again, did not seem overcome with compassion. "S'pose to know your brother?"

"Garrett," I said. "Just tell him I'm here."

The lug nuts gleamed when he shook his head. "I see anybody named Garrett, I tell him."

Lopez sighed. He pulled over a folding chair, propped his foot on it. "I could call your name in, Armand. I'm sure I could find some warrants. But that's not the way we're trying to play it. Why don't you just take us downstairs, we'll talk to Clyde, see if he doesn't see things our way. Otherwise, I guarantee you, you're going to have half the Sheriff's Department around this place faster than you can kickstart a hog."