Rick Riordan - The Devil went down to Austin

The jockey looked up and just about had a paperworkshuffling coronary. "Mr.

McMurray."

"That's right," Mr. McMurray said, with more than a little satisfaction. "Now where's my boat?"

The jockey launched into some explanation about how the bottom paint wasn't dry yet and Mr. McMurray started smiling, no doubt anticipating a really good asschewing on the hired help.

Lopez said, "We'll just help ourselves, thanks."

We made a beeline for the outer stairs of the warehouse. When we got to the top, I glanced back. The boat jockey was watching us nervously, trying to get our attention, but he didn't dare yell or leave the nottobepissedoff Mr. McMurray.

Lopez opened the door and we went inside.

The room was a fifteenfoot square-one interior door, one chair, one metal patio table. There was a pile of boatcleaning supplies in the corner. The old grizzled biker who'd been talking to Garrett at the Jimmy Buffett concert was sitting at the table play ing solitaire, which struck me as weirder than anything else I'd seen that day.

Lopez got a twinkle in his eye. "Well look who's here. If it ain't Armand."

Armand studied us from head to toe, then slowly got up. His beard reminded me of Garrett's, except it was longer, braided with lug nuts.

He nodded toward Lopez. "Who the fuck you?"

His Cajun accent was as grimy as the Cafe du Monde's dumpster.

"How quickly they forget," Lopez lamented. "You don't remember Del Valley, Armand?

Our little talk about that double knifing? Man, I'm hurt."

Armand's eyes narrowed. "Ain't no cop, you."

I couldn't tell whether Armand was being obtuse or stubborn or what, but he was pressing Lopez to pull a badge Lopez didn't have. He'd intentionally not brought it-wanted no accusations later that he'd been here under colour of law.

"Listen," Lopez said. "No need to get any more gray hairs. My friend here just wants to see his brother."

Armand studied me again, did not seem overcome with compassion. "S'pose to know your brother?"

"Garrett," I said. "Just tell him I'm here."

The lug nuts gleamed when he shook his head. "I see anybody named Garrett, I tell him."

Lopez sighed. He pulled over a folding chair, propped his foot on it. "I could call your name in, Armand. I'm sure I could find some warrants. But that's not the way we're trying to play it. Why don't you just take us downstairs, we'll talk to Clyde, see if he doesn't see things our way. Otherwise, I guarantee you, you're going to have half the Sheriff's Department around this place faster than you can kickstart a hog."

Armand scratched his beard.

"D'accord," he decided, pointing his thumb toward the interior door. "But you still an asshole, Lopez, hear?"

Lopez grinned at me. "See? I knew he remembered me."

Armand led us downstairs into the warehouse. Boats were stacked in threestoryhigh tiers, with an open space in the middle the size of a basketball court.

The forklift was in the warehouse now, its engine rumbling like the world's largest lawn mower. It had a twentyfoot Stingray balanced on its prongs, probably Mr. McMurray's plaything, and the jockey was desperately trying to get it out the door, but there were two uniformed deputies blocking his path.

Armand froze when he saw the cops. He glared at Lopez, who spread his hands, tried to look mystified.

"They ain't with us, man," Lopez vowed. "Je ne sais rien."

Armand let out a string of Cajun curses, but apparently didn't see much choice except to keep going down the stairs.

The kid on the forklift was shouting at the deputies over the noise of the motor, asking them to please move. The uniforms ignored him.

I recognized one of them now-Engels, the one who worked parttime security for W.B. Doebler. That did not reassure me. The other guy I didn't recognize, but both had obviously ordered their facial expressions from the same online catalogue.

We got to the bottom of the steps.

"You can't be in here!" the kid on the forklift was saying, exasperated.

"Deputy Geiger," Lopez said, trying for a grin. "Deputy Engels. What brings you two here?"

Deputy Engels took his eyes off me long enough to say, "Detective. I heard you were on leave."

"I am," Lopez assured him pleasantly. "That's why I'm at a marina. Y'all want to split the cost of a day cruise?"

Geiger and Engels did not look tempted.

"I'm telling you-" the kid on the forklift started to shout.

Geiger said, "Cut your engine."

The kid opened his mouth to protest, but Geiger's expression shut him up.

He cut the engine.

"Now get off," Geiger said. "And get out."

The kid did both.

Outside, the other boat jockeys converged on him and started asking what the hell was going on. The kid said, "You talk to them!" In the background, Mr. McMurray was screaming how important he was.

Engels nodded to his compatriot, Geiger.

Geiger walked to the warehouse doors and rolled them shut, to the renewed protests of the boat jockeys outside.

"Chain it," Engels said.

Geiger took a length of chain off a hook, ran it through the door handles.

Engels pulled out his asp, extended it with a rapid flick of the wrist. He looked at Lopez and me. "There's the staircase, Detective. I suggest you and your friend use it. Leave the piece of shit here."

I hoped that the friend reference was for me, but I wasn't sure.

"This is dumb, gentlemen," Lopez said. "You got a warrant?"

"No need," Geiger said. "Possible officer in trouble. I just called it in, based on a witness I talked to outside. I came in. My partner Engels was here. The backup unit will be here in about ten minutes, I'd guess. Plenty of time."

"Mr. Doebler know you're here, Engels?" I asked. "You getting a bonus for this?"

Engels ignored me. He stepped up to Armand. "Give us Garrett Navarre, everything's fine. Don't give us Navarre, then you are about to assault an officer. It's going to get a little rough when I have to subdue you."

From the back of the warehouse, Clyde Simms' voice said, "Engels, you prick."

Clyde appeared from between two motorboats, wearing white shorts and white Tshirt and flipflops-like an overweight, Aryan Jesus coming out of the tomb. He was holding his weapon of choice-the Bizon2-down by his side. Garrett was with him, a few steps behind, wheeling along in his chair. Garrett looked okay, better actually than I'd seen him in quite some time.

Clyde said, "You know I ain't letting you near any friend of mine."

Engels smiled thinly. Geiger, slowly, drew his gun.

I locked eyes with Garrett, trying to implore him not to do anything stupid. He lifted a hand to reassure me, defeat in his eyes. He was a man about to give up, even if Clyde didn't know it yet.

Lopez said, "Hey, Clyde. Garrett. Under the circumstances, guys, I'd go with the flow.

Come on out here and surrender. We'll work it out."

"Do what the detective says," Geiger urged.

"Then we can file a report on these assholes together," Lopez added. "Get them suspended the right way."

The deputies looked at Lopez, and Armand chose that moment to charge.

He went for Geiger, the man with the gun.

Engels swung the asp and Armand's shoulder caught a glancing blow, but Armand had his momentum. He slammed into Geiger and the two went down hard on the cement. Geiger's gun went flying.

Clyde fired off a burst from the Bizon2 that punched a downward arc of holes in the warehouse door, the last and lowest shot snicking Engels' head-his ear flowered in blood. Lopez dove for the cover of the forklift. I rolled the other way and hugged the nearest boat hull.

Clyde had disappeared behind a rack of boats. Garrett, wisely, had wheeled himself back at top speed, out of sight.

Geiger and Armand were still rolling on the ground.