Across the driveway, illuminated by the weak moonlight and a dull lemon glow from the crooked house, sat Donny’s pickup, Jared’s Honda, and Kaylee’s PT Cruiser. The sounds of their arrivals had been masked by Otis in my ears. I wondered how they were all getting along since the missing fourteen hundred couldn’t have rematerialized—unless the band geeks had raided their parents’ cookie jars.
Then a set of headlights stabbed into the driveway. At least, I thought, I had awakened in time for the arrival of Bobby Anthony and Carlos.
But the almost-new Maxima that cruised past my position wasn’t bringing Bobby Tone and Carlos, although it did have two occupants. I couldn’t get a good look at the driver, but I knew the car belonged to David Garrett, Kingman High band director and amateur purple-bikini photographer. So it was a reasonable bet that he was driving. And the passenger, whose face was just illuminated enough for me to see, was Principal Elizabeth Owens, dedicated educator and amateur purple-bikini model.
Whatever this meant, and whatever the result might be, there was almost no chance it would make me happy. But at least I was wide-awake now.
The Maxima pulled off the driveway between the PT Cruiser and the house. Garrett and Elizabeth got out. They were both wearing jeans and T-shirts, as if on a weekend painting project. They stepped onto the front porch and went inside without pausing. I couldn’t tell whether the door was unlocked or whether one of the kids let them in. But there was no Hank Williams III playing in there tonight.
It looked as if the crooked house’s windows had been opened to let in a little of the muggy April air. And since there was no one on the porch, I didn’t have to be as stealthy as I had been on Saturday night. So less than two minutes after Garrett and Elizabeth walked into the house, I was crouched under a front-room window on the north wall.
I had caught a glimpse inside as I had scuttled up from the woods, so I knew that Donny, Tyler, Kaylee, Jared, and Marisa were all in there with Garrett and Elizabeth. The band kids had looked relaxed and were staying quiet, so I had the impression that they were fine with the new arrivals. But Donny and Tyler were upset. They were doing a lot of cussing and whining. And it was easy to understand why. The principal and her boyfriend were ruining the whole operation.
“This is the way it’s going to be, boys,” Elizabeth said. “If the two missing instruments are returned, we won’t press charges.”
It sounded odd to me. Letting punks off the hook was not the Texas way. Elizabeth was from Austin, which is the Fluffy Bunny Land of the Lone Star State—but even she wouldn’t just say “Oh, well, kids will be kids” in the face of grand larceny.
“Somebody ratted!” Tyler said. He was trying to sound like a gangster, just as he had tried to sound like a salesman two days earlier. He wasn’t any better at it. “Donny, it was your goddamn girlfriend!”
I heard the scrape of a chair on floorboards, and then David Garrett spoke. His voice was deep, strong, and commanding. I liked him less than ever.
“Sit down, Tyler,” Garrett said. “Back in the day, I had to make a choice, and I chose band over football. But I still know how to hit.”
The chair scraped again, but with less volume.
“That’s better. First of all,” Garrett continued, “there were no rats. Rats would have told the sheriff instead of coming to me. But I would have known what was going on anyway because I saw Donny’s pickup driving through town at 3:00 A.M. Sunday with you and a sousaphone case in the back. And when I spoke with my musicians and they described your buyer, I knew who he was. So I asked some friends to let that person know that a Corpus Christi banda with a recording contract was in the market for an actual tuba. And sure enough, you got the word. So here we are.”
My guess was that Garrett really had seen Donny’s pickup hauling the sousaphone … while he’d been driving back to his place after spending most of Saturday night at Elizabeth’s. It wouldn’t do to drive to church from the principal’s house on Sunday morning, now, would it? Even if everyone already knew you were sleeping with her.
But the part about rats not being rats if they tell the teacher instead of the cops was a little dicey. On the other hand, maybe ratting on the gang wasn’t really ratting if you were never really a member of the gang in the first place.
Besides, I knew something that Tyler and Donny, team players, couldn’t grasp: The only way to guarantee a “No Leaks” policy is to work alone.
“Here’s what needs to happen.” Elizabeth again. “Before the buyers arrive, Donny and Tyler will take the tuba out to the porch. We want the buyers to see it when they pull up, with people they recognize. We want them out of their vehicle and on the porch. Then the two of you can come back inside. At which point Mr. Garrett will deal with them.”
“Like how?” Tyler asked. “Make a citizen’s arrest or something?”
“Nobody’s getting arrested,” Garrett said. “There’s no need, because we’re going to put everything right. I just need to talk with the buyers to make that happen. One of them in particular.”
Now Marisa spoke up. “The Gronitz doesn’t have to come out of its case, does it? These guys won’t be careful with it.”
“The boys can just open the lid,” Garrett said. “The buyers might get nervous and take off if they don’t see it. And if that happens, we really will have to get the sheriff involved to recover the Conn sousaphone. Which won’t work out well for anyone. It’s bad enough that the King is damaged. But it’s just the bell, and we’ll see about having that replaced.”
There was silence for a few seconds. Then Donny said, “Uh, the guy named Carlos shot the King just because he was surprised by the fiberglass. So if he gets surprised again, he might start shooting again.”
Garrett made a noise between a grunt and a groan. “Don’t worry. He won’t hurt anyone. He probably borrowed the gun to look tough.”
I heard a rumble and rattle from the county road, and I looked back to see another pair of headlights turning into the long driveway.
It was tuba-time again.
11. You Will Not Take My Tuba
I scrambled to the north and got between the PT Cruiser and the Honda. Then I watched as a battered, dirt-smeared Plymouth minivan rattled past. It pulled onto the apron at the end of the driveway, then backed up to the porch just as the white van had done two days earlier. No doubt this decrepit old rust bucket had been stolen just for tonight’s purpose, too.
I still had a scrap of hope that I might find a chance to steal more dirty money, although it was looking problematic. Garrett had set up a false sale, and no money was going to change hands. On the other hand, Bobby Tone and Carlos were supposed to be arriving with twenty-five hundred in cash on them. So as long as I was here, it was worth sticking around to see how this played out. Based on the photo I’d found in Garrett’s desk, he and Carlos had a possibly contentious history. So maybe the shock of their reunion would make Carlos drop his wallet. Or at least his guard.
Besides, like Lester, I wasn’t able to watch soap operas. My hardwarestore apartment didn’t have cable.
I tucked in beside the PT Cruiser’s rear bumper and watched as Tyler and Donny came out of the crooked house’s front door and closed it behind them. Donny had the tuba case, and he set it on the porch as the minivan’s engine fell silent and Bobby Tone and Carlos emerged from the vehicle. I noticed that everyone was dressed almost exactly as they had been dressed on Saturday night. It was as if they had specific uniforms for the exchange of hot brass. Carlos was even wearing his cowboy hat.
Donny bent down, opened the tuba case, and began to lift the instrument from it. Bobby Tone and Carlos stepped up to the porch, and Bobby Tone opened the minivan’s hatchback.