"Hey, son," Sheck said. "Good to see you."
I slid onto the opposite bench, next to one of the cowboys.
"Surprised to see you here," I told Sheck. "Not minding the shop tonight?"
He spread his hands. "Sunday's my day to get out. I like to see the other clubs, keep tabs on who's playing."
I gestured toward the table of stonyfaced A 8c R men. Milo was sitting with them now, trying to look self assured, smiling and gesturing proudly toward the stage.
"Especially when reps from the record company come looking at Miranda," I told Sheck. "Keeps Milo on his toes, wondering if you'll come over and ruin the night."
Sheck grinned. "Hadn't thought of that."
Elgin was glaring at me.
I gave him a smile. "They let you off surveillance tonight, Garwood, or did Frank just get tired of your clown act?"
Elgin rose real slowly, keeping his eyes on me. "Get up, you son of a bitch."
The other cowboys glanced at Sheck, looking for a cue. Over by the fence, one of the Bexar County deputies on security was frowning in our direction.
"Go on, Elgin," Sheck said lazily. "Go inside. Get yourself another beer."
"Let me call Jean," Elgin said.
Sheck's smile stayed in place but his eyes dimmed a little. The fire sank a little farther back in his skull.
"Probably a good idea," I agreed. "At least your Luxembourg friends are professionals."
Elgin made like he was going to come across the table at me, but Sheckly raised his fingers just enough to get back his attention.
"Go on," Sheckly told him. "Don't call anybody. Go inside and get yourself a beer."
Elgin looked at me again, weighing the pros and cons.
"Go on," repeated Sheckly.
Elgin wiped his nose on the back of his hand. He went.
Sheck looked at the other cowboys and the communication was as clear as in a pack of jackals. They got up and vacated the table too.
Behind me, Robert Earle's twangy cowboy voice had given way to Miranda's piercingly clear tones. The song was just vocals and acoustic, the way she sounded best. She sang back to Robert Earle about why he was leaving her.
Sheck listened, his eyes on Miranda, his face complete concentration. When Robert Earle took over again, Sheck closed his eyes.
"That girl. You know I remember the first time she came up to me. One of the Paintbrush's community dances, the ones we do free for local folks every Wednesday.
She said I should come down to Gruene Hall and give her a listen. Batted those brown eyes at me and I'm thinking-this is old Willis' girl? Little Miranda?" He let his grin spread out a little. "I suppose I went down to Gruene that next weekend expecting to get me something besides a little music, but I heard that voice-you just can't get away from it, can you?"
"Unless it gets away from you."
Sheck's grin didn't diminish at all. "Let's wait for last call on that one, son."
"You don't think Century Records is serious about her?"
Sheckly followed my eyes over to the table of A amp; R reps. Sheck chuckled. "You think that means anything? You think they won't evaporate faster than gasoline once they learn Les SaintPierre is out of the picture? Once they learn about my contract?"
"So why wait to tell them?"
Sheckly spread his hands. "In good time, son. Let's give Miranda a chance to come to her senses on her own. Way she was talking the other night, 'fore that fool Saint
Pierre woman went crazy on me-it sounded to me like Miranda was figuring out what's what. She knows Les SaintPierre left her in a bad spot. She's looking to cover her bases."
Miranda and Robert Earle's duet came to an end. The hooting and hollering started up.
Robert Earle gave a twisted little smile when he saw the audience's response, then suggested into the mike that Miranda and him better give "Ashes of Love" another try.
Miranda laughed. The couples on the dance floor yelled approval.
"How do you mean, covering her bases?" I asked Sheck.
He spread his hands. "Nothing to be ashamed of, son. Can't blame her. She just reminded me of my offer from a few months back-asked if she was still welcome to move out to the mansion."
"She asked you."
"Sure. I said it might be a good idea, seeing as-" His eyes got that distant look in them again, like somebody had just opened the oven door and let a draft blow past the pilot lights. "Just might be better for her out there, where I can look after her, seeing as Les SaintPierre got her into such a muddle, gave her and Brent and Willis all these fool ideas about where her career should go."
"Fool ideas about how to push you out of the picture."
Sheck nodded. "And that."
I drank my Budweiser. The top of the can smelled like sausage.
"Ashes of Love" went into full swing. Robert Earle's band backed up the vocals with a good beat, bass and drums and heavy rhythm guitar. When the first verse came around Miranda let loose-her voice went up half an octave and about a million decibels to the kind of energy level she'd had at the Cactus Cafe. Her eyes closed, one hand on the mike and the other clenched at her side. Robert Earle stepped back, grinning. He played his guitar and mouthed "Ooowhee." On the now packed dance floor, the audience responded in kind.
It was impossible to have a conversation-not because of the volume, but because it was impossible not to want to watch Miranda.
That was just as well. I wasn't sure what to say to Sheck right then, what to think. I was staring at the lady onstage, thinking about a night a million years ago in a Victorian on West Ashby-in a guest room that had smelled like daisies and freon with a small cool bed and a body I hardly remembered. What I could summon up was lighter than the aftertaste of cotton candy.
The song finally came to an end. The applause was loud and appreciative. Over at the picnic table with the winecoolersipping Century reps, Milo Chavez was looking confident, pleased. He'd even managed to get one of the reps to crack a smile.
I looked back at Sheckly. "You wanted to level with me the other day. Let me return the favour. Samuel Barrera thinks you're as bad as your European friends. When he takes them down you're going to go down just as hard."
Sheck raised his eyebrows placidly. "How's that, son?"
"I don't think you're a killer, Mr. Sheckly. I don't think Julie's and Alex's murders were your idea. I think you're a mediocre black marketeer who let things get out of control.
You let some greedy professionals take over your operation and crank it into high gear. Now you're scared. You're out of your league and your local people are getting nervous. I think a year from now Jean Kraus is going to be sitting in your office, calling the shots. Either that or he's going to be long gone and you're going to be left with a very large mess where Avalon County used to be. Your friends decide Miranda's caused them any of their present troubles, you think you can really keep her out of the cross fire?"
Onstage Robert Earle and Miranda had slowed down the pace again. Keen was taking the lead on Brent's song, "The Widower's TwoStep," which Robert Earle obviously knew well. It sounded strange coming from him, though, with an edge of quirky dark humour that made the tragedy in the song seem unreal. It was now just another mymommadiedandmyhounddogwent toprison country song. I didn't like the way it played.
Over at the bar Sheckly's friends had recongregated with a few new recruits, all waiting and watching for some sign to come in for the kill.
Sheck's face was dark. He hadn't looked at me while I spoke. He was concentrating on Miranda again, but not with any pleasure. He reached up and dabbed at the edge of the bandages on his cheek. When he finally spoke his tone was forcibly light and completely unnegotiable.
"Don't press your luck no more, son. You hear?"
It wasn't a threat. It sounded as close as Sheck could get to earnest advice. It was also very definitely the end of the conversation.