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Authors: Rick Riordan
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prospects."
I looked at the blue S&W on my dashboard.
"Mr. Sheckly, it's hot out. The only airconditioning I've got in this convertible is called
'fourth gear.' I'd like to get moving."
"I'm just telling you, Tres—I worry about my friends the Danielses. Willis and me go way back. I care about his daughter doing all right. This agency's charging ten percent for booking, old Les is gettin' forty more for management. For fifty percent of my career, if I was Miranda, I'd expect a damn sight better service."
"And you're the better service."
"That's right."
"I hear you did wonders for that other girl you sponsored—the one in the swimming pool."
Sheck let out air between his teeth. "You could do yourself a favour right now and forget whatever horseshit Chavez's been feeding you. I'll do right by Miranda. You think some spic lawyer's gonna play straight with you about that? You think your daddy would be arguing against me here?"
I counted to five. "Sheck—you like Sheck, right?"
He nodded.
"Honest, Sheck—I appreciate the concern. The thing is, the only load of manure I've come across today has been dumped in my passenger seat. I'd like it out of here."
Sheck's face darkened but his eyes stayed as bright and colourless as highoctane fuel. "That was a mistake, son. I can overlook one mistake. When I was younger I thought I was hot shit, too."
"Are you going to get out of my car?"
Sheck put my book back on the floorboard. He took his revolver off the dash and got out of the car.
"I thought to level with you, Tres, because I knew your father. I never had any beef with him; I don't see any reason to have one with you. You want to talk, come on out to my place some night. I'll buy you a beer. But you get yourself tangled on the wrong side of the barbed wire when it comes to Miranda Daniels, I'll eat you for lunch."
There was no anger in his voice, no violent edge.
He turned and walked with easy confidence across West Ashby, back to his truck. He didn't even bother to holster the S & W.
9
I got home around sunset, changed into exercise clothes, and ran through the basic stances, five minutes each, then twenty minutes of silk reeling exercises.
Afterward I lay on the floor until the sweat started to dry and the airconditioning felt cold again. Robert Johnson climbed up onto my chest and sat there, staring down at my face.
"What?" I said.
He yawned, showing me the black spots on the top of his mouth. His breath was not pleasant.
I made our standard dinner—Friskies tacos for him, chalupas for me. I showered and changed, then drank a Shiner at the kitchen counter.
My green neon KMAC wall clock read sevenohfive. Erainya Manos would still be at the office, typing up the daily client reports. The professors at UTSA would probably be in their offices too, preparing for night classes or yawning as they waded through bad under graduate essays. I tried to imagine myself in either place. I couldn't quite do it.
All I got in my head was a cartoon vision of me as Wile E. Coyote, my toes clinging to two different icebergs, doing the splits as they drifted farther and farther apart. In my hand a little wooden sign that read yikes!
I looked at the thick gray envelope that was propped up by the sink. The maroon words LES SAINTPIERRE TALENT were printed in the upper righthand corner. No return address, just like there'd been no number on the business card. You either knew what you needed to know to get in touch with Les SaintPierre or you didn't merit the infor
mation. Cocky.
I opened the envelope and started to read.
On top of the stack, on a piece of yellow legal paper, Milo had brainstormed all the personal facts he knew about the missing talent agent. The list was surprisingly short.
Date of birth April 8,1952. Place of birth unknown, somewhere near Texarkana, Milo thought. High school in Denton, a year of formal music training at North Texas State before SaintPierre had dropped out and joined the air force toward
I looked at the blue S&W on my dashboard.
"Mr. Sheckly, it's hot out. The only airconditioning I've got in this convertible is called
'fourth gear.' I'd like to get moving."
"I'm just telling you, Tres—I worry about my friends the Danielses. Willis and me go way back. I care about his daughter doing all right. This agency's charging ten percent for booking, old Les is gettin' forty more for management. For fifty percent of my career, if I was Miranda, I'd expect a damn sight better service."
"And you're the better service."
"That's right."
"I hear you did wonders for that other girl you sponsored—the one in the swimming pool."
Sheck let out air between his teeth. "You could do yourself a favour right now and forget whatever horseshit Chavez's been feeding you. I'll do right by Miranda. You think some spic lawyer's gonna play straight with you about that? You think your daddy would be arguing against me here?"
I counted to five. "Sheck—you like Sheck, right?"
He nodded.
"Honest, Sheck—I appreciate the concern. The thing is, the only load of manure I've come across today has been dumped in my passenger seat. I'd like it out of here."
Sheck's face darkened but his eyes stayed as bright and colourless as highoctane fuel. "That was a mistake, son. I can overlook one mistake. When I was younger I thought I was hot shit, too."
"Are you going to get out of my car?"
Sheck put my book back on the floorboard. He took his revolver off the dash and got out of the car.
"I thought to level with you, Tres, because I knew your father. I never had any beef with him; I don't see any reason to have one with you. You want to talk, come on out to my place some night. I'll buy you a beer. But you get yourself tangled on the wrong side of the barbed wire when it comes to Miranda Daniels, I'll eat you for lunch."
There was no anger in his voice, no violent edge.
He turned and walked with easy confidence across West Ashby, back to his truck. He didn't even bother to holster the S & W.
9
I got home around sunset, changed into exercise clothes, and ran through the basic stances, five minutes each, then twenty minutes of silk reeling exercises.
Afterward I lay on the floor until the sweat started to dry and the airconditioning felt cold again. Robert Johnson climbed up onto my chest and sat there, staring down at my face.
"What?" I said.
He yawned, showing me the black spots on the top of his mouth. His breath was not pleasant.
I made our standard dinner—Friskies tacos for him, chalupas for me. I showered and changed, then drank a Shiner at the kitchen counter.
My green neon KMAC wall clock read sevenohfive. Erainya Manos would still be at the office, typing up the daily client reports. The professors at UTSA would probably be in their offices too, preparing for night classes or yawning as they waded through bad under graduate essays. I tried to imagine myself in either place. I couldn't quite do it.
All I got in my head was a cartoon vision of me as Wile E. Coyote, my toes clinging to two different icebergs, doing the splits as they drifted farther and farther apart. In my hand a little wooden sign that read yikes!
I looked at the thick gray envelope that was propped up by the sink. The maroon words LES SAINTPIERRE TALENT were printed in the upper righthand corner. No return address, just like there'd been no number on the business card. You either knew what you needed to know to get in touch with Les SaintPierre or you didn't merit the infor
mation. Cocky.
I opened the envelope and started to read.
On top of the stack, on a piece of yellow legal paper, Milo had brainstormed all the personal facts he knew about the missing talent agent. The list was surprisingly short.
Date of birth April 8,1952. Place of birth unknown, somewhere near Texarkana, Milo thought. High school in Denton, a year of formal music training at North Texas State before SaintPierre had dropped out and joined the air force toward
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