The Devil Went Down to Austin

Garrett waved the comment aside. "We convinced half a dozen companies to do a sixmonth betatest—meaning they'd try our product for free, we'd monitor how it went.



Things went well, we could market the program commercially. Man, we rented offices, hired staff, did installation."



"You spent more money you didn't have," I translated.



"Three months in, things were going so well we were turning down buyout offers, little bro. Turning them down."



"And then?" I asked.



"We were sabotaged."



Jimmy shifted his back uneasily against the mesquite. "We don't know that, Garrett."



"The hell we don't. Fucking Matthew Pena."



I made the timeout sign. "Who?"



"Back in April," Garrett said, "we got this buyout offer from an investment banker in Cupertino, guy named Pena. Reminded me of a fucking vampire. He got along great with Ruby, which figures, but me and Jimmy said no way. Right after we turned Pena down, things started to go wrong with our betatesting. The program is supposed to protect traffic on our clients' computers, okay? Email, Internet commerce, important shit."



"That's one of those hightech terms, right? 'Important shit.' "



Garrett ignored me. He'd had a lot of practice at that over the years.



"All of a sudden," he said, "it was like our program sprung leaks. Our clients start reporting documents showing up in weird places—employees getting termination notices in their email before they were officially fired, salary schedules getting posted on the company Web site, business plans emailed to competitors. Worst scenarios you can imagine. We've been busting our asses trying to figure it out, tell the clients the program can't be at fault. The leaks are too malicious, too . . . intelligent. It's got to be somebody—Pena for instance—bribing people to leak files directly from the test sites."



"Yeah," Jimmy mumbled. "Couldn't be Garrett's perfect algorithms."



"Oh, fuck you, man. And what do the betatesters do? They blame us. We're supposed to protect them and we can't, so it's our fault. Three of the six companies have stopped testing and filed lawsuits, and we don't have the money to fight them. The other companies are threatening to do the same. If they do, we lose everything—two years of work, our IPO, any chance at investors. And now the bastard that sabotaged us—fucking Matthew Pena—comes back to us with a last ditch buyout offer, a fifth of what he offered us three months ago. And his goddamn wife—" Shaking his finger at Jimmy. "His goddamn ￡xwife is telling us we should feel grateful about it."



Jimmy got to his feet. "Maybe she's just smarter than you, Garrett. You ever think of that?"



I didn't like the looks Garrett and Jimmy were giving each other. I'd been in enough bar fights to recognize the prelude music.



"How much money?" I broke in.



"About four million total in the stock," Garrett growled. "Peanuts. Enough to break even, get out of debt. Nothing more."



I tried to visualize an equals sign between the words four million and peanuts. I couldn't do it.



"You're hesitating?" I asked. "Sell."



Garrett pitched his margarita cup into the grass, pushed his wheelchair back from the fire. "Two years of my life, little bro. You walk in here, not knowing shit, and you tell me,



'Sell.' "



"It's the same Ruby's telling us," Jimmy said. "You're just too stubborn—"



Garrett broke down in a miniature seizure—cursing and spitting and patting his arms around his chair looking for something else to throw. He grabbed his bag, and before I knew what was happening he had the gun in his hand.



"Ruby!" he yelled. "All I hear about is damn Ruby. What the hell was your fucking divorce for? Here, Ruby. I got something for you."



The round he fired at the kiln goddess blasted her left arm clean off, sending shards of brick and ceramics out into the night.



After that, things got very quiet.



When the ringing in my ears subsided, I said, "Please put the gun away, Garrett.



Okay?"



To my relief, he shoved the Lorcin into his pot bag, then turned his chair toward the road. "Jimmy Doebler wants to ride on my hard work, marry the girl, then bail out in the end, what the hell did I invite him along for?"



I said, "Garrett—"



"Forget it, little bro. You and he finally agree on something, you can both go to hell."



Garrett wheeled across the gravel—popping and tilting over the rocks, trying not to keel over.



We watched him hoist himself into his safari van, fold and stash the chair, roll the side door shut with a SLAM. Brake lights came on. A mushroom of yellow dust blossomed under the back wheels as he peeled out.



Jimmy drained his margarita, stared into the empty goblet.



"Happy Divorce Day," I told him.



"Your brother's upset."



I kept my mouth shut. I looked down at my own mug— wondered how Jimmy had managed such an intricate fishscale pattern in the glaze, deep blues and greens, perfect symmetry. I wondered if he managed the complexities of programming the same way. I'd always thought of Jimmy as, if not an idiot savant, at least an idiot honourable mention.



"Garrett really didn't talk to you about the ranch?" Jimmy asked.



"No."



"He kept telling me he would. I know that isn't right, Tres. Somebody tried to sell this place without telling me ..."



"Difference," I said. "This place legally belongs to you."



Jimmy's face squinched up, like I'd hit him with an invisible pie. "All right. But the last two years have been hell, Tres. You got to understand that. Garrett didn't want you to know how dicey things were."



"I know you're drowning in debt, you have a bailout offer, and my brother doesn't want to take it."



"Pride—"



"He can swallow it."



Jimmy set his goblet on his knee. "Just back off for a few days, okay? Let me work on Garrett."



"Back off," I repeated. "Like you used to tell me down in Rockport: 'Stay out of my way, kid.' "



Jimmy stared at me with that look of hazy consternation, as if he was still wandering among the sand dunes. But he got the message. And I felt petty.



"If it makes you feel any better," he said, "I spent years resenting you, too. At least you and Garrett have each other. Maybe not much of a family, but it's more than nothing."



My third margarita had started seeping into my bloodstream. A flash lit the sky and a peal of thunder rolled one way across the lake, then the other. God testing the balance on his speakers.



"This was your mom's place," I said.



Jimmy nodded.



"Is it ever hard, living here?" I was thinking about the months after my father had died, when I'd been living alone in his house.



Jimmy cracked a twig, sent one half spinning into the dark. "Getting divorced, watching my career fall apart. I start wondering— what have I got left, you know? In the end, there's just family and friends, and for me the family part has always been . . . difficult.



I've got a lot of time to make up for."



He paused uncomfortably.



"What?" I asked.



"I was thinking. You could do a favour for me. You can do background checks, right?"



Most of my nightmares start with those words.



I immediately thought: Divorce. Jimmy's family money, the settlement with Ruby final, but maybe not on terms Jimmy wanted. Knowing him, he'd allowed himself to get bled dry. He'd want detective work in order to appeal the court decision, maybe make his ex look bad.



I said, "Jimmy . . ."



"Forget it."



"It's just, it's not a good idea working for a friend."



He looked at me strangely, maybe because I'd used the word friend.



"You're right," he said. "Forget it."



I wanted to say something else, something that didn't sound like an excuse, but nothing came.



We watched the storm roll above us, the air get heavier, and finally break with a sigh, the first few splatters of warm rain hissing at the edge of the fire.



Jimmy stood. "It's too late to drive back to S.A. Take a couch in the dome. I got plenty of spare clothes and whatever."



Staying overnight hadn't been part of my game plan, but when I tried to stand, I realized how the tequila had turned my legs and my anger into putty. I accepted Jimmy's offer.



"Go on, then," he said. "I'll take care of the fire and the dinner stuff."



"I don't mind helping."



"No. Go on." More of a command now. "I want to stay down here a little longer."



"Fix your kiln goddess?"



He gave me an empty smile, picked up his Tupperware fajita bowl. "Thanks for your help today, Tres."



He headed toward the lake to wash his bowl.



I drove up the gravel road in the rain, parked behind Garrett's van, then got fairly well soaked running from the truck to Jimmy's front door.



Inside, the dome smelled like copal incense. One large room—a small kitchenette to the right, sleeping loft in the back, four high skylights like the slits of a sand dollar. The curve of the south wall was sheered perpendicular at the bottom to accommodate a fireplace and Jimmy's pottery display shelves.



Despite Jimmy's years as a programmer, there was no computer. No television. With Jimmy's jam box down at the lake, the most hightech appliance in the dome was probably his refrigerator.



Garrett's sleeping bag was spread out on one of the canvas sofas by the fireplace, but Garrett wasn't there. Probably in the outhouse.



I crashed on the opposite couch and listened to the thunder, watched the rain make milky starbursts on the windows above. Lightning flashed across Jimmy's pottery, turned the photos on his mantel into squares of gold. One of those photos showed Garrett



before the accident that had made him a bilateral amputee. He was standing next to Jimmy on the Corpus Christi seawall. Another photo showed Jimmy's mother, Clara, a sadeyed woman I remembered vaguely, dead now for something like five years. Next to her was a picture of Jimmy with a redheaded woman I assumed was Ruby, his newly exwife. And in the middle of the mantel, taking the place of honour, was a signed publicity shot of Jimmy Buffett and the Coral Reefers.



I don't remember falling asleep at all.



I dreamt about the ranch. I was lying out in the wheat fields, rain falling on my face.



Standing over me was Luis, a drug dealer who'd once stabbed me in San Francisco.



We were having a pleasant conversation about property values until Luis drew the Balinese knife on me again and plunged it into my kidney. I heard paramedics, heard my old mentor, Maia Lee, chastising me for my carelessness.



Then a single, sharp report snapped me awake.



My eyes stared into darkness for several lifetimes before I realized I was out of the dream. My side still ached from the knife wound.



I sat up on the couch.



No light came in the windows. The rain seemed to have stopped. The room was lit only by the glow of a stovetop fluorescent.



Garrett's sleeping bag was mussed up but unoccupied. Open face down on the pillow was his wellworn copy of Richard Farina— Been Down So Long It Looks Like Up to Me. His wheelchair was nowhere in sight.



I climbed the stairs to the sleeping loft. Jimmy's bed hadn't been slept in. The red digital numbers on his alarm clock glowed 2:56 A.M.