"You didn't seem happy with him last night."
"You have siblings?"
"Brother and a sister. Both older."
"You get along with them all the time, Mr. Navarre?"
"Point taken."
She smiled dryly. "You seem like a nice fella. You were asking last night about 'Billy's Senorita.' That's about the only song I wrote myself, Mr. Navarre. The others are Brent's, did you know that? "
I said I didn't. I tried not to look too surprised.
"It's funny about how they sound in the studio," she said at last. "Ace was telling me—"
"Ace?"
She did a mental rewind, then smiled. "John Crea. My old—my exproducer. He liked to be called 'Ace,' what with that flight jacket and all."
"I bet he did."
"Anyway, Ace was telling me how some singers have to reproduce what makes them so good onstage in order to sound right in the session. Drugs, audiences screaming at them, what you please. Some got to turn their backs to the control booth or sing in the dark. Ace told me about this one rock and roll fella had to hang upside down to get the blood going right before he sang. I ain't kidding you. Ace said whatever I needed to make the songs sound right, he'd make it happen."
"Do you know what you need?"
I could see her framing the right answer, her face hardening up with a level of seriousness that didn't seem natural for her. Then she looked at me and decided to discard it. She softened again and smiled. "No. I just keep imagining myself hanging upside down in the dark with a bottle of whiskey, singing—Billy rode out last night..
She got that far singing the line, then cracked up. "Don't help me to sound any better, but it sure keeps things lighter in my mind."
A buzzer sounded down the hall from the recording area. Miranda puffed up her cheeks and exhaled.
"That'd be the master, calling me back. You like to stay—watch me sweat out a few more bad takes?"
I shook my head. "I should pay some other visits in town before I head back to San Antonio. You didn't answer my question."
She looked me in the eyes. She tried to keep the smile playful, but it was a strain for her. "What question was that, Mr. Navarre?"
"Who do you think is causing you so much grief, if not Sheckly or Cam? Anybody you know who would like to see you miss your big chance? "
She looked down, her hands on the edge of the cot and her shoulders bending into a U. She was short enough that she could hang her legs over the side and sweep the flats of her feet back and forth.
"I didn't mean to undercut Allison's invitation to our party," she said. "You're welcome to come tomorrow."
"Thanks."
"Allison has been my best friend the last few months. She's been so good to me."
"You're still not answering my question."
When Miranda stood, we were close enough to slow dance. I saw green flecks in her brown irises I would never have noticed otherwise. She spoke so softly I barely heard her.
"The funny thing is, Allison SaintPierre's about the only person who truly scares me to death. You asked and I told you. Isn't that a terrible thing to say about a friend?"
Milo Chavez wrapped his knuckles on the door. "There's the champ."
He moved past me and wrapped a huge arm around Miranda's shoulders. Miranda unlocked her eyes from mine and smiled up at Chavez. Her head rested on his chest.
She let some of her tiredness show.
"It's going pretty rotten, Milo."
"No," Milo insisted. He'd found his positivity. He beamed the best smile I'd ever seen him beam. I was almost convinced myself, almost ready to believe our recent conversation about his missing boss and the missing funds had been a daydream.
"You wait, Miranda. Give it another week, you'll see. You'll be amazed. You're going to listen to yourself on the finished tape and think: 'Who's that star I'm hearing?' "
Miranda tried for a smile.
As they were walking down the hall together, Milo was rubbing Miranda's shoulders like a boxing coach and telling her how great she was doing. Miranda took one backward look at me, then returned her attention forward. The buzzer blared again, calling them inside.
19
I called my information broker from the pay phone at the Whole Foods Market complex on North Lamar. One of Kelly Arguello's housemates, I think it was Georgia, answered the phone, a little breathless like she'd been doing her morning aerobics. When I asked for Kelly she said, "I'm not sure if she's in. Who is this? "
I told her.
"Oh." Her voice went up half an octave. "Kelly's in. Hang on."
The phone smashed against something.
I heard Kelly laughing a long time before she got the receiver. She was telling Georgia to shut up.
Clunk. "Tres?"
"Kelly. How's school?"
She made a German ch sound in the back of her throat. "Midterms. Contractual law.
Any more questions?"
"I've got a missing person to track, need some paperwork collected on him. If you're too busy—"
"Did I say that? Are you in town?"
I hesitated. "Yes."
"Come over. I think I've still got a Shiner Bock in the fridge."
I stared at the roof of the parking garage at the other end of the lot. It was lined with giant papiermache groceries—strawberry, eggplant, milk. I said, "I could just Email the information if you need to study or something."
"You know better than that."
After Kelly hung up I stood there, glaring up at the huge papiermache chicken. Any resemblance to persons real or fictional was purely coincidental.
When I was first starting my apprenticeship Erainya had two words to tell me about finding an information broker: law students. They're happy to see even small amounts of cash and they don't ask questions except occasionally "Where's the beer?" They're used to working like dogs, they're bright, and they know how to get the best results out of bureaucracies. All that is a lot more than you can say for most of the people who run information services.
Unfortunately my law student helper had turned out to be a little more than I bargained for. Considering the person who referred her to me was her Uncle Ralph, I don't know why I was surprised.
When I got to Kelly Arguello's house in the neighbourhood of Clarksville she was in front clipping back a huge mass of honeysuckle that was taking over her exterior bedroom wall and threatening to grow into her window.
Kelly's not hard to spot. She's a girl who'd catch your eye anyway, but since she's moved to Austin and put purple highlights in her hair it's doubly easy.
"I love this stuff," she said when I came up behind her. "Unfortunately, so do the bees."
"You're allergic?"
Without looking away from her work she widened her eyes and nodded several times.
"The little guys buzzed in my window all summer long. This is the first morning it's been cool enough to do some pruning. If we keep this place for the spring semester I'm going to have to trade rooms with Dee."
She got her weight balanced on the ladder, then reached a little farther across the window. She was wearing a surgeon's green scrub shirt and men's white swim trunks that should've done a good job hiding her figure but somehow didn't. She still showed off the lean, smoothly sculpted body of a teenaged swimmer. She was twenty one, barely, but no bartender in his right mind would've failed to card her. Her purple and black hair was pulled into a ponytail that swung back and forth every time she clipped.
"You're going to fall," I said.
"Well, hold the ladder, stupid."
I held the ladder, looking sideways so my face wasn't in Kelly's swim trunks. I concentrated on the house next door.