The Widowers Two-Step Page 5
"Thats right. "
I slid the cilantro off the knife blade and into the pot. The cebollas were already grilled and the sour cream was ready. Strips of fried corn tortilla were in a bowl to the side, ready to be stirred in.
I wiped off my hands.
"And while you were on the phone—" I prompted.
Mother shrugged. "All right. I did ask if there were any openings in the English department. "
I looked down longingly at the big knife Id been using.
"Well, really, Jackson. He was very helpful. "
Only my mother calls me by my first name and lives. She likes to put me in my place next to the first two Jackson Navarres—my father and my grandfather. The third in a long line of hopeless males.
The phone rang. My mother tried to look surprised and failed miserably.
"Good Lord, who could that be?"
I bowed to the inevitable and said Id get it. Mother smiled.
I took the phone out onto the deck next to the hot tub, picked up the receiver, and said,
"Professor Mitchell?"
A moment of surprised silence on the other end, then a fatherly voice said, "Now this isnt Tres, is it?"
I told him it was. He laughed and gave me the standard kneehightoagrasshopper reminiscences about how long it had been and how glad he was Id gotten out of puberty. I said I was too.
"Your mother told me you were job hunting," he said.
The Widowers Two it Step 31
"Yeah, about that—"
I wanted to apologize for my mother thinking that college teaching jobs grew on trees and fell when ripe as soon as ones parents made phone calls to old friends.
Before I could, Professor Mitchell said, "I made your appointment for eleven oclock Saturday. Its the only day were all available to interview. "
I hesitated, then closed the glass door to the kitchen to shut out the pool game and the TV.
"Pardon?"
"Your mothers timing was perfect as usual," Mitchell said. "Big stirup in the department, the hiring committee just forming. So happens Im on it. Eleven oclock.
Will that time work for you?"
A polite no wouldve done just fine. Sorry, my mothers just meddling in my life again and I have a very bright future in private investigations. I kept waiting to hear myself say no. I watched through the glass door as Carolaine came on the television again, this time for a newsbreak.
Maybe what made me weaken was Carolaines face. Maybe it was a week with almost no sleep, doing surveillance, minding a fouryearold. Or the fact that whenever I closed my eyes now I saw Julie Kearnes in her 68 blue Cougar, people with white rubber gloves picking fragments out of her hair with tweezers. When I finally responded to Professor Mitchell I didnt say no. I said, "Eleven oclock Saturday. What the hell. "
My mothers voice came on the upstairs phone line. She sighed and said, "Ive died and gone to heaven. "
Professor Mitchell started laughing.
6
The good news Tuesday morning was that Gladys the secretary was able to negotiate a lunch meeting for me with Milo Chavez. Actually, Milo was meeting with somebody else, but Gladys figured it might be okay if I dropped in for a few minutes—seeing as there was a homicide to talk about and all.
The bad news was that lunch would require money.
I tried the ATM on Broadway and Elizabeth but it played stubborn with me. It told me my checking balance was insufficient for the minimum twentydollar withdrawal. I tried for a cash advance from credit. Somewhere in New Jersey, the people at VISA laughed long and hard.
Plan C. I called my old friends at Manny Forester & Associates. By ninethirty I had three subpoenas Mannys normal errand boys had been unable to serve. By eleven oclock Id found two of the invisible men, dropped the papers at their feet, and gotten away with no more than a few cuss words and a steak knife waved in my face. Not my idea of fun steady work, but at fifty dollars a subpoena it wasnt bad emergency income.
The third delivery was for a repeat customer—William Burnett, a. k. a. Sarge. I served process on him at least once a month thanks to Manny Foresters zealous efforts on behalf of Sarges wife and creditors. Sarge just kept on smiling and lighting his cigars with the subpoenas, moving from downtown bar to downtown bar. He and I were to the point now where we took turns buying each other beers every time I tracked him down.
Hed tell me all about his days in the coast guard down in Corpus Christi.
Thanks to Sarges stories and the hospitality of the Cantina Azteca I was thirty minutes late for lunch.
When I finally got to Tycoon Flats on North St. Marys, the tables in the burger joints courtyard were filling up with college kids from Trinity and lunchhour businessmen. It was overcast and humid. Heavy kitchen smoke drifted through the mesquite trees into the laundry lines of the unpainted houses behind the restaurant. The whole neighbourhood smelled like welldone bacon cheeseburgers.
Milo Chavez wasnt hard to spot. At a green picnic table halfway across the courtyard sat 350 pounds of human boulder, neatly packaged in fiftytwoinch pleated gray trousers and a white dress shirt that had probably been customtailored from most of a hot air balloon. He wore gold accents from his stud earring to his Gucci loafer buckles.
His hair was newly razorcut to a thin black stubble, which made his coppery face seem even more huge. The Latino Buddha, with fashion sense.
Sitting across from Milo was an older Anglo man who was trying to impersonate a navy pilot. I mightve fallen for the pressed khakis and aviators glasses, but the leather flight jacket was overkill. His mouth was too soft, his grayblond eyebrows a little too twitchy and nervous for a navy man.
He was frowning and holding out his fingers in Cats Cradle position and speaking to Milo in low but insistent tones. I caught "I will not" several times.
I tried to read Milos face, but there was nothing there except Milos standard sleepy, almost bovine calm.
Of course that didnt mean anything. Milo had looked calm when hed run into me at Mi Tierra the week before and told me about the demo tape problem that might lose his agency a milliondollar contract. Hed looked calm at our high school senior party when hed shoved Kyle Maverys face into the sour cream dip for making snide comments about Chavezs parents having green cards. Hed looked calm in college after wed just been shot at by a Berkeley house owner whose neglected dog Milo and I had decided to liberate. Hed even looked calm two years after that when he was fired from his first job at Terrence &c Goldman Law Offices, after Milos brilliant idea for tracking down a material witness had landed me in the IC unit at San Francisco General. After many years of onandoff friendship, I still could never tell when Milo was about to crack a joke or erupt into violence or convince me to do something dangerous and stupid that would sound, coming from Milo, like the sanest course of action in the world. Hanging around him for any length of time did not rate highly on the Tres Navarre funometer.
I plopped down with my Shiner Bock longneck and my basket of curly fries next to the pilot. I flicked him a salute. "Permission to come aboard?"
The pilot stared at me. "Who the hell—"
Milo gave me a slight shake of the head. "Tres Navarre, meet John Crea. Miranda Daniels producer. "
"Exproducer," Crea amended.
"Pleased as punch. " I looked at Milo. "Ive been calling you since yesterday morning, Chavez. Im beginning to feel unloved. "
Milo raised his hand, then returned his attention to Crea. "You cant walk away from this, Johnny. You going to give up your ten percent of the final project?"
Crea laughed. His eyebrows twitched. "There isnt going to be any final project, Chavez. Youre talking about fifty more hours in the studio by next Friday. Only spec time. Thats crazy. Even if I wasnt fed up with the fucking redneck scare tactics—Jesus, did you see the bullet hole, Milo?"
"Les is working on things," Milo promised.
Crea stabbed the picnic table with his middle finger. "If
Les is working on things I want to know why hes unreachable while Im getting shot at. Where is the son of a bitch?"
"I told you. Nashville. The developmental deal with Century—"
"The developmental deal is history. I came here to see Les, and some money, and some serious signs that Im going to get protection. " He glanced at me briefly, snorted.
"I dont see anything like that. Ive got other things to do, Milo. Adios. "
John Crea got up, straightened his jaw and his aviator glasses and his flight jacket, and left in a wake of Old Spice. He did it so fast I forgot to come to attention.
Milo stared at his food, then at mine. He reached over, appropriated the largest fry in my basket, and began uncurling it meticulously between his massive fingers.
"He dresses almost as snappy as you," I said.
Milos features move slowly if they move at all. You pretty much have to rely on his eyes. Now they were dark and concentrated. Angry.
"Johnny used to manage Mel Tillis," he told me. "They did a show once on an aircraft carrier, the whole road crew got those flight jackets. It kind of went to Johnnys head. "
"What was he talking about just now?"
Milo ate the smallest bite of fry. "More trouble with Mirandas Century Records deal.
Sunday night somebody took some potshots at Crea as he was coming out of the studio, around midnight. He heard a pop, pop, took him a few seconds to realize it was a gun. Police came, found a slug in the doorway, said theyd get right on it. "
"A sniper. Like with Julie Kearnes. Thanks for telling me. "
"I was meaning to, man. "
"Sure. Right after you got through laying flowers on Julies grave. "
Milo gave me a bland look. "Kearnes made my life hell. She stole from us. What do you expect me to do— cry?"
"No. I wouldnt expect that from you. But Julie Kearnes didnt steal your damn demo tape, Milo. "
I told him about my last few days of surveillance, up to and including my falling out with Erainya, and my feelings that maybe Id be looking for some other kind of work in the nottoodistant future.
Milo finished dissecting and eating the curly fry. He produced an individual Wetwipes packet from his pocket, ripped it open, and began wiping the grease off his fingers carefully, cleaning under his nails. I caught the scent of lemon.
"Im sorry, Navarre. Is that what you want to hear? You want to cut loose from this and leave it to the police, nothings stopping you. Les and I will figure out something. "
"Bullshit. "
Milos black eyes drifted back toward me. "What was that?"
"You and SaintPierre arent figuring out a damn thing, Milo, and your problem is bigger than a missing demo tape. People are getting shot at here? one of them is dead.
What the fuck is going on?"
He gave me the look of a bull that was just a little too sleepy to charge. "You know who Les SaintPierre is, Tres? Every artist thats come out of Texas since 1980, Les has either booked their dates or managed them or both. Miranda Daniels isnt the first artist hes gotten flack for stealing from her local sponsors, for taking her to the big league.
Hes handled worse. "
"Why am I not convinced?"
Milo put his hand flat on the picnic table. He drummed his fingers slowly, one at a time, like he was making sure they all still worked. "I like this job, Navarre. Its not just legal commissions, you know? Im starting to sell my own dates at fifteen percent. Miranda Daniels gets the Century Records deal, people are going to start knowing my name. "