The Widower's Two-Step (Tres Navarre #2)(33)

It was love at first sight.

"Where the hell did you get him?" Garrett was stroking the bird's beak. The bird was eyeing Garrett's beard like it might make a fine nest. I told Garrett that Dickhead was orphaned. I didn't tell him the last owner had died violently. Since Jimmy Buffett fans styled themselves "parrot heads" I figured the match was made in heaven. Or Key West, anyway.

"You approve?" I asked.

The bird was cawing some sweet obscenities in Garrett's ear. Garrett grinned and invited me up for a beer.

Tres Navarre, etiquette master. You bust a few heads, you'd better come prepared with a thoughtful "I'm sorry" gift.

We got upstairs, Garrett taking them on his hands, pulling the chair after him. When he opened his front door the smell of patchouli nearly knocked me over. Even the parrot shook his head.

"Get yourself a Shiner," Garrett said. "I've got to play a couple of tunes."

Garrett's apartment is a long hallway—living room in front separated from the kitchen by a bar, one tiny bedroom in back. The only thing that keeps the place from feeling claustrophobic is the ceiling, which vaults up from the kitchen toward the front of the building at a fortyfivedegree angle. Skylights at the top.

I headed toward the refrigerator and Garrett wheeled himself over to the wall of electronic equipment that doubled as his computer and entertainment system. He turned on the main power switch and the lights of North Austin dimmed. He picked a CD to play.

While I could still hear myself talk I said, "Who's winning?"

You could hear the stereo from the downstairs neighbours just fine. They were playing Metallica. Playing isn't really the right verb for Metallica, I guess. Grinding, maybe.

Extruding.

Garrett sighed. "The bastards got new woofers last week. That was pretty bad. Then I got this friend of mine in here—used to do the Sensurround systems for Dolby. You know—the shaking effects they had with those seventies earthquake movies? He cut me a good deal."

"Great," I said. "Earthquakes. After ten years in California, I get to come to Austin for earthquakes."

I looked around the kitchen for something to strap myself to.

When Garrett turned up the volume the bookshelves on the wall started to shake, spilling copies of The Electric KoolAid Acid Test and The Anarchist's Cookbook. The Armadillo World Headquarters posters on the wall vibrated. The parrot started performing acrobatics.

In the moments when there were pauses and my brain fluids started flowing correctly again, I recognized the song as "Bodhisattva" by Steely Dan. We weren't so much listening to it as experiencing it by Braille.

I somehow managed to open a beer and drink it while the building shook. When the song was over it was quiet except for the parrot, who was still trying to punch his way out through the Plexiglas skylight. The downstairs neighbours’ stereo had stopped.

Garrett grinned like a madman. "Gotcha."

"Does anybody—" I stopped to readjust the volume of my voice. "Does anybody ever call the cops?"

"Who—Fred?"

Fred the cop. Firstname basis. "I guess that answers my question."

Garrett waved his hand dismissively. "You call Fred, that's cheating. Sometimes somebody new moves into a side apartment, they try that for a while. It never lasts long. Now where's that hard drive you want squeezed?"

I gave him the card I'd pulled from Julie Kearnes' computer.

Garrett wheeled himself over to his computer. He pecked at the keyboard. The screen glowed orange, then came alive with a short mandolin riff. Garrett whistled Steely Dan and started mixing and matching SCSI cables from his spare parts drawer.

I sat down next to him in a battered black recliner that had been our father's. After twelve years, the leather still smelled faintly of his Cuban cigars and spilt bourbon. The left armrest was gouged out where I'd used a penknife to dig a foxhole for my plastic army soldiers when I was seven. It was a comfortable place to sit.

"Damn," said Garrett.

"What?"

Garrett started to say something, then looked at me, probably realizing the effort it would take to filter what he was thinking from computerese to plain English. "Nothing."

I drank my beer and listened to Garrett tinkering with hardware. Finally he got the hard drive connected with a loose collection of multicoloured spaghetti and clacked a few commands on his keyboard.

"Okay, yeah," he said. "Give it a few minutes."

He toggled to one of his other processors—Garrett has eight, just in case he wants to have a dinner party someday. The screen dimmed, then came up with gray World Wide Web page. The lights of his ISDN router flickered on. He clacked a few more commands.

"What are you working on these days?" I asked.

"Bastards running RNI," Garrett complained.

Every time Garrett talks about the company, he starts with that comment, even though he's been there so long and accumulated so many stock options he is one of the bastards running RNI.

"They've got me doing the GUI on an account management program. I make this piece of shit program look really slick, except it still crashes when it merges field data."

"So that's what they're paying you for," I said. "What are you really working on?"

Garrett smiled, not taking his eyes off the screen. "Bring the tequila from the kitchen and I'll show you. It requires tequila."