sources at the SAPD tell me I’m right."
"I heard that from the SAPD too. Doesn’t
exactly inspire my confidence?
"Your dad died right after he brought Guy White
in for trafficking, Tres. Don’t tell me that was coincidence."
"Why should the mob target a retiring sheriff?
That would be pointless. The charges against White had already been
thrown out."
Carlon wiped a piece of sauerkraut off his cheek. He
was looking over my shoulder now, toward the booths on the east wall
of the restaurant.
"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 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
"I heard that from the SAPD too. Doesn’t
exactly inspire my confidence?
"Your dad died right after he brought Guy White
in for trafficking, Tres. Don’t tell me that was coincidence."
"Why should the mob target a retiring sheriff?
That would be pointless. The charges against White had already been
thrown out."
Carlon wiped a piece of sauerkraut off his cheek. He
was looking over my shoulder now, toward the booths on the east wall
of the restaurant.
"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 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
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