sound familiar?"
"I don’t guess these attentive neighbors
noticed anything more subtle, like somebody tearing up her house on
Sunday, or carrying her away at gunpoint."
“ You got something to say, I’m listening."
"Jesus Christ," I said.
I went to the kitchen and got a Shiner Bock. It was
either that or beat the crap out of Rivas. At the moment, a beer
sounded more constructive.
"Jay, let me see if I can get through to you on
this. I admit I came back to town because of this lady, but are you
suggesting I waited ten years and then moved back two thousand miles
to abduct an old girlfriend?"
Rivas had one lazy green eye that weighed anchor and
drifted astern when he stared at you. It just heightened his
resemblance to a hairy reptile.
“ You got a temper, Navarre. Old boyfriend meets new
boyfriend—sparks fly. Things happen."
I looked out the grimy kitchen window. Outside, the
afternoon had officially begun. Warmed up to about a hundred and five
degrees, the army of cicadas in the pecan trees had started humming.
The two cops were still standing in broad sunlight in my front yard,
melting. Every living thing with more brains than them was crawling
under a rock or into the air-conditioning to sleep.
Then a second cruiser pulled up. This one said “Bexar
County Sheriff’s Deputy" on its side. I had to smile as a big
man with flattopped orange hair got out, frowning at the SAPD. My
landlord was probably staring out his window too, calmly shitting in
his pants.
"Jay," I said, "I appreciate the
extent to which you’re fucking up this investigation. That takes
real talent. I’m also impressed with the way you follow me around.
Whoever’s paying you for that should give you a bonus."
Rivas held up one finger, like a warning. “Your dad
was way smarter than you, Navarre, and he had more connections.
Still--look where it got him. You should think about that."
I drank my beer. I smiled in a friendly way.
“ You’re a piece of shit, Jay. My father scraped
you off his boots twenty years ago and you’re still shit."
He started walking toward me.
I glanced behind him and said: "If you’ve got
a reason to arrest me, Detective, I’d love to hear it. Otherwise
leave me the fuck alone."
"Sounds reasonable to me," said Larry
Drapiewski. Whatever Rivas was going to do, he stopped himself. He
looked around at Drapiewski, who was leaning in the doorway.
Drapiewski was so big I wasn’t too worried about the AC escaping.
His left palm was resting casually on his nightstick. In his other
hand was the largest benuelo I’d ever seen. It looked like a half—eaten Frisbee.
“ Lieutenant," said Rivas, forcing out the
word. "Can I help you with something?"
Drapiewski grinned. There was a coating of sugar
around his mouth.
"Just a social call, Detective. Don’t let me
interrupt anything. I always like to see you city pros at work."
Rivas snorted. He looked at me, then back at the
door.
"Maybe another time," he said. "But,
Tres, you want to talk about your father, how he played around with
people’s lives, screwed their careers to hell, I’d be happy to
have that conversation. You’ve got a lot to be proud of."
Then he started toward the door.
“ And, Jay," I said.
He turned.
"Pick up the goddamn sword."
It was worth it just to see his face. He didn’t
pick it up. He wanted to say something. I wanted him to say it.
Then Drapiewski said: “Good-bye, Detective,"
and moved his bulk out of the doorway.
Rivas took the out.
When the door closed, Drapiewski just looked at me,
his bushy red eyebrows raised. Cautiously, Robert Johnson came out of
the bathroom, lured by the shower of sugar and crumbs that was
falling from the deputy’s berzuelo ,
then tried to climb Drapiewski’s pants. I don’t think Drapiewski
even noticed.
Larry took a thick bundle of police reports from
under his arm and dropped it on the coffee table.
"Want to tell me about it?"
19
By the time I’d told Larry Drapiewski my tale
"I don’t guess these attentive neighbors
noticed anything more subtle, like somebody tearing up her house on
Sunday, or carrying her away at gunpoint."
“ You got something to say, I’m listening."
"Jesus Christ," I said.
I went to the kitchen and got a Shiner Bock. It was
either that or beat the crap out of Rivas. At the moment, a beer
sounded more constructive.
"Jay, let me see if I can get through to you on
this. I admit I came back to town because of this lady, but are you
suggesting I waited ten years and then moved back two thousand miles
to abduct an old girlfriend?"
Rivas had one lazy green eye that weighed anchor and
drifted astern when he stared at you. It just heightened his
resemblance to a hairy reptile.
“ You got a temper, Navarre. Old boyfriend meets new
boyfriend—sparks fly. Things happen."
I looked out the grimy kitchen window. Outside, the
afternoon had officially begun. Warmed up to about a hundred and five
degrees, the army of cicadas in the pecan trees had started humming.
The two cops were still standing in broad sunlight in my front yard,
melting. Every living thing with more brains than them was crawling
under a rock or into the air-conditioning to sleep.
Then a second cruiser pulled up. This one said “Bexar
County Sheriff’s Deputy" on its side. I had to smile as a big
man with flattopped orange hair got out, frowning at the SAPD. My
landlord was probably staring out his window too, calmly shitting in
his pants.
"Jay," I said, "I appreciate the
extent to which you’re fucking up this investigation. That takes
real talent. I’m also impressed with the way you follow me around.
Whoever’s paying you for that should give you a bonus."
Rivas held up one finger, like a warning. “Your dad
was way smarter than you, Navarre, and he had more connections.
Still--look where it got him. You should think about that."
I drank my beer. I smiled in a friendly way.
“ You’re a piece of shit, Jay. My father scraped
you off his boots twenty years ago and you’re still shit."
He started walking toward me.
I glanced behind him and said: "If you’ve got
a reason to arrest me, Detective, I’d love to hear it. Otherwise
leave me the fuck alone."
"Sounds reasonable to me," said Larry
Drapiewski. Whatever Rivas was going to do, he stopped himself. He
looked around at Drapiewski, who was leaning in the doorway.
Drapiewski was so big I wasn’t too worried about the AC escaping.
His left palm was resting casually on his nightstick. In his other
hand was the largest benuelo I’d ever seen. It looked like a half—eaten Frisbee.
“ Lieutenant," said Rivas, forcing out the
word. "Can I help you with something?"
Drapiewski grinned. There was a coating of sugar
around his mouth.
"Just a social call, Detective. Don’t let me
interrupt anything. I always like to see you city pros at work."
Rivas snorted. He looked at me, then back at the
door.
"Maybe another time," he said. "But,
Tres, you want to talk about your father, how he played around with
people’s lives, screwed their careers to hell, I’d be happy to
have that conversation. You’ve got a lot to be proud of."
Then he started toward the door.
“ And, Jay," I said.
He turned.
"Pick up the goddamn sword."
It was worth it just to see his face. He didn’t
pick it up. He wanted to say something. I wanted him to say it.
Then Drapiewski said: “Good-bye, Detective,"
and moved his bulk out of the doorway.
Rivas took the out.
When the door closed, Drapiewski just looked at me,
his bushy red eyebrows raised. Cautiously, Robert Johnson came out of
the bathroom, lured by the shower of sugar and crumbs that was
falling from the deputy’s berzuelo ,
then tried to climb Drapiewski’s pants. I don’t think Drapiewski
even noticed.
Larry took a thick bundle of police reports from
under his arm and dropped it on the coffee table.
"Want to tell me about it?"
19
By the time I’d told Larry Drapiewski my tale
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