came after him in their shiny new Explorer. He hoped Big Gin and Raymond had been more honest than he had. He opened the bag. Four magazines. He tried to fit one into the Beretta. It smacked in clean and true.
Now he could go find Shadey.
20
E van drove the pickup truck past the gated community’s wall. The condos stood behind wrought iron and imported stone. The building lay at the edge of the Galleria district, Houston’s Uptown, crammed full of high-end shops and eateries and condominiums catering to both the aged oil money and the young high-tech rollers. This particular enclave was called Tuscan Pines, but tall Gulf Coast loblollies, less romantically named than European evergreens, shaded the lot. Across the street stood high-end office space and a small, boutique hotel. Evan parked in the office lot.
He waited. He expected to see police cars. But instead a parade of Mercedes and BMWs and Lexuses came and went out of the gate. After another hour Shadey walked out of the security guard’s box, headed toward a beat-up Toyota, got in, and puttered out of the complex. Evan followed him as he headed down Westheimer, toward River Oaks and the heart of Houston.
He stopped next to Shadey at the first light. Waited for Shadey to look over at him. Shadey was a typical Houston driver who didn’t mess with glancing into other lanes.
Evan risked a honk.
Shadey looked over. Stared as Evan smiled, as he recognized him under the black hair.
I need to talk to you, Evan mouthed.
Hell no, Shadey mouthed back. He shook his head. Blasted through the red in a sudden sharp left turn.
Evan followed. He flashed his lights. Once. Twice. Shadey made two more turns and drove behind a small barbecue restaurant. Evan followed him.
Shadey was at his window before Evan had shifted into park. ‘You stay the hell away from me.’
‘It’s nice to see you, too,’ Evan said.
Shadey shook his head. ‘It’s not nice to see you. No fucking way nice to see you. I got an FBI agent I’m supposed to call if I see your smiling face.’
‘Well, I’m not smiling, so you don’t have to call.’
‘Just go, man. Please.’
‘I’m not a suspect, I’m not a fugitive. I’m just missing.’
‘I don’t care about what you calling yourself. I don’t need trouble in my life.’
‘You complained on national TV that I didn’t set you up in movies, or as a pro poker player.’
Shadey glared at him. ‘Hey, man, I was just making myself available to interested parties. You never know who’s watching the news.’
‘Well, since you told a couple of lies about me, you can help me and wipe the slate clean. I need cash.’
‘Do I look like an ATM?’ Shadey lowered his sunglasses so Evan could see his eyes. ‘I’m a security guard, I don’t got cash.’
‘I know you can get cash, Shadey. You have connections.’
‘No more. Get your unconnected ass on its way.’
‘It’s funny how being cleared of a crime creates this wave of gratitude,’ Evan said. ‘Considering you didn’t even have a good lawyer when I met you.’
‘I don’t owe you forever, Evan.’
‘Yes, you actually do. Without Ounce of Trouble your ass is still in jail, Shadey, and, yes, you owe me forever.’
Shadey closed his eyes. ‘You’re in trouble. I don’t do trouble anymore. I help you, I’m a felon.’
‘No. You’re a friend.’
‘Spare me, man.’
‘I pissed off the wrong people, just like you did years ago, and they’re trying to kill my ass to make a problem go away. I need cash, I need a computer.’
‘Make yourself a movie. Explain it to the world.’ Shadey shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, no way, no how.’
‘You know what, you didn’t deserve me, as an advocate or a friend. I’m sorry I bothered. You live your life of freedom. Free to complain and bitch. Thank me when you think of it.’
Shadey stared at him. Pushed his sunglasses back into place.
Evan started the pickup’s engine. ‘If people come around looking for me, tell them you haven’t seen me. But don’t be surprised if they kill you just to cover their trail.’ He started to put the car into reverse and Shadey put his hand on the door. Evan stopped.
‘I already got a call. After I was on CNN. A lady. Said her name was Galadriel Jones. She said she worked for Film Today magazine. Said if I heard from you or could tell her where you was, exclusive-like, I’d get fifty thousand in cash. Under the table.’
Evan knew Film Today. It was a small, influential trade-press publication, and he didn’t believe for a second a reporter would pay fifty thousand dollars to a tipster; an industry magazine couldn’t afford it.
‘How did this woman sound?’
‘Too-sweet nice.’
‘Did she give you a phone number?’
‘Yeah. Said not to call the magazine’s number, said to call her number.’
‘They’re playing you for a fool, Shadey. They won’t pay you. They’ll kill us both. The people who killed my mom, I think they’ve got my dad. The only way you’re safe is if you help me.’
Shadey cracked knuckles, cussed under his breath. Leaned in close to the window. ‘I don’t like gettin’ played. By either them or you.’
‘I’m the one being straight with you. I’ve always been straight with you, no matter what you think. Please help me.’
Shadey gave Evan a hard stare. ‘You remember where my stepbrother’s house is, over in Montrose?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Meet me there in two hours. You ain’t there when I arrive, I ain’t waiting, and we never saw each other, we never talked, and you never come look for me again.’ He got back into his car, waited for Evan to back out, then peeled out of the parking lot.
Evan drove in the opposite direction, watching for cars that were watching him.
The next theft: a computer.
He couldn’t go to Joe’s Java, where he’d met Carrie – too many people there knew him. He remembered an independent coffee shop called Caf-fiend near Bissonnet and Kirby, usually with a big Rice University undergrad clientele. As a visual-arts student just a few years ago, he’d edit film on his laptop, leaving it at the table because there were always nice folks around and he was just up at the counter getting coffee, he could keep an eye on it. But he’d turned his back on it plenty. Laptop users could be complacent.
Shadey might not show with the money, much less with a computer. He had already stolen a truck that was someone’s pride and joy; he could steal a computer. Shame welled in him. He needed something, he’d steal it. It would hurt an innocent person to steal and he still cared about that. But his survival was at stake.
He wondered as he walked into the coffee shop, Who am I becoming?
He put on the sunglasses he had found in the stolen pickup, ran a hand over his shortened black hair. The shop was busy, nearly every table taken, and a steady business of people buying coffee drinks to go.
A new line of computers stood on a counter running along one wall, Internet-ready. He wouldn’t have to steal one – at least not to do half of what he needed. His next serious crime could wait.
He got a large coffee, surveyed the crowd. No one paid him any attention. He was anonymous. He put his back to the room, the sweat dampening his ribs. He opened a browser on one of the computers. He was the only one using the store-provided systems; most people had brought their own.
He went to Google and searched on Joaquin Gabriel. No clear match; there were quite a few men named Joaquin Gabriel in the world. Then he added CIA to the search terms and got a list of links. Headlines from the
