Read Online Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan by Rick Riordan - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Rick Riordan
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"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 slid 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,
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 slid 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,
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