The Merle Haggard song ended. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Carlon staring over at us, trying to look like he wasn't.

Dan drained his beer glass.

"Get away from me," he mumbled. "Just leave."

I stood up from the bench. I threw down a five and started to go.

"Ask her, Dan. Go to your party tonight and ask her if the blond man in the picture is named Randall Halcomb."

When I stopped at the exit and looked back, Dan was slumped over in the booth, his forehead cupped in his hands, furrows of blond hair sticking up between his fingers. The waitress with the beer gut and the golf hat was trying to console him, giving me a dirty look. Carlon had left his table and was walking toward me as quickly as he could without actually breaking into a run.

We went out together and stood next to Carlon's car in the nighttime heat. The blue Hyundai was parked on McCullough with two wheels on the curb.

"So what do we know?" Carlon said.

"We don't know much, Carlon. Just that Dan's a victim."

Carlon laughed. "Yeah, poor guy. Forced to put a bullet in Karnau's head. Give me a break, Tres."

"Dan didn't kill Karnau. He just isn't capable."

Carlon took off his inconspicuous tie, rolled it up, and shoved it in the front pocket of his khakis, never taking his eyes off me.

"I'm listening."

"Carlon, what would it take for you to give up on getting a story out of this?"

He laughed again. "You don't have that much, Navarre. This is the spiciest shit I've had since the last Terlingua Cook-off. Murder, blackmail, the mob. We're talking 40-point orange headlines here."

"I don't want it like that."

"It's already there, man. It might as well be me that pops the cherry on it."

I looked over at him. Just for the moment I wished I had a bayonet.

"Friday, then," I offered. "At the earliest. This is more complicated than I thought."

"Getting publicity has a funny way of making things unravel, man. I've still got about an hour to make copy for the morning edition."

"Look," I said, trying to keep my voice even, "if you stir things up now, if you get the wrong kind of heat onto the wrong people, somebody else is going to die. I need time to make sure that doesn't happen."

"Lillian, right?"

"Yeah."

Carlon hesitated. Maybe he was thinking about Lillian, or maybe he was thinking about the black eye I'd given Beau Karnau. I didn't really care which.

"You promise me this will be mine?" he said.

"It's yours."

"Promise me it's big."

"Yeah."

Carlon shook his head. "What is it makes me believe you when I know you're going to screw me around again?"

"Your innate benevolence?"

"Shit."

When I got home I sat down and started feeling very alone. Robert Johnson fighting with my ankles didn't help. Neither did another half pint of tequila.

I tried to push the thoughts of Cookie Sheff and my father out of my mind, but the only thoughts that replaced them were of Maia Lee. I looked around the room and saw places she had stood, or eaten pan dulce, or kissed me. In her hurry to pack, she'd left a few articles of clothing in the bathroom. I'd folded them neatly on the kitchen counter. I wondered where she was right now, back at work, talking to a client, cursing at a cable car operator, having dinner at Garibaldi's. Half of me was pissed off because I cared at all. The other half of me was pissed off because I didn't care enough to do anything about it. All of me agreed it was time to get out of the house.

53.

My friend at the Dominion gates was learning his lessons. This time, he remembered to check the list before letting me in.

"B. Karnau," I said. "For the Sheffs."

"Yes, sir." I guess he didn't get too many VW bugs through there. He frowned at my car. "Wasn't it the Bagatallinis before?"

I smiled. "Sure. I know a lot of people here."

He nodded, his smile quivering as if he was afraid I might hit him. He checked his notebook, then looked up with great regret.

"Ah, I don't see-"

I snapped my fingers, then said something in Spanish that sounded like I was scolding myself. What I actually said was that the guard's mother had obviously mated with a learning-disabled javelina. Then in English: "No, man, they would've put it under Garza. I forgot."

He stared at me, trying to figure out how I could go from German to Hispanic in under twenty seconds. I smiled. I had black hair, I spoke the language, and it was dark. I guess I passed the inspection. He checked his list again.

Evidently nobody had thought to cross the dead man off the party list. The guard looked relieved.

"Okay, Mr. Garza. Straight ahead half a mile, turn left."

"Cool."

I shot him with my index finger. Then I kicked up as much smoke as the VW could make just to piss off the Jaguar behind me.

I won't tell you that San Antonians are the only people who love to throw a party. Garrett says Mardi Gras is great. Lillian always talked about Times Square at New Year's Eve. But in most cities they're content to have one major party season and the rest of the year is normal. In San Antonio, the normal year is about two weeks long in the middle of March. The rest of the time it's party season.

The Sheffs' party that night may have been a little classier than most, but it was just as packed and just as crazy. I could tell they were deeply in mourning for their dead employees Mr. Garza and Mr. Moraga. The walkway up to the mansion was lit with multicolored luminarias. The huge glass front of the building blazed gold, and a country band was cranking out the Bob Wills tunes from somewhere inside. A mob of rich folk spilled out the front doors and into the gravel front yard, laughing, drinking by the gallon, planning sexual escapades that wouldn't ruin their designer clothes.

I guess I stood out a little. I'd put on a fresh T-shirt and jeans, but the tequila bottle in my hand was easily the most expensive thing I had on. Or maybe it was the look on my face that made people stop talking as I walked through the front yard. I pushed past a few city councilmen, some local business leaders, a group of elderly women criticizing the younger women's dresses. A lot of the people I recognized from the old days. Nobody said hello.

I went around the side of the house, put down my tequila bottle, picked up the outside garbage bin, and went into the kitchen through the servants' entrance. The place was bustling with caterers, tortilla-makers, waiters. As I started emptying their trash cans into mine I spoke to the nearest group in Spanish.

"Holy shit, can you believe how much these cavrons are eating? The ceviche is almost gone, man. You'd better bring in another few gallons."

In a few minutes I'd put fresh liners in all the cans, whipped the tortilla-makers into a frenzy of activity, and moved across the room without anybody asking who the hell I was. I patted a waiter on the back and handed him my garbage can.

"Hold this for a minute," I told him.

Then I slipped into the hallway.

Once upstairs I only had to look in three doorways to find what I wanted. Cookie had laid out a pile of dresses on her bed. The vanity against the back wall was an explosion of makeup containers. The whole place smelled like very old strawberry potpourri. On the rolltop mahogany study in the corner, a laptop computer was waiting for me.

I didn't need Spider John's help for this one. Nothing was protected. Even half-drunk, it only took me about ten minutes. Then I went back out through the kitchen and came into the party through the front door.

Dan was nowhere to be seen, but on one of the upper balconies that looked over the living room, Cookie Sheff was laughing at the mayor's joke. Tonight her luminous blond hair was bigger than ever. Her makeup would've worked just fine with 3-D glasses. She had decided on wearing a black sequined evening gown that was probably supposed to look alluring but just made her angular body look like it had been constructed from Tinkertoys.

I headed for the side office where Dan and I had last talked. When I looked up again Cookie had noticed me. I smiled and waved. Except for the makeup, the color drained out of her face. Then she excused herself politely from the mayor and left the balcony.

The office door was locked. I took out a piece of laminate from my pocket. Ten seconds later I was inside.

Dan wasn't there either. Lillian's parents were.

The Cambridges cut short their conversation and looked up as if they were expecting someone else. Sitting behind Dan Sr.'s desk, Mr. Cambridge looked weary. He was hunched over into a pale triangle of light from the desk lamp, staring up at me over bifocals. Mrs. Cambridge stood next to him, holding tightly to her own wrists. She'd been crying.

"God damn you," said Mr. Cambridge to me. He started to get up, hands straightening his tuxedo.

"Zeke-" murmured his wife. She came toward me, her hands trembling a little. "Tres-"

I guess that's when she saw the look on my face. She hesitated. But Lillian's mother wasn't one to be stopped long by a derelict's expression and the smell of liquor. Tentatively she touched my arm.

"Tres, you shouldn't really, dear-I mean, things are so complicated right now. You shouldn't-"

"God damn you," Zeke Cambridge said again. "Don't you ever stop?"

He swept some knickknacks from the top of Dan Sr.'s desk onto the floor.

We glared at each other. It didn't feel like much of a triumph when he looked away first. He was tired, old, distraught. I was half-drunk and I didn't give a damn. Mrs. Cambridge held my arm a little tighter.

"How are things complicated?" I asked, trying to see straight. My eyes had started burning and I wasn't sure why. "Lillian's missing, nobody's doing shit about it, and you're sitting in the private study of the woman I'd vote Most Likely to Abduct Someone. How is that complicated?"

Zeke Cambridge scowled. His huge gray eyebrows came together.

"What the hell are you talking about, boy?"

"Please, Tres," Lillian's mother said.

The door behind me opened. Cookie stormed in, followed by my friend the chauffeur. Kellin was almost smiling. I don't think he would've waited for permission this time before killing me if Zeke Cambridge hadn't raised his hand.

"Zeke, Angela," Cookie crooned, "I'm so sorry. Kellin, see this person out immediately."

"Wait a minute," Mr. Cambridge said. "First he explains himself."

"Tres." Lillian's mother was almost pleading now. "There's been a murder. Mr. Karnau, Lillian's partner. The police are very concerned that-"

"The police." Zeke Cambridge spat the words out. "If the police had handled things correctly, this son of a bitch would be in jail by now."

The silver-framed photo of Dan Sr. was the only target left on the desk for Zeke Cambridge's anger. He slapped it away with the back of his hand.

Everyone was quiet. When Lillian's mother tried to speak, Cookie cautioned her with a shake of her head.

"Mr. Navarre," said Cookie, very carefully, "I believe I asked you to stay away from my home. I do not appreciate you disturbing my party, breaking into my house, and bothering my friends. Especially now. If you do not leave immediately, I will call the police."

I looked at her. Her eyes were as blue as her son's, only much smaller and a thousand times harder. They looked past me, as if they'd frozen onto one particular point in the distance decades ago and couldn't be bothered with anything closer.

"You afraid I might give them a slightly different take on the situation?" I asked.

Zeke Cambridge was watching Mrs. Sheff now, his anger getting diluted with confusion. He said: "What the hell is the son of a bitch talking about, Cookie?"

Out in the main room, the band blazed into a hyperactive version of "San Antonio Rose." Somebody did his best drunken "yee-haw" into the microphone. I felt disoriented, like someone was spinning me around for pin-the-tail-on-the-donkey.

Mrs. Cambridge took my arm again. She spoke with the same kindly tone she'd used on numerous Thanksgivings to plead for peace at the dinner table.

"Tres," she said, "there's really nothing you can do. Please don't start this."

Her face looked blurry to me. She was crying.

"What did Rivas tell you about Lillian's disappearance?" I asked her. "Or did the Sheffs even let you talk to him?"

Cookie sighed. "That's enough."

Kellin knew better than to grab me this time. He just came and stood next to me, relaxed, alert, arms ready. I ignored him and kept my eyes on Cookie.

"Where is the future son-in-law?" I said. "He and I were just having a nice chat about Randall Halcomb over a couple of beers."

"You leaving?" said Kellin. He sounded pleasant enough. Somehow, though, I got the feeling he really wanted me to say no.

"Zeke, Angela," said Cookie. "You shouldn't be bothered with this, and I can see that Mr. Navarre is not considerate enough to cease prying. Let me speak to him for a moment."

It might've been a hypnotist's command. Zeke Cambridge stood up, without argument, and took his wife's arm. They drifted out of the room, looking half-asleep, Mrs. Cambridge still crying without a sound. Cookie sat down behind Dan Sr.'s desk. Then, with a look of mild distaste on her face, she waved me to the chair opposite. Kellin and I exchanged looks of mutual disappointment.

"Now, Mr. Navarre," Cookie said. Her tone foretold of restriction, loss of allowance, no TV for a week. "Perhaps we should have a talk."