by Rick Riordan
Next to me on the hot stone bench, a jar of sun tea Guy White had brought out with us ten minutes before was already dark amber. Sweat was starting to trickle down my back. My butt felt like a fried tortilla. I looked longingly at the nearby patio, shaded with pecan trees, then at the swimming pool, then at Guy White, who was smiling contentedly and humming along with the drone of the cicadas and not sweating at all.
I’d liked him better when he was holding a gun on me. “I’m quite excited about these," he told me. He broke one plastic container off the flat of plants and turned it upside down to shake the roots loose. “Do you know about gardening, Mr. Navarre?"
"It’s not my specialty. That’s some kind of verbena?"
“Very good. "
"It was associated with sorcerers in medieval times."
White looked pleased. "Is that so?"
He carefully placed the verbena into its new home and patted down the dirt. The little clusters of flowers were cotton candy blue. They matched Mr. White’s ensemble perfectly.
“This is the first year the Blue Princess variety is available," he explained. “From England. It’s only being offered commercially in South Texas. Quite an opportunity."
I wiped the back of my neck. “You always do your planting in the middle of the afternoon?"
White laughed. When he sat back on his heels I realized for the first time what a large man he was. Even with me sitting and him kneeling we were almost eye eve.
“Verbena is a hearty plant, Mr. Navarre. It looks delicate but it demands full sunlight, aggressive pruning, well-drained soil. This is the best time to plant it. Many people make the mistake of pampering their verbena, you see—they’re afraid to cut the blooms, they over-water or overshade. Treat verbena with gentleness and it mildews, Mr. Navarre. One can’t be afraid to be aggressive."
“Is that your business philosophy too? Is that the way it was ten years ago?"
Not a wrinkle marred Guy White’s face. His smile was the smile of the Redeemed, of a man with no troubles in this world or the next. "I think, Mr. Navarre, that you may be operating under some faulty assumptions."
I spread my hands. “It wouldn’t be the first time. Maybe you could set me straight?"
“If I can." His digging had uprooted a six-inch earth-worm, and when White stabbed his trowel into the dirt it cut the worm neatly in half. White didn’t seem to notice. He removed his leather gloves and took a long drink from his glass of ice tea before speaking. “I had nothing to do with your father’s death, my boy."
“I feel better already."
White shook his head. "I’m afraid if you’ve inherited Sheriff Navarre’s stubbornness there’s little point in our talking."
“He made your life uncomfortable for several years. There are plenty of people who still say you got away with his murder."
White pulled his gloves back on and started troweling the second row of Blue Princess. Under the shadow of his hat brim, his pleasant smile didn’t waver at all. "I’ve been the convenient answer for many criminal questions in the past, Mr. Navarre. I’m aware of that. "
"In the past."
“Exactly. Would you hand me the 19-5-9, please?"
"Pardon?"
“The fertilizer, my boy, next to your foot. You may not know that in recent years I’ve done my best to give back to the community. I’m pleased to be thought of as a good citizen, a patron for many causes. I’ve been actively cultivating that role, and I much prefer it to the undeserved reputation I had in my younger days."
"I’m sure. Murdering, drug dealing—hardly the sort of thing you can talk about at the Kiwanis Club."
White stabbed his trowel back into the dirt, up to the handle this time. He was still smiling when he looked up, but the lines around his eyes revealed just a bit of frayed patience.
"I want you to understand me, Mr. Navarre. Your father never made my life as difficult as it was after he a died, when I was subjected to all sorts of scrutiny, all sorts of witch-hunters looking for someone to blame for I his murder. I’ve worked for many years since then to build back my position in the community, and I am not anxious to have that position compromised with groundless speculation that should have been put to rest long ago. I hope I’m being clear?"
While White was talking, Lubbock had ambled across the lawn. He was now standing respectfully a few yards away, holding a cell phone and waiting to be summoned forward. White let him wait.
“Do we understand each other?" White asked me, very quietly.
I nodded. "How was it you used to kill your rivals, anyway—bullets through the eyes? I forgot. "
For an instant White’s face froze. Then, slowly, his smile rebuilt itself. He let out his breath. "You really are a great deal like your father, my boy. I wish you luck."
He almost sounded sincere. It wasn’t exactly the response I’d been expecting.
“Maybe you should be trying to help me, then," I suggested.
White ignored the comment. He got up and brushed the dirt off his Calvin Klein’s, then seemed to notice Lubbock standing there for the first time.
"Ah," he said, "now if you’ll excuse me, my boy, I must take this call. Emery here will see you out."
Emery handed Mr. White the phone and nodded for me to follow him inside. I got up from the stone bench.
"Mr. White," I said.
White had already dismissed me. He was chatting pleasantly with his caller about the weather in Vera Cruz. Now he looked back, taking the phone away from his ear.
"just so you understand me: If you’re lying, if you killed my father, I’ll personally mulch you into your own garden. "
He smiled as if I’d wished him happy birthday. “I’m sure you will, my boy. Good day."
Then he turned away, unconcerned, and resumed his phone conversation about the pros and cons of Mexican real estate. He walked into his garden.
Emery looked at me and laughed once. He patted me on the back like we were old friends, then led me back toward the White House.
14
“Now this I like," my mother said.
She had come over to the apartment around eight o’clock, minus Jess, who was watching the Rangers game. For five minutes she’d commented on my new home’s "interesting Spartan look," sprayed essential oil to cleanse the place’s aura, and looked around halfheartedly for anything she could compliment. Finally she’d spotted the Mexican statuette Lillian had given me.
The minute Mother picked it up, Robert Johnson hissed and backed into the closet again. Looking at the statue, thinking about my last talk with Lillian, I had a similar reaction.
“I think he wants you to have it," I said. “It fits your decor better anyway."
Mother’s green eyes sparkled mischievously. She dropped the statuette into her massive gold lamé purse. "I’l1 trade you for dinner, dear. "
Then we walked down to the corner of Queen Anne and Broadway.
Sad but true. I’d lived in San Francisco for years, gone to Chinatown almost daily, but I’d never found lemon chicken as good as the kind they serve at Hung Fong. Maia Lee would throttle me for speaking such sacrilege, since I’m including her own family recipe in the comparison, but there it is.
The restaurant had doubled in size since I’d been there last, but old Mrs. Kim was still the hostess. She greeted me by name, not fazed a bit by the fact I hadn’t been there in a decade, then gave us our favorite table under the neon American and Taiwanese flags entwined on the ceiling. It was Tuesday night after the dinner rush and we had the place to ourselves except for two large families at corner booths and a couple of guys who looked like basic trainees eating at the counter. Five minutes after we ordered, the tablecloth was buried under platters piled with food.
"Isn’t it odd that Lillian left for Laredo the day after you arrived?" Mother asked. Mother had dressed informally tonight: a brilliant gold and black kimono over a black cotton bodysuit. Every time she reached over the table the gold and amber bangles around her wrists s
lid down over her hands and caught on the lids of the covered dishes, but she didn’t seem to mind.
"All right, " I said. “So we had a small fight. Not even a fight, really."
I told her about Dan Sheff, hunk from hell. Mother nodded.
"I remember his mother from the Bright Shawl." She waved her chopsticks dismissively. "Horrid woman. Never trust anyone named Cookie to raise a child properly. Now what else happened?"
I shrugged. “That’s it."
She frowned. “It doesn’t sound like anything worth leaving town over."
"Beau Karnau probably had something to do with it. He seems to like capitalizing on emotional stress."
"You just be persistent," she advised. "Here, I’ll read the tea leaves for you."
Actually I’d been drinking beer, but Mother was never one to let technicalities stop her. She poured me a cup of tea, drank it herself, then turned the cup over on a napkin. I could never figure out whether she was playing a game for her own amusement, or whether she really had a system for making sense of the sediment from beverages, but she studied the little brown flecks intently, making meaningful 'hmm' sounds.
The basic trainees at the counter looked over briefly while she was doing her divination. One made a joke under his breath. Both laughed.
“Not good, my son," Mother said in her best gypsy accent. "The leaves spell ‘Adversity.’ A troubled time is ahead."
“Profound," I said. "And so unexpected?
She tried to look offended. "Scoff if you must."
"I must, I must."
At the end of dinner Mother insisted on picking up the tab. Since I was down to spare change and a few maxed—out credit cards, I didn’t argue too hard. The two men at the counter paid for their meal and walked out behind us.
When you train long enough in tai chi, you get to a point where your eyes and ears start feeling like they wrap around you 360 degrees. You have to develop this unless you want to get hit over the head from behind while you’re protecting yourself in front, or turn a few inches too far and run yourself through on your opponent’s sword. My senses switched into that mode the minute we walked out of the restaurant, but I wasn’t consciously worried until we got to the corner of Queen Anne.
Mother was talking about the sorry state of the arts in San Antonio. The two men from the restaurant were coming up behind us, but they seemed to be at ease, joking to themselves, not paying us much attention. The neon lights from Broadway dropped into darkness once we walked onto my street. The two men stopped talking, but turned the corner with us. Without looking back, I could tell they were quickening their pace. They were about twenty-five feet behind us now. My apartment was at the end of the block.
“Mother," I said casually, "keep walking."
She had just been warming up on the subject of limited downtown gallery space. She glanced up at me, puzzled, but I didn’t give her time to say anything. Instead, I did an about-face and went back to meet our new friends.
They didn’t like their timing being messed up. When they saw me coming toward them they stopped, momentarily off-balance. Both were in their mid-twenties, with bland, square faces. They wore jeans and untucked denim shirts. Both had crew cuts. Their upper body development made it obvious they were bodybuilders.
They were trying hard to be twins, but one was a red-headed Anglo, the other a Hispanic with a tattoo on his forearm—an eagle killing a snake.
When I was five feet away they moved apart slightly, waiting for me to act. Behind me I heard my mother call, more than a little nervous: "Tres?"
“Tres?" the one with the tattoo mimicked. The red-head grinned. `
"Either you’re following us to get your tea leaves read," I speculated, “or you’ve got something to say to me. Which is it?"
I let Tattoo come closer, putting his chest close to my face. He was still grinning. Red moved around to my left.
"Yeah sure," said Tattoo. "We heard you’re one of those faggots from San Francisco. That true?"
He was about six inches away.
"You asking me to dance?" I blew him a kiss.
He almost decided that was worth punching me for, but Red stopped him.
Behind me I heard Mother call my name again. She was trying to decide whether she should come back for me or not. I knew she would eventually walk over and give these goons a piece of her mind. Whatever went down, I needed to make it happen before she did that.
"How hard you want to make this, buddy?" said Red. “I’d hate smashing a guy’s face in front of his own mom. The message is simple: Get the fuck out of town. Nobody wants you here."
"And whom are these joyous tidings from?" I said. I slid my left foot back slightly, rooting my weight more solidly.
“Anybody you want to guess." Red sneered. "Just go back to Pansyland if you want your face in one piece."
"And if I don’t," I said, "I suppose Tattoo here will chest-bump me all the way out of town?"
“You little shit—" Tattoo moved forward, meaning to grab my shirt with both hands.
The thing about bodybuilders is that they tend to be top-heavy. They can be incredibly strong, but their overdeveloped chests make their center of gravity, which should be right around the navel, much higher and surprisingly easy to unbalance. It’s also easier to grab someone who has lots of muscles; it’s like walking around with built-in handles all over your body.
I swept my forearms up under Tattoo’s wrists before they connected and redirected his arms out. When he was wide open, I brought my left leg up and knee—kicked him in the groin. Then I pushed. He went backward stiff as a cut tree. Red got my left elbow in his nose as he came in to tackle me. I grabbed him by his triceps and twisted my waist, shifting his momentum so he flew over my knee and landed on top of his friend instead of me.
“Tres!" my mother called. She was coming toward us now.
Tattoo wasn’t used to having his balls kicked. He stayed doubled over, communing with the pavement . But Red got his balance much more quickly than I’d expected. He came at me, more cautiously this time, taking a boxer’s stance, right fist out. I let him miss twice, turning my body in quarter circles out of the line of his punches. That screwed up his guard. He tried a left hook but forgot to follow with his right. It was easy to step inside the punch, turn into his chest as I grabbed his wrist, and send him flying over my shoulder.
Holding on to his arm, I twisted the joints so he had no choice but to roll over on his stomach or snap a bone. I put my knee into his back, then pinched down on the nerve just below the elbow joint with my thumb. He yelled.
"You want me to hold this until you black out?" I asked. “Or do you want to tell me a little bit about yourself?"
"‘Go fuck yourself," he groaned.
It must’ve taken a lot of stamina for him to speak. Or maybe he just knew that his buddy wouldn’t be down on the ground forever. In fact, Tattoo was staggering to his feet now, and we both knew I couldn’t pin Red down and deal with Tattoo at the same time.
I didn’t like it, but I twisted Red’s arm sharply. He screamed. Maybe I broke it, maybe I didn’t. But I had to give him something to worry about while I was busy with his compadre.
Tattoo was still walking funny. He tried his best to get me in a wrestler’s hold, but I slid underneath and hit him in the gut with my shoulder. I pushed up and forward, lifting him off his feet. He fell backward again, harder this time.
I stepped back toward my mother, catching my breath. Her face was hard to read. Her eyes were very wide, but not exactly frightened. It was more the look of someone who had believed in ghosts for years, but had finally had one shake her hand.
Red and Tattoo were still on the ground, cursing. I asked my mother for a pen and paper. She stared at me, then rummaged in her purse. On a large magenta Post-it note, I wrote: RETURN TO SENDER. Then I signed my name.
I stuck it on the front of Red’s shirt.
"Thanks anyway," I said.
Before they could decide they w
eren’t so badly hurt after all, I took my mother’s arm and we walked down Queen Anne. I got her into her car before she decided it was time to talk.
"Tres, what exactly—"
“I’m not sure, Mother," I said, a little harsher than I meant to. “I’m sorry you got involved. It’s probably some friends of Bob Langston, the old tenant I had to kick out. Rivas said he was Army. So were those guys, probably. That’s all."
I must not have sounded very convincing. Mother kept looking at me, waiting for a better answer. I felt tired, the hazy crashed feeling you get when adrenaline stops flowing. I tried to muster up a smile. “Look, it’s fine."
She turned and stared through the windshield.
"You’re my only boy, Tres."
She has tremendous strength, my mother. Despite all her eccentricities, she can harden to steel in sixty seconds flat in a crisis. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her cry, or look as shaken as she had a few moments before. Now she smiled at me, reassuringly. When I bent and kissed her on the cheek, I could feel the slight tremble in her skin.
“Call me tomorrow," she said.
After she drove away I went inside and locked the door. Robert Johnson sniffed my legs for the strange odors of Red and Tattoo while I sat in the dark and called Lillian’s number.
Her answering machine didn’t pick up after ten rings. Lillian should have been home from Laredo by now. It was almost ten o’clock. She was there, I decided glumly, choosing to ignore the phone.
I stared at the coffee table, at the packet of old news clippings Carlon McAffrey had given me that afternoon, my father’s grinning face still on top. Looking at his picture, I realized how badly I needed to see Lillian tonight. I needed something clean and physical with her that wasn’t part of our past. I pushed the news clippings onto the floor.
Then I went to the refrigerator and got two items I’d picked up at Pappy’s Grocery in a moment of whimsy: a six-pack of Big Red and a bottle of tequila. I went out to the VW. A summer thunderstorm was coming in over the Balcones Escarpment, but I took the top down anyway. Then I drove toward Monte Vista, thinking about the future.
