by Rick Riordan
Page 43
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 policemans marker.
The worst part is, you cant 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 dont know any Clyde," the boat jockey insisted.
He couldnt 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 managers name is Clyde, Ill take your word for it. I dont know him. He isnt 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, "Im sorry, you cant—"
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. "Its three oclock and my boat isnt 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 werent 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. "
"Thats right," Mr. McMurray said, with more than a little satisfaction. "Now wheres my boat?"
The jockey launched into some explanation about how the bottom paint wasnt dry yet and Mr. McMurray started smiling, no doubt anticipating a really good asschewing on the hired help.
Lopez said, "Well 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 didnt 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 whod 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 Id seen that day.
Lopez got a twinkle in his eye. "Well look whos here. If it aint Armand. "
Armand studied us from head to toe, then slowly got up. His beard reminded me of Garretts, except it was longer, braided with lug nuts.
He nodded toward Lopez. "Who the fuck you?"
His Cajun accent was as grimy as the Cafe du Mondes dumpster.
"How quickly they forget," Lopez lamented. "You dont remember Del Valley, Armand?
Our little talk about that double knifing? Man, Im hurt. "
Armands eyes narrowed. "Aint no cop, you. "
I couldnt tell whether Armand was being obtuse or stubborn or what, but he was pressing Lopez to pull a badge Lopez didnt have. Hed intentionally not brought it—wanted no accusations later that hed 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. "Spose to know your brother?"
"Garrett," I said. "Just tell him Im 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. Im sure I could find some warrants. But thats not the way were trying to play it. Why dont you just take us downstairs, well talk to Clyde, see if he doesnt see things our way. Otherwise, I guarantee you, youre going to have half the Sheriffs Department around this place faster than you can kickstart a hog. "
Armand scratched his beard.
"Daccord," he decided, pointing his thumb toward the interior door. "But you still an asshole, Lopez, hear?"
Lopez grinned at me. "See? I knew he remembered me. "
Armand led us downstairs into the warehouse. Boats were stacked in threestoryhigh tiers, with an open space in the middle the size of a basketball court.
The forklift was in the warehouse now, its engine rumbling like the worlds largest lawn mower. It had a twentyfoot Stingray balanced on its prongs, probably Mr. McMurrays plaything, and the jockey was desperately trying to get it out the door, but there were two uniformed deputies blocking his path.
Armand froze when he saw the cops. He glared at Lopez, who spread his hands, tried to look mystified.
"They aint with us, man," Lopez vowed. "Je ne sais rien. "
Armand let out a string of Cajun curses, but apparently didnt see much choice except to keep going down the stairs.
The kid on the forklift was shouting at the deputies over the noise of the motor, asking them to please move. The uniforms ignored him.
I recognized one of them now—Engels, the one who worked parttime security for W. B. Doebler. That did not reassure me. The other guy I didnt recognize, but both had obviously ordered their facial expressions from the same online catalogue.
We got to the bottom of the steps.
"You cant be in here!" the kid on the forklift was saying, exasperated.
"Deputy Geiger," Lopez said, trying for a grin. "Deputy Engels. What brings you two here?"
Deputy Engels took his eyes off me long enough to say, "Detective. I heard you were on leave. "
"I am," Lopez assured him pleasantly. "Thats why Im at a marina. Yall want to split the cost of a day cruise?"
Geiger and Engels did not look tempted.
"Im telling you—" the kid on the forklift started to shout.
Geiger said, "Cut your engine. "
The kid opened his mouth to protest, but Geigers expression shut him up.
He cut the engine.
"Now get off," Geiger said. "And get out. "
The kid did both.
Outside, the other boat jockeys converged on him and started asking what the hell was going on. The kid said, "You talk to them!" In the background, Mr. McMurray was screaming how important he was.
Engels nodded to his compatriot, Geiger.
Geiger walked to the warehouse doors and rolled them shut, to the renewed protests of the boat jockeys outside.
"Chain it," Engels said.
Geiger took a length of chain off a hook, ran it through the door handles.
Engels pulled out his asp, extended it with a rapid flick of the wrist. He looked at Lopez and me. "Theres the staircase, Detective. I suggest you and your friend use it. Leave the piece of shit here. "
I hoped that the friend reference was for me, but I wasnt sure.
"This is dumb, gentlemen," Lopez said. "You got a warrant?"
"No need," Geiger said. "Possible officer in trouble. I just called it in, based on a witness I talked to outside. I came in. My
partner Engels was here. The backup unit will be here in about ten minutes, Id guess. Plenty of time. "
"Mr. Doebler know youre here, Engels?" I asked. "You getting a bonus for this?"
Engels ignored me. He stepped up to Armand. "Give us Garrett Navarre, everythings fine. Dont give us Navarre, then you are about to assault an officer. Its going to get a little rough when I have to subdue you. "
From the back of the warehouse, Clyde Simms voice said, "Engels, you prick. "
Clyde appeared from between two motorboats, wearing white shorts and white Tshirt and flipflops—like an overweight, Aryan Jesus coming out of the tomb. He was holding his weapon of choice—the Bizon2—down by his side. Garrett was with him, a few steps behind, wheeling along in his chair. Garrett looked okay, better actually than Id seen him in quite some time.
Clyde said, "You know I aint letting you near any friend of mine. "
Engels smiled thinly. Geiger, slowly, drew his gun.
I locked eyes with Garrett, trying to implore him not to do anything stupid. He lifted a hand to reassure me, defeat in his eyes. He was a man about to give up, even if Clyde didnt know it yet.
Lopez said, "Hey, Clyde. Garrett. Under the circumstances, guys, Id go with the flow.
Come on out here and surrender. Well work it out. "
"Do what the detective says," Geiger urged.
"Then we can file a report on these assholes together," Lopez added. "Get them suspended the right way. "
The deputies looked at Lopez, and Armand chose that moment to charge.
He went for Geiger, the man with the gun.
Engels swung the asp and Armands shoulder caught a glancing blow, but Armand had his momentum. He slammed into Geiger and the two went down hard on the cement. Geigers gun went flying.
Clyde fired off a burst from the Bizon2 that punched a downward arc of holes in the warehouse door, the last and lowest shot snicking Engels head—his ear flowered in blood. Lopez dove for the cover of the forklift. I rolled the other way and hugged the nearest boat hull.
Clyde had disappeared behind a rack of boats. Garrett, wisely, had wheeled himself back at top speed, out of sight.
Geiger and Armand were still rolling on the ground.
Engels was on the asphalt, screaming, his hand clamped around his ear and blood seeping between his fingers.
Lopez scrambled over to him, examined the wound, decided it was not fatal, drew the deputys pistol, and went into a police crouch.
He glanced at Geiger, seemed to be deliberating how best to help him with Armand, when Clyde shot off another burst from somewhere in the back of the warehouse—bullets pinging like pin balls against the metal scaffolding. Lopez quickly retreated around the far side of the forklift, going into stalk mode for Clyde.
Geiger got the upper hand on Armand, started strangling the biker, but that just gave Armand new spirit. He rolled on top and smacked the deputys head into the asphalt once, twice, three times. Geiger loosened his grip.
More gunshots sparked off the forklift.
Armand staggered to his feet, leaving Deputy Geiger curling on the cement like a steppedon spider. Engels was still yelling, bleeding from the side of his head. He would not be getting up soon.
I could see Lopezs feet on the opposite side of the forklift, sneaking around, but he couldnt see Armand, who mumbled, "Fucking cops!" and headed for the forklift.
