You know what he's capable of."
W.B. picked up his Nokia, dialled a single number with his thumb.
"Deputy Engels," he said into the phone. "Would you call city police for me, please. I'm at the Unitarian church on Airport, having some trouble with an irate man from the memorial. I'd call it harassment, yes."
I stepped away, slammed Doebler's door closed for him.
Without looking at me, W.B. Doebler dropped his phone onto the passenger's seat.
The door locks clicked.
His lights came on in the glare of the setting sun, and the white Infiniti pulled out onto Airport Boulevard.
CHAPTER 12
"I hate crowds," Garrett told me.
We were sitting at a window table in Scholz Bier Garten, drinking German beer that tasted like antifreeze.
A socialite wedding reception had taken over the back patio of Austin's oldest watering hole, leaving attendees of Jimmy Doebler's memorial beer bust to fight it out with the regular customers for the dozen tables and booths that were left in front.
The wedding reception guys drifted around in tuxes, the women in designer dresses.
They didn't coordinate well with the neon beer signs and baseball trophies and the green vinyl booths. I thought they had a disk jockey playing Kinky Friedman tunes on the patio until somebody sneaked a look and told me nope, it was Kinky Friedman playing Kinky Friedman tunes.
At the bar, Maia was having a heated discussion with Matthew Pena—a discussion she'd insisted I stay out of. Sitting on the stool beside her, Dwight Hayes was trying to peel the label off his beer bottle.
"Shouldn't leave without your date," I told Garrett. "Looks like she's still having fun."
Garrett grumbled.
Being down so low in the wheelchair, Garrett creates the illusion of an open space in a crowd. People swarm toward him, see him only at the last second, usually spill beer on his head. One of the tuxedoed gentlemen had almost made that mistake a few minutes ago.
"You're enjoying this," Garrett told me. "You want me punished."
"Just trying to figure out why your brother, who lives seventy five miles away, can't help, and your brother's exgirlfriend, who lives two thousand miles away, can."
"She's better than you," he said.
Leave it to my sibling to craft the most diplomatic response possible.
"She's prettier," he added. "And she knows Pena. She's dealt with him."
"And like you, she's already convinced Pena's the problem."
He glared at me. "You met him today. You don't think so?"
"The guy just tried to kill me once. That doesn't exactly set him apart."
Garrett grunted. "You wonder why I don't invite you up much."
Out on the back patio, Kinky launched into "Asshole from El Paso." Wedding guests and bar patrons milled around, jostling us. Ceiling fans circled lazily, kicking around the smells of chewing tobacco and sausage.
"How did you meet Ruby?" I asked.
Garrett turned his beer in a slow circle. "What does it matter?"
"Just wondering," I said. "If Pena was going to kill somebody at Techsan, if he was trying to force a deal, why kill Jimmy? Why not Ruby or you?"
"Thanks."
"I mean Jimmy seemed . . . harmless."
Garrett's face turned as bitter as the German beer. "Write that on his fucking gravestone, why don't you?"
He ripped his cork drink coaster in two, threw the halves on the table.
"I guess I didn't mean that," I said.
His eyes were our dad's eyes—steady, scolding, a slowburning fire that said, You best not lie to me, 'cause I know better.
I watched the soccer game playing in triplicate on the TVs above the bar.
Maia's conversation with Matthew Pena didn't appear to be getting any friendlier. The bartender put two margaritas on the rocks in front of her. I wondered if she planned on drinking them both.
"You were going to have to square things with her eventually," Garrett told me. "You know that, little bro."
"My brother the shrink."
"Tell me you're over Maia," he insisted. "Tell me there's been one time since you moved back to Texas you were really
W.B. picked up his Nokia, dialled a single number with his thumb.
"Deputy Engels," he said into the phone. "Would you call city police for me, please. I'm at the Unitarian church on Airport, having some trouble with an irate man from the memorial. I'd call it harassment, yes."
I stepped away, slammed Doebler's door closed for him.
Without looking at me, W.B. Doebler dropped his phone onto the passenger's seat.
The door locks clicked.
His lights came on in the glare of the setting sun, and the white Infiniti pulled out onto Airport Boulevard.
CHAPTER 12
"I hate crowds," Garrett told me.
We were sitting at a window table in Scholz Bier Garten, drinking German beer that tasted like antifreeze.
A socialite wedding reception had taken over the back patio of Austin's oldest watering hole, leaving attendees of Jimmy Doebler's memorial beer bust to fight it out with the regular customers for the dozen tables and booths that were left in front.
The wedding reception guys drifted around in tuxes, the women in designer dresses.
They didn't coordinate well with the neon beer signs and baseball trophies and the green vinyl booths. I thought they had a disk jockey playing Kinky Friedman tunes on the patio until somebody sneaked a look and told me nope, it was Kinky Friedman playing Kinky Friedman tunes.
At the bar, Maia was having a heated discussion with Matthew Pena—a discussion she'd insisted I stay out of. Sitting on the stool beside her, Dwight Hayes was trying to peel the label off his beer bottle.
"Shouldn't leave without your date," I told Garrett. "Looks like she's still having fun."
Garrett grumbled.
Being down so low in the wheelchair, Garrett creates the illusion of an open space in a crowd. People swarm toward him, see him only at the last second, usually spill beer on his head. One of the tuxedoed gentlemen had almost made that mistake a few minutes ago.
"You're enjoying this," Garrett told me. "You want me punished."
"Just trying to figure out why your brother, who lives seventy five miles away, can't help, and your brother's exgirlfriend, who lives two thousand miles away, can."
"She's better than you," he said.
Leave it to my sibling to craft the most diplomatic response possible.
"She's prettier," he added. "And she knows Pena. She's dealt with him."
"And like you, she's already convinced Pena's the problem."
He glared at me. "You met him today. You don't think so?"
"The guy just tried to kill me once. That doesn't exactly set him apart."
Garrett grunted. "You wonder why I don't invite you up much."
Out on the back patio, Kinky launched into "Asshole from El Paso." Wedding guests and bar patrons milled around, jostling us. Ceiling fans circled lazily, kicking around the smells of chewing tobacco and sausage.
"How did you meet Ruby?" I asked.
Garrett turned his beer in a slow circle. "What does it matter?"
"Just wondering," I said. "If Pena was going to kill somebody at Techsan, if he was trying to force a deal, why kill Jimmy? Why not Ruby or you?"
"Thanks."
"I mean Jimmy seemed . . . harmless."
Garrett's face turned as bitter as the German beer. "Write that on his fucking gravestone, why don't you?"
He ripped his cork drink coaster in two, threw the halves on the table.
"I guess I didn't mean that," I said.
His eyes were our dad's eyes—steady, scolding, a slowburning fire that said, You best not lie to me, 'cause I know better.
I watched the soccer game playing in triplicate on the TVs above the bar.
Maia's conversation with Matthew Pena didn't appear to be getting any friendlier. The bartender put two margaritas on the rocks in front of her. I wondered if she planned on drinking them both.
"You were going to have to square things with her eventually," Garrett told me. "You know that, little bro."
"My brother the shrink."
"Tell me you're over Maia," he insisted. "Tell me there's been one time since you moved back to Texas you were really
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