"Good question," he said. "Go ask him."

"Who?"

Carlon pointed with the bottom of his beer bottle. "Guy White, man."

The booth Carlon was pointing at had two men in it. The one with his back toward me was a skinny, middle-aged Anglo whose mother dressed him funny. His slacks rode up at the ankles, his beige suit coat was too big around the shoulders, and his thinning brown hair was uncombed. He had finished his meal and was now tapping a quarter slice of pickle absently on his plate.

The man sitting across from him was much older, much more carefully dressed. I'd never seen Guy White in person, but if this was him the only thing white about him was the name. His skin was carefully bronzed, his suit light blue, his hair and eyes as rich and dark as mole sauce. He had to be the best-looking man over sixty I'd ever seen. Mr. White was about halfway through with a club sandwich and appeared to be in no hurry to finish the rest. He was chatting with the waitress, smiling a Colgate smile at her, gesturing every so often toward his associate across the table. The waitress laughed politely. Mr. White's poorly dressed friend did not.

"He comes in here twice a week to be seen," Carlon told me. "Clean-nosed celebrity these days-bailed the symphony out of bankruptcy, goes to the Alamodome for all the games, supports the arts, gets his picture taken with Manuel Flores at charity garden shows. Gone downright respectable. If something new came up in your dad's case, something that screwed White's public image to hell, that'd make a nice story."

I shook my head. "You expect me to walk over there right now and confront him?"

"Where's that old college try? The Tres Navarre I knew would go up to an ROTC captain during live ammunition practice and tell him his girlfriend-"

"This is a little different, Carlon."

"You want me to do it?"

He started to get up. I pushed on his shoulder just enough to sit him back down on his stool.

"What then?" Carlon said. "You asked me for the files. You must have some kind of theory."

I took one more bite of cheesecake. Then I stood, put the manila envelope under my arm, and left my last twenty on the counter.

"Thanks for the info, Carlon," I said.

"Suit yourself," he said. "But you want this thing covered in a friendly way, you know where to come."

I looked back at him one more time as I left. He had pocketed my twenty and was ordering another beer on the Express's expense account. For a minute I wondered why he had never gone into straight news reporting. He seemed disturbingly well suited for it. Then it occurred to me that he was probably thriving right where he was, catering to the interests and appetites of the city in the entertainment section. That thought was even more unsettling.

12.

Twenty minutes later I'd reparked my VW at the top of the Commerce Street Garage, one row down from the dark green Infiniti J-30 in Guy White's reserved monthly space.

I knew White parked in the garage because it was the only logical place to park if you're going to Shilo's. I knew he had a regular space because ten minutes earlier a nice parking attendant had shown me the list of monthly parkers. In fact he'd shoved it in my face, exasperated, trying to convince me that my name, Ed Beavis, was not registered. Normally I would've bribed him for the information I needed, but poverty makes for creative alternatives.

A few more minutes of waiting and the elevator door shuddered open. Mr. White's skinny associate in the ill-fitting beige suit walked out first, bouncing car keys in his right palm. He wasn't any handsomer from the front. His face had that sandblasted look farmers tend to get-dark pitted skin, permanently squinting eyes, features worn down to nothing but right angles. Mr. White strolled a few steps behind, reading a folded newspaper in one hand and smiling contentedly like there was nothing in there but good words.

We started our cars. Making no effort to hang back, I followed the Infiniti out of the garage, then onto Commerce and east for a mile to the highway. I couldn't see anything through the silvered rear window of Guy White's car, but once in a while my friend the driver would glance back at me in his sideview mirror.

Tailing someone well is extremely hard. It's rare that you can strike the right balance between being far enough away to look inconspicuous and being close enough not to lose the subject. A full ninety percent of the time you'll lose the person you're tailing because of traffic or stoplights, nothing you can do about it. Then you have to try, try again, sometimes for seven or eight days.

That, of course, is assuming you don't want to be seen. Tailing someone badly is very easy.

When I got about fifteen feet behind the Infiniti in the center lane of McAlister, the driver looked in his side mirror and frowned. I smiled at him. He said something to his boss in the backseat.

If they'd sped up they could've easily left me in the dust, but they didn't. I guess one guy in an orange Volkswagen wasn't their idea of terrifying. The Infiniti kept cruising at an easy fifty mph, finally taking the Hildebrand Exit and turning left onto the overpass. I followed it into Olmos Park.

Mansions started rising out of the woods and hills. Bankers' wives jogged by in warm-up suits that cost more than my car. The natives seemed to smell my VW as it went by. It looked like their noses weren't pleased.

We passed my father's old house. We passed the police station. Then we turned off Olmos Drive onto Crescent and the Infiniti pulled into the red brick driveway of a residence I knew only by reputation: the White House.

It wasn't just called that because of the man who lived there. The facade was an exact replica-wraparound porches, Grecian columns, even the U.S. flag. It was an egomaniac's dream, except the whole building was scaled down to about half the size of the original. Still impressive, but after you looked at it for a while, it somehow seemed pathetic. It was a Volvo trying to look like a Mercedes, a Herradura bottle filled with Happy Amigo tequila.

I pulled over on the opposite side of the road, where the cactus and wild mountain laurels sloped down toward an old creek bed. The driver of the Infiniti got out and started walking toward me. Mr. White got out next. He brushed some invisible speck off his powder-blue suit, then folded his newspaper under his arm and began walking leisurely toward his front door, not looking back.

The skinny guy came down the presidential lawn and across the street. He put his right hand on the side of the car and leaned in toward me. When his coat fell open I got a pretty good view of the .38 Airweight in the shoulder holster.

"Trouble?" he asked. The number of vowels and syllables he packed into that one word told me he was a West Texas boy, probably hailed from Lubbock.

"No trouble." I gave him a winning smile.

Lubbock ran his tongue around his lips. He leaned in closer and gave me a short laugh. "I'm not asking if you got trouble, mister, I'm asking if you want it."

I feigned bewilderment, pointing to my own chest. Lubbock's face turned into one big sour pucker.

"Shit," he said, a three-syllable word. "You a retard, mister? What the hell you want following us like that?"

I tried another dashing smile. "How about a few minutes of Mr. White's time?"

"That's about as likely as pig shit."

"Tell Mr. White that Sheriff Navarre's son is here to see him. I think he'll agree to talk."

If the name Navarre meant anything to Lubbock, he didn't show it. "I don't give a damn whose damn son you are, mister. You'd best get out of here before I decide-"

"You've never been a highway patrolman."

He scowled. It didn't improve his looks any. "What?"

Before he knew what had happened, I'd grabbed the handle of his .38 Airweight and twisted it, still in its holster, so the barrel was angled into the side of Lubbock's chest. His arms jerked up instinctively, like he was suddenly anxious for his armpit deodorant to dry. All the tight lines in Lubbock's face loosened and most of his color seemed to drain into his neck.

"When you're stopping somebody in a car," I explained very patiently, "you never wear a shoulder holster. Much too easy to reach."

Lubbock raised his hands, slowly. His mouth was twitching in the corner.

"I'll be goddamned," he said. Too many syllables to count.

I got the Airweight free of its holster, then opened the car door. Lubbock stepped back to let me out. He was smiling in earnest now, looking at the gun I had leveled at his chest.

"That's the ballsiest son-of-a-bitch move I've seen in a while, mister. I'll be damned if it wasn't. You just put yourself in so much deep shit you don't even know."

"Let's go see about getting you that raise," I suggested.

The front door was painted white, with a bathtubsized piece of beveled glass in the center. Lubbock led me through into a spacious entry hall, then left to a pair of double oak doors and into a private study. Somewhere along the way he must've pressed a security buzzer with his foot, but I never saw it.

Things were going very well until the guy behind the coat rack clicked the safety of his gun off and stuck a few inches of barrel in my neck.

Lubbock turned around and repossessed his .38 Airweight. He never stopped grinning. The man behind me stayed perfectly still. I didn't try to turn.

"Good afternoon," I said. "Is Mr. White at home?"

"Good afternoon," the man behind me said. His voice came out smooth as honey over a sopapilla. "Mr. White is at home. In fact, Mr. White is about to kill you if you don't explain yourself rather quickly."

I put my hand over my shoulder, offering to shake.

"Jackson Navarre," I said. "The Third."

I counted to five. I thought that was it. I started to make peace with Jesus, the Tao, and my credit card agencies, then I heard the safety click back on. Guy White took my hand.

"Why didn't you say so?" he asked.

13.

"Would you pass me the Blue Princess, Mr. Navarre?"

Guy White pointed with his trowel to the flat of baby plants he wanted. I passed them over.

For his gardening ensemble, White had changed into a newly-pressed denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Calvin Klein jeans, huaraches on his perfectly tanned feet. He'd traded the 9mm Glock for pruners and trowel. Shadows from the brim of his wicker hat crisscrossed his face like Maori tattoos as he knelt over a five-foot plot of dirt, digging little conical holes for his new babies.

Next to me on the hot stone bench, a jar of sun tea Guy White had brought out with us ten minutes before was already dark amber. Sweat was starting to trickle down my back. My butt felt like a fried tortilla. I looked longingly at the nearby patio, shaded with pecan trees, then at the swimming pool, then at Guy White, who was smiling contentedly and humming along with the drone of the cicadas and not sweating at all.

I'd liked him better when he was holding a gun on me.

"I'm quite excited about these," he told me. He broke one plastic container off the flat of plants and turned it upside down to shake the roots loose. "Do you know about gardening, Mr. Navarre?"

"It's not my specialty. That's some kind of verbena?"

"Very good."

"It was associated with sorcerers in medieval times."

White looked pleased. "Is that so?"

He carefully placed the verbena into its new home and patted down the dirt. The little clusters of flowers were cotton candy blue. They matched Mr. White's ensemble perfectly.

"This is the first year the Blue Princess variety is available," he explained. "From England. It's only being offered commercially in South Texas. Quite an opportunity."

I wiped the back of my neck. "You always do your planting in the middle of the afternoon?"

White laughed. When he sat back on his heels I realized for the first time what a large man he was. Even with me sitting and him kneeling we were almost eye level.

"Verbena is a hearty plant, Mr. Navarre. It looks delicate but it demands full sunlight, aggressive pruning, well-drained soil. This is the best time to plant it. Many people make the mistake of pampering their verbena, you see-they're afraid to cut the blooms, they over-water or overshade. Treat verbena with gentleness and it mildews, Mr. Navarre. One can't be afraid to be aggressive."

"Is that your business philosophy too? Is that the way it was ten years ago?"

Not a wrinkle marred Guy White's face. His smile was the smile of the Redeemed, of a man with no troubles in this world or the next. "I think, Mr. Navarre, that you may be operating under some faulty assumptions."

I spread my hands. "It wouldn't be the first time. Maybe you could set me straight?"

"If I can." His digging had uprooted a six-inch earthworm, and when White stabbed his trowel into the dirt it cut the worm neatly in half. White didn't seem to notice. He removed his leather gloves and took a long drink from his glass of ice tea before speaking. "I had nothing to do with your father's death, my boy."

"I feel better already."

White shook his head. "I'm afraid if you've inherited Sheriff Navarre's stubbornness there's little point in our talking."

"He made your life uncomfortable for several years. There are plenty of people who still say you got away with his murder."

White pulled his gloves back on and started troweling the second row of Blue Princess. Under the shadow of his hat brim, his pleasant smile didn't waver at all. "I've been the convenient answer for many criminal questions in the past, Mr. Navarre. I'm aware of that."

"In the past."

"Exactly. Would you hand me the 19-5-9, please?"

"Pardon?"

"The fertilizer, my boy, next to your foot. You may not know that in recent years I've done my best to give back to the community. I'm pleased to be thought of as a good citizen, a patron for many causes. I've been actively cultivating that role, and I much prefer it to the undeserved reputation I had in my younger days."

"I'm sure. Murdering, drug dealing-hardly the sort of thing you can talk about at the Kiwanis Club."

White stabbed his trowel back into the dirt, up to the handle this time. He was still smiling when he looked up, but the lines around his eyes revealed just a bit of frayed patience.

"I want you to understand me, Mr. Navarre. Your father never made my life as difficult as it was after he died, when I was subjected to all sorts of scrutiny, all sorts of witch-hunters looking for someone to blame for his murder. I've worked for many years since then to build back my position in the community, and I am not anxious to have that position compromised with groundless speculation that should have been put to rest long ago. I hope I'm being clear?"

While White was talking, Lubbock had ambled across the lawn. He was now standing respectfully a few yards away, holding a cell phone and waiting to be summoned forward. White let him wait.

"Do we understand each other?" White asked me, very quietly.

I nodded. "How was it you used to kill your rivals, anyway-bullets through the eyes? I forgot."

For an instant White's face froze. Then, slowly, his smile rebuilt itself. He let out his breath. "You really are a great deal like your father, my boy. I wish you luck."