Read Online Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan by Rick Riordan - Free Book Online
Authors: Rick Riordan
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likely as pig shit."
“ Tell Mr. White that Sheriff Navarre’s son is
here to see him. I think he’ll agree to talk."
If the name Navarre meant anything to Lubbock, he
didn’t show it. "I don’t give a damn whose damn son you are,
mister. You’d best get out of here before I decide—"
“ You’ve never been a highway patrolman."
He scowled. It didn’t improve his looks any.
“ What?"
Before he knew what had happened, I’d grabbed the
handle of his .38 Airweight and twisted it, still in its holster, so
the barrel was angled into the side of Lubbock’s chest. His arms
jerked up instinctively, like he was suddenly anxious for his armpit
deodorant to dry. All the tight lines in Lubbock’s face loosened
and most of his color seemed to drain into his neck.
“ When you’re stopping somebody in a car," I
explained very patiently, "you never wear a shoulder holster.
Much too easy to reach."
Lubbock raised his hands, slowly. His mouth was
twitching in the corner.
“ I’ll be goddamned," he said. Too many
syllables to count.
I got the Airweight free of its holster, then opened
the car door. Lubbock stepped back to let me out. He was smiling in
earnest now, looking at the gun I had leveled at his chest.
“ That’s the ballsiest son-of-a-bitch move I’ve
seen in a while, mister. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t. You just
put, yourself in so much deep shit you don’t even know."
"Let’s go see about getting you that raise,"
I suggested.
The front door was painted white, with a
bathtub-sized piece of beveled glass in the center. Lubbock led me
through into a spacious entry hall, then left to a pair of double oak
doors and into a private study. Some where along the way he must’ve
pressed a security buzzer with his foot, but I never saw it.
Things were going very well until the guy behind the
coat rack clicked the safety of his gun off and stuck a few inches of
barrel in my neck.
Lubbock turned around and repossessed his .38
Air-weight. He never stopped grinning. The man behind me stayed
perfectly still. I didn’t try to turn.
"Good afternoon," I said. “Is Mr. White
at home?"
"Good afternoon," the man behind me said.
His voice came out smooth as honey over a sopapilla .
"Mr. White is at home. In fact, Mr. White is about to kill you
if you don’t explain yourself rather quickly."
I put my hand over my shoulder, offering to shake.
"Jackson Navarre," I said. "The
Third."
I counted to five. I thought that was it. I started
to make peace with Jesus, the Tao, and my credit card agencies, then
I heard the safety click back on. Guy White took my hand.
“ Why didn’t you say so?" he asked.
13
“ Would you pass me the Blue Princess, Mr. Navarre?"
Guy White pointed with his trowel to the flat of baby
plants he wanted. I passed them over. For his gardening ensemble,
White had changed into a newly-pressed denim shirt with the sleeves
rolled up, Calvin Klein jeans, huaraches on his perfectly tanned
feet. He’d traded the 9mm Glock for pruners and trowel. Shadows
from the brim of his wicker hat criss-crossed his face like Maori
tattoos as he knelt over a five-foot plot of dirt, digging little
conical holes for his new babies.
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
“ Tell Mr. White that Sheriff Navarre’s son is
here to see him. I think he’ll agree to talk."
If the name Navarre meant anything to Lubbock, he
didn’t show it. "I don’t give a damn whose damn son you are,
mister. You’d best get out of here before I decide—"
“ You’ve never been a highway patrolman."
He scowled. It didn’t improve his looks any.
“ What?"
Before he knew what had happened, I’d grabbed the
handle of his .38 Airweight and twisted it, still in its holster, so
the barrel was angled into the side of Lubbock’s chest. His arms
jerked up instinctively, like he was suddenly anxious for his armpit
deodorant to dry. All the tight lines in Lubbock’s face loosened
and most of his color seemed to drain into his neck.
“ When you’re stopping somebody in a car," I
explained very patiently, "you never wear a shoulder holster.
Much too easy to reach."
Lubbock raised his hands, slowly. His mouth was
twitching in the corner.
“ I’ll be goddamned," he said. Too many
syllables to count.
I got the Airweight free of its holster, then opened
the car door. Lubbock stepped back to let me out. He was smiling in
earnest now, looking at the gun I had leveled at his chest.
“ That’s the ballsiest son-of-a-bitch move I’ve
seen in a while, mister. I’ll be damned if it wasn’t. You just
put, yourself in so much deep shit you don’t even know."
"Let’s go see about getting you that raise,"
I suggested.
The front door was painted white, with a
bathtub-sized piece of beveled glass in the center. Lubbock led me
through into a spacious entry hall, then left to a pair of double oak
doors and into a private study. Some where along the way he must’ve
pressed a security buzzer with his foot, but I never saw it.
Things were going very well until the guy behind the
coat rack clicked the safety of his gun off and stuck a few inches of
barrel in my neck.
Lubbock turned around and repossessed his .38
Air-weight. He never stopped grinning. The man behind me stayed
perfectly still. I didn’t try to turn.
"Good afternoon," I said. “Is Mr. White
at home?"
"Good afternoon," the man behind me said.
His voice came out smooth as honey over a sopapilla .
"Mr. White is at home. In fact, Mr. White is about to kill you
if you don’t explain yourself rather quickly."
I put my hand over my shoulder, offering to shake.
"Jackson Navarre," I said. "The
Third."
I counted to five. I thought that was it. I started
to make peace with Jesus, the Tao, and my credit card agencies, then
I heard the safety click back on. Guy White took my hand.
“ Why didn’t you say so?" he asked.
13
“ Would you pass me the Blue Princess, Mr. Navarre?"
Guy White pointed with his trowel to the flat of baby
plants he wanted. I passed them over. For his gardening ensemble,
White had changed into a newly-pressed denim shirt with the sleeves
rolled up, Calvin Klein jeans, huaraches on his perfectly tanned
feet. He’d traded the 9mm Glock for pruners and trowel. Shadows
from the brim of his wicker hat criss-crossed his face like Maori
tattoos as he knelt over a five-foot plot of dirt, digging little
conical holes for his new babies.
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
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