The Devil Went Down to Austin
Businesses were planned, incorporation papers signed. And nosy spectators watched the divers at the public access beach down the shoreline, wondering what the fuss was about, complaining how it affected their speed boating.
Rationally, you understand how it happened. You understand that this is just one more bad memory to associate with a place— another policeman's marker.
The worst part is, you can't help thinking that the old Chinese grandmother was right—some spirit, some dark thing in the water, took a liking to that boy. And it bothers you that you were the one who knew where to look.
CHAPTER 37
"I don't know any Clyde," the boat jockey insisted.
He couldn't have been over nineteen, but he appeared to be the man in charge. He was frantically filling out paperwork while two even younger jockeys worked the docks—using the forklift to lower a Fountain 32 Lightning into the water.
Several affluentlooking couples stood behind us, waiting their turn.
"Clyde Simms," Lopez said. "You know—big ugly white guy. Runs the place."
The boat jockey shook his head. There were two twentydollar bills folded in his fingers, a tip from the previous customer.
"Yes, sir," he said. "If the manager's name is Clyde, I'll take your word for it. I don't know him. He isn't around."
"That the office?" I asked.
I pointed to a set of stairs on the side of the warehouse, leading up to a secondstory door. Parked below the stairs were two Harley Davidson VTwin hogs—both FLSTF
models, black and chrome. Leather cones jutted up behind each seat—perfect for holding either longstem bouquets or shotguns. I was betting that the owners, wherever they were, were not florists at heart.
The boat jockey said, "I'm sorry, you can't—"
Another customer shouldered his way to the counter and put his elbow between the boat jockey and me. He brandished a claim ticket.
"My boat," he said. "It's three o'clock and my boat isn't in the water."
"No, by all means," I said. "You go right ahead."
The newcomer gave Lopez and me the briefest sideways glance, just long enough to determine we weren't members of his country club, then turned his attention back to the boat jockey. "Well?"
The jockey looked up and just about had a paperworkshuffling coronary. "Mr.
McMurray."
"That's right," Mr. McMurray said, with more than a little satisfaction. "Now where's my boat?"
The jockey launched into some explanation about how the bottom paint wasn't dry yet and Mr. McMurray started smiling, no doubt anticipating a really good asschewing on the hired help.
Lopez said, "We'll just help ourselves, thanks."
We made a beeline for the outer stairs of the warehouse. When we got to the top, I glanced back. The boat jockey was watching us nervously, trying to get our attention, but he didn't dare yell or leave the nottobepissedoff Mr. McMurray.
The room was a fifteenfoot square—one interior door, one chair, one metal patio table. There was a pile of boatcleaning supplies in the corner. The old grizzled biker who'd been talking to Garrett at the Jimmy Buffett concert was sitting at the table play
ing solitaire, which struck me as weirder than anything else I'd seen that day.
Lopez got a twinkle in his eye. "Well look who's here. If it ain't Armand."
Armand studied us from head to toe, then slowly got up. His beard reminded me of Garrett's, except it was longer, braided with lug nuts.
He nodded toward Lopez. "Who the fuck you?"
His Cajun accent was as grimy as the Cafe du Monde's dumpster.
"How quickly they forget," Lopez lamented. "You don't remember Del Valley, Armand?
Our little talk about that double knifing? Man, I'm hurt."
Armand's eyes narrowed. "Ain't no cop, you."
I couldn't tell whether Armand was being obtuse or stubborn or what, but he was pressing Lopez to pull a badge Lopez didn't have. He'd intentionally not brought it—wanted no accusations later that he'd been here under colour of law.
"Listen," Lopez said. "No need to get any more gray hairs. My friend here just wants to see his brother."
Armand studied me again, did not seem overcome with compassion. "S'pose to know your brother?"
"Garrett," I said. "Just tell him I'm here."
The lug nuts gleamed when he shook his head. "I see anybody named Garrett, I tell him."
Lopez sighed. He pulled over a folding chair, propped his foot on it. "I could call your name in, Armand. I'm sure I could find some warrants. But that's not the way we're trying to play it. Why don't you just take us downstairs, we'll talk to Clyde, see if he doesn't see things our way. Otherwise, I guarantee you, you're going to have half the Sheriff's Department around this place faster than you can kickstart a hog."
Armand scratched his beard.
"D'accord," he decided, pointing his thumb toward the interior door. "But you still an asshole, Lopez, hear?"
Lopez grinned at me. "See? I knew he remembered me."
Armand led us downstairs into the warehouse. Boats were stacked in threestoryhigh tiers, with an open space in the middle the size of a basketball court.
The forklift was in the warehouse now, its engine rumbling like the world's largest lawn mower. It had a twentyfoot Stingray balanced on its prongs, probably Mr. McMurray's plaything, and the jockey was desperately trying to get it out the door, but there were two uniformed deputies blocking his path.
Armand froze when he saw the cops. He glared at Lopez, who spread his hands, tried to look mystified.
"They ain't with us, man," Lopez vowed. "Je ne sais rien."
Armand let out a string of Cajun curses, but apparently didn't see much choice except to keep going down the stairs.
I recognized one of them now—Engels, the one who worked parttime security for W.B. Doebler. That did not reassure me. The other guy I didn't recognize, but both had obviously ordered their facial expressions from the same online catalogue.
We got to the bottom of the steps.
"You can't be in here!" the kid on the forklift was saying, exasperated.
"Deputy Geiger," Lopez said, trying for a grin. "Deputy Engels. What brings you two here?"
Deputy Engels took his eyes off me long enough to say, "Detective. I heard you were on leave."
"I am," Lopez assured him pleasantly. "That's why I'm at a marina. Y'all want to split the cost of a day cruise?"
Geiger and Engels did not look tempted.
"I'm telling you—" the kid on the forklift started to shout.
Geiger said, "Cut your engine."
The kid opened his mouth to protest, but Geiger's expression shut him up.
He cut the engine.
"Now get off," Geiger said. "And get out."
The kid did both.
Outside, the other boat jockeys converged on him and started asking what the hell was going on. The kid said, "You talk to them!" In the background, Mr. McMurray was screaming how important he was.
Engels nodded to his compatriot, Geiger.
Geiger walked to the warehouse doors and rolled them shut, to the renewed protests of the boat jockeys outside.
"Chain it," Engels said.
Geiger took a length of chain off a hook, ran it through the door handles.
Engels pulled out his asp, extended it with a rapid flick of the wrist. He looked at Lopez and me. "There's the staircase, Detective. I suggest you and your friend use it. Leave the piece of shit here."
I hoped that the friend reference was for me, but I wasn't sure.
"This is dumb, gentlemen," Lopez said. "You got a warrant?"
"No need," Geiger said. "Possible officer in trouble. I just called it in, based on a witness I talked to outside. I came in. My partner Engels was here. The backup unit will be here in about ten minutes, I'd guess. Plenty of time."
"Mr. Doebler know you're here, Engels?" I asked. "You getting a bonus for this?"
From the back of the warehouse, Clyde Simms' voice said, "Engels, you prick."
Clyde appeared from between two motorboats, wearing white shorts and white Tshirt and flipflops—like an overweight, Aryan Jesus coming out of the tomb. He was holding his weapon of choice—the Bizon2—down by his side. Garrett was with him, a few steps behind, wheeling along in his chair. Garrett looked okay, better actually than I'd seen him in quite some time.
Clyde said, "You know I ain't letting you near any friend of mine."
Engels smiled thinly. Geiger, slowly, drew his gun.
I locked eyes with Garrett, trying to implore him not to do anything stupid. He lifted a hand to reassure me, defeat in his eyes. He was a man about to give up, even if Clyde didn't know it yet.
Lopez said, "Hey, Clyde. Garrett. Under the circumstances, guys, I'd go with the flow.
Come on out here and surrender. We'll work it out."
"Do what the detective says," Geiger urged.
"Then we can file a report on these assholes together," Lopez added. "Get them suspended the right way."
The deputies looked at Lopez, and Armand chose that moment to charge.
He went for Geiger, the man with the gun.
Engels swung the asp and Armand's shoulder caught a glancing blow, but Armand had his momentum. He slammed into Geiger and the two went down hard on the cement. Geiger's gun went flying.
Clyde fired off a burst from the Bizon2 that punched a downward arc of holes in the warehouse door, the last and lowest shot snicking Engels' head—his ear flowered in blood. Lopez dove for the cover of the forklift. I rolled the other way and hugged the nearest boat hull.
Clyde had disappeared behind a rack of boats. Garrett, wisely, had wheeled himself back at top speed, out of sight.
Geiger and Armand were still rolling on the ground.
Engels was on the asphalt, screaming, his hand clamped around his ear and blood seeping between his fingers.
Lopez scrambled over to him, examined the wound, decided it was not fatal, drew the deputy's pistol, and went into a police crouch.
He glanced at Geiger, seemed to be deliberating how best to help him with Armand, when Clyde shot off another burst from somewhere in the back of the warehouse—bullets pinging like pin balls against the metal scaffolding. Lopez quickly retreated around the far side of the forklift, going into stalk mode for Clyde.
Geiger got the upper hand on Armand, started strangling the biker, but that just gave Armand new spirit. He rolled on top and smacked the deputy's head into the asphalt once, twice, three times. Geiger loosened his grip.
More gunshots sparked off the forklift.
Armand staggered to his feet, leaving Deputy Geiger curling on the cement like a steppedon spider. Engels was still yelling, bleeding from the side of his head. He would not be getting up soon.
I could see Lopez's feet on the opposite side of the forklift, sneaking around, but he couldn't see Armand, who mumbled, "Fucking cops!" and headed for the forklift.