give Garrett some advice on how to play it.
If there were hard choices to make, I trust you would make them."
"You want my brother in jail, Lopez?"
He laughed. "They told me you had a sense of humour. That's great. See you around, Mr. Navarre."
Then he climbed into the patrol car.
I watched it back up, disappear around the corner of 24th.
The guy on the second floor kept yelling at me to come stop his neighbour from pitching his furniture off the balcony.
Every day is a love fest when you live at The Friends.
CHAPTER 5
Garrett hadn't hired a maid since my last visit, five months ago.
Fastfood containers littered the kitchen counter. The living room was a tornado zone of paperback novels, electronics parts, CDs, laundry. A dead tequila bottle stuck out from the seat of our father's old leather recliner and the carpet was fuzzy with birdseed from Dickhead the parrot, who scuttled back and forth on the window ledge at the top of the vaulted ceiling.
Garrett sat in the far corner of the room, staring at his twenty oneinch computer monitor.
"Computers get static?" I asked.
The gray fuzzy light made Garrett's face crawl, his eyes hollow.
"Not usually." He slammed the monitor's off button. "I need a drink."
I waited for him to explain the computer problem. Not that I would've understood the explanation, but that was something Garrett always did. This time, he didn't.
I went to the bar, got down his bottle of Herradura Anejo and a couple of moderately clean glasses. "Detective Lopez just got through telling how much you're not a suspect in Jimmy's murder. He was very agreeable about it. I got the feeling he'd let you plea just about any degree of homicide you wanted."
Garrett took the tequila. "Lopez has had a hardon for me for years."
"Really."
"Don't give me that tone—like you assume I'm stoned. Back when Lopez was on patrol, he made a lot of calls to Jimmy's place, had to chew us out for drunkanddisorderly crap. We got into some namecalling. But you know I didn't kill Jimmy. I couldn't."
I drank my Herradura, found it made a pretty bad chaser for garlic bagels. "Lopez gives you credit for mobility—a lot more credit than he's giving our statements."
Garrett shoved his keyboard drawer closed. "Somebody finally believes in me, and it's a homicide cop."
I ran my finger across the kitchen counter, making a cross with a dustless shadow where a picture frame had stood for a long time. I remembered the photograph. It had been the twin of the one in Jimmy's house—Garrett and Jimmy at the seawall in Corpus, a year or so before Garrett's accident.
"W.B. Doebler was at the sheriff's office," I told him. "If the Doeblers start throwing their weight around, demanding action—"
"Fuck W.B. It's a little late for the Doeblers to decide they care about Jimmy."
"You need help, Garrett."
"And I don't recall asking you for any, little bro. I'll make the calls. I'll take care of things."
"What—you're going to buy a bigger gun?"
"Forget it, man. You didn't like the ranch being mortgaged. You ain't going to like the rest of this."
"I didn't drive up here to build a kiln, Garrett. I sure as hell didn't drive up here to sit on the sidelines while they charge you with murder."
Garrett dug out his wallet, pulled a twenty and wadded it up, threw it at me. "Gas money. Sorry I wasted your time."
I counted silently to ten. Every second was one more I succeeded in not putting my fist through my brother's wall.
The downstairs neighbours cranked up their stereo. Nine Inch Nails throbbed through the carpet. Up on the windowsill, the parrot ruffled his feathers.
"Let's try to cooperate," I said. "For Jimmy's sake. You told them you were with me when that shot was fired. Your book was face down on the sleeping bag when I woke up. You were already gone. Where the hell were you?"
Garrett wore last night's cutoffs, and when he shifted, the stub of his right leg peeked through at the end—a pointed nub of flesh like a mole's
If there were hard choices to make, I trust you would make them."
"You want my brother in jail, Lopez?"
He laughed. "They told me you had a sense of humour. That's great. See you around, Mr. Navarre."
Then he climbed into the patrol car.
I watched it back up, disappear around the corner of 24th.
The guy on the second floor kept yelling at me to come stop his neighbour from pitching his furniture off the balcony.
Every day is a love fest when you live at The Friends.
CHAPTER 5
Garrett hadn't hired a maid since my last visit, five months ago.
Fastfood containers littered the kitchen counter. The living room was a tornado zone of paperback novels, electronics parts, CDs, laundry. A dead tequila bottle stuck out from the seat of our father's old leather recliner and the carpet was fuzzy with birdseed from Dickhead the parrot, who scuttled back and forth on the window ledge at the top of the vaulted ceiling.
Garrett sat in the far corner of the room, staring at his twenty oneinch computer monitor.
"Computers get static?" I asked.
The gray fuzzy light made Garrett's face crawl, his eyes hollow.
"Not usually." He slammed the monitor's off button. "I need a drink."
I waited for him to explain the computer problem. Not that I would've understood the explanation, but that was something Garrett always did. This time, he didn't.
I went to the bar, got down his bottle of Herradura Anejo and a couple of moderately clean glasses. "Detective Lopez just got through telling how much you're not a suspect in Jimmy's murder. He was very agreeable about it. I got the feeling he'd let you plea just about any degree of homicide you wanted."
Garrett took the tequila. "Lopez has had a hardon for me for years."
"Really."
"Don't give me that tone—like you assume I'm stoned. Back when Lopez was on patrol, he made a lot of calls to Jimmy's place, had to chew us out for drunkanddisorderly crap. We got into some namecalling. But you know I didn't kill Jimmy. I couldn't."
I drank my Herradura, found it made a pretty bad chaser for garlic bagels. "Lopez gives you credit for mobility—a lot more credit than he's giving our statements."
Garrett shoved his keyboard drawer closed. "Somebody finally believes in me, and it's a homicide cop."
I ran my finger across the kitchen counter, making a cross with a dustless shadow where a picture frame had stood for a long time. I remembered the photograph. It had been the twin of the one in Jimmy's house—Garrett and Jimmy at the seawall in Corpus, a year or so before Garrett's accident.
"W.B. Doebler was at the sheriff's office," I told him. "If the Doeblers start throwing their weight around, demanding action—"
"Fuck W.B. It's a little late for the Doeblers to decide they care about Jimmy."
"You need help, Garrett."
"And I don't recall asking you for any, little bro. I'll make the calls. I'll take care of things."
"What—you're going to buy a bigger gun?"
"Forget it, man. You didn't like the ranch being mortgaged. You ain't going to like the rest of this."
"I didn't drive up here to build a kiln, Garrett. I sure as hell didn't drive up here to sit on the sidelines while they charge you with murder."
Garrett dug out his wallet, pulled a twenty and wadded it up, threw it at me. "Gas money. Sorry I wasted your time."
I counted silently to ten. Every second was one more I succeeded in not putting my fist through my brother's wall.
The downstairs neighbours cranked up their stereo. Nine Inch Nails throbbed through the carpet. Up on the windowsill, the parrot ruffled his feathers.
"Let's try to cooperate," I said. "For Jimmy's sake. You told them you were with me when that shot was fired. Your book was face down on the sleeping bag when I woke up. You were already gone. Where the hell were you?"
Garrett wore last night's cutoffs, and when he shifted, the stub of his right leg peeked through at the end—a pointed nub of flesh like a mole's
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