The Widower's Two-Step (Tres Navarre #2)(17)

"Thanks, no."

He shrugged, then put the .41 back on the dashboard. "I'll be sorry when the revolver is history. Everybody nowadays is hot for semi auto, got to have a twelve round magazine. Truth is this old man never got a chance—finest damn revolver ever made.

You know what it is?"

"Smith & Wesson M58," I said. "M & P style."

Sheck nodded approval. "You're a gun lover."

"I know guns," I corrected. "I don't love them much."

That statement apparently made as much sense to Sheck as the Middle English. He tried to interpret it, failed, then decided to keep talking.

".41 calibre round was perfect evolution, you understand—all the punch of a .44 with the velocity of a .357. This is the kind of gun your dad carried on the force back in the seventies. You know why they canned it?"

I said I didn't.

"Police were firing hot loads with it, full Magnum capability. The muzzle blasts were scaring all the lady cops." He laughed. "Then public relations started thinking the citizens would get mad—cops with Magnums blowing away all those helpless victims of society down in the barrio. A damn shame."

"What do you want, Mr. Sheckly?"

Sheck put his finger in the book and closed it, like he'd be coming back to it in a minute.

Maybe he wanted to see how things worked out with Cain and God.

"I's just curious what kind of stories your compadre's been telling you. I figured you'd be walking out of there with a big retainer and a bigger load of horseshit."

"Why exactly did you figure that?"

Sheck glanced to his right and smiled, like there was somebody there he wanted to share the joke with. "Come on, son. Old Milo'd love to think I'm the boogey man causing his every little problem."

"Every little problem. You mean like Miranda Daniels' producer getting shot at, her demo tape stolen, Julie Kearnes murdered—those kinds of little problems?"

Sheckly kept smiling. "Hell, son, I ain't the one who decided Miranda needed a national deal. You understand Century Records only wants her, don't you? The rest of the band—those boys don't stand to get nothing from this except a handshake. You want to know who's angry enough with Milo Chavez to cause some problems, you just think about that goddamn Century deal."

"That's funny," I said.

"What is?"

"You keep saying Milo. Les is the one with the agency. Is there some reason you're not worried about him?"

Sheck's smile didn't waver at all. "All right. Let me ask you about that. If Les SaintPierre is so allpowerful smart, what makes him hire a threehundredpound wet

back to sell country music to redneck bars? That make any business sense to you?"

He raised his palm. "I'm serious now, not trying to be mean here. I just don't get what was going through Les' head. I sure as hell wouldn't be out of town as much as he's been, leaving Gordo in charge. I'll deal with anybody I need to? don't get me wrong. But there's club owners a lot worse than me, they see Chavez coming—" He shook his head regretfully. "That kind of thing's gonna really hurt Miranda's job prospects."

I looked at the blue S&W on my dashboard.

"Mr. Sheckly, it's hot out. The only airconditioning I've got in this convertible is called

'fourth gear.' I'd like to get moving."

"I'm just telling you, Tres—I worry about my friends the Danielses. Willis and me go way back. I care about his daughter doing all right. This agency's charging ten percent for booking, old Les is gettin' forty more for management. For fifty percent of my career, if I was Miranda, I'd expect a damn sight better service."

"And you're the better service."

"That's right."

"I hear you did wonders for that other girl you sponsored—the one in the swimming pool."

Sheck let out air between his teeth. "You could do yourself a favour right now and forget whatever horseshit Chavez's been feeding you. I'll do right by Miranda. You think some spic lawyer's gonna play straight with you about that? You think your daddy would be arguing against me here?"

I counted to five. "Sheck—you like Sheck, right?"

He nodded.

"Honest, Sheck—I appreciate the concern. The thing is, the only load of manure I've come across today has been dumped in my passenger seat. I'd like it out of here."

Sheck's face darkened but his eyes stayed as bright and colourless as highoctane fuel. "That was a mistake, son. I can overlook one mistake. When I was younger I thought I was hot shit, too."

"Are you going to get out of my car?"

Sheck put my book back on the floorboard. He took his revolver off the dash and got out of the car.

"I thought to level with you, Tres, because I knew your father. I never had any beef with him? I don't see any reason to have one with you. You want to talk, come on out to my place some night. I'll buy you a beer. But you get yourself tangled on the wrong side of the barbed wire when it comes to Miranda Daniels, I'll eat you for lunch."

There was no anger in his voice, no violent edge.

He turned and walked with easy confidence across West Ashby, back to his truck. He didn't even bother to holster the S & W.