Then I caught Allison SaintPierre watching me from the bar, smiling dryly like she knew exactly what I was thinking. Like she knew that every guy there was thinking the exact same thing.
16
Driving to Garrett's apartment was like driving through a different world. The rainstorm had swept through and the temperature had dropped suddenly into the low seventies.
The streets were shiny and wet and the air was clean. It was enough to put anybody in a good mood, except maybe the parrot.
Dickhead was calling me every name in the book, flapping around and telling me just how he felt about being imprisoned in the VW most of the evening.
"Five more minutes," I told him. "Then we get you a new home."
"Noisy bastard," he squawked.
I followed Garrett's safari van down Twentysixth toward Lamar. It was about eleven o'clock, and there were still plenty of people hanging out at Les Amis drinking wine by the Franklin stove, talking outside the Stop 'N' Go, smoking in the parking lot of Tula, everybody enjoying the cooler air. Once in a while somebody would recognize the Carmen Miranda and wave. Garrett would honk back to the tune of "Coconut Telegraph." The mound of plastic fruit hotglued to the roof shuddered every time he changed gears. My brother, the local celebrity.
Garrett's apartment building on Twentyfourth has all the charm of a Motel 6. The redwood box stands five units wide and three high, all the front doors facing south and painted lichen green. You get to Garrett's door by climbing up three flights of metal stairs and across a concrete walkway. No elevator. Garrett, of course, had chosen to live on the top floor so he could sue for access. Last I heard the case was going well.
The landlord loved him.
Garrett pulled the Carmen Miranda in between a Harley and a broken washing machine. I parked by the frat house across the street.
"This is what I get," Garrett complained as he eased himself out of the van and into his wheelchair. "Home before midnight. Thanks for the wonderful evening."
Then he saw the parrot and his face brightened considerably.
"Holy shit," said Garrett.
"Dickhead," said the bird, and flew off my shoulder onto Garrett's armrest.
It was love at first sight.
"Where the hell did you get him?" Garrett was stroking the bird's beak. The bird was eyeing Garrett's beard like it might make a fine nest. I told Garrett that Dickhead was orphaned. I didn't tell him the last owner had died violently. Since Jimmy Buffett fans styled themselves "parrot heads" I figured the match was made in heaven. Or Key West, anyway.
"You approve?" I asked.
The bird was cawing some sweet obscenities in Garrett's ear. Garrett grinned and invited me up for a beer.
Tres Navarre, etiquette master. You bust a few heads, you'd better come prepared with a thoughtful "I'm sorry" gift.
We got upstairs, Garrett taking them on his hands, pulling the chair after him. When he opened his front door the smell of patchouli nearly knocked me over. Even the parrot shook his head.
"Get yourself a Shiner," Garrett said. "I've got to play a couple of tunes."
Garrett's apartment is a long hallway—living room in front separated from the kitchen by a bar, one tiny bedroom in back. The only thing that keeps the place from feeling claustrophobic is the ceiling, which vaults up from the kitchen toward the front of the building at a fortyfivedegree angle. Skylights at the top.
I headed toward the refrigerator and Garrett wheeled himself over to the wall of electronic equipment that doubled as his computer and entertainment system. He turned on the main power switch and the lights of North Austin dimmed. He picked a CD to play.
While I could still hear myself talk I said, "Who's winning?"
You could hear the stereo from the downstairs neighbours just fine. They were playing Metallica. Playing isn't really the right verb for Metallica, I guess. Grinding, maybe.
Extruding.
Garrett sighed. "The bastards got new woofers last week. That was pretty bad. Then I got this friend of mine in here—used to do the Sensurround systems for Dolby. You know—the shaking effects they had with those seventies earthquake movies? He cut me a good deal."
"Great," I said. "Earthquakes. After ten years in California, I get to come to Austin for earthquakes."
I looked around the kitchen for something to strap myself to.
When Garrett turned up the volume the bookshelves on the wall started to shake, spilling copies of The Electric KoolAid Acid Test and The Anarchist's Cookbook. The Armadillo World Headquarters posters on the wall vibrated. The parrot started performing acrobatics.
In the moments when there were pauses and my brain fluids started flowing correctly again, I recognized the song as "Bodhisattva" by Steely Dan. We weren't so much listening to it as experiencing it by Braille.
I somehow managed to open a beer and drink it while the building shook. When the song was over it was quiet except for the parrot, who was still trying to punch his way out through the Plexiglas skylight. The downstairs neighbours’ stereo had stopped.
Garrett grinned like a madman. "Gotcha."
"Does anybody—" I stopped to readjust the volume of my voice. "Does anybody ever call the cops?"
"Who—Fred?"
Fred the cop. Firstname basis. "I guess that answers my question."
Garrett waved his hand dismissively. "You call Fred, that's cheating. Sometimes somebody new moves into a side apartment, they try that for a while. It never lasts long. Now where's that hard drive you want squeezed?"
I gave him the card I'd pulled from Julie Kearnes' computer.