"Are you going to get out of my car?"

Sheck put my book back on the floorboard. He took his revolver off the dash and got out of the car.

"I thought to level with you, Tres, because I knew your father. I never had any beef with him; I don't see any reason to have one with you. You want to talk, come on out to my place some night. I'll buy you a beer. But you get yourself tangled on the wrong side of the barbed wire when it comes to Miranda Daniels, I'll eat you for lunch."

There was no anger in his voice, no violent edge.

He turned and walked with easy confidence across West Ashby, back to his truck. He didn't even bother to holster the S & W.

9

I got home around sunset, changed into exercise clothes, and ran through the basic stances, five minutes each, then twenty minutes of silk reeling exercises.

Afterward I lay on the floor until the sweat started to dry and the airconditioning felt cold again. Robert Johnson climbed up onto my chest and sat there, staring down at my face.

"What?" I said.

He yawned, showing me the black spots on the top of his mouth. His breath was not pleasant.

I made our standard dinner—Friskies tacos for him, chalupas for me. I showered and changed, then drank a Shiner at the kitchen counter.

My green neon KMAC wall clock read sevenohfive. Erainya Manos would still be at the office, typing up the daily client reports. The professors at UTSA would probably be in their offices too, preparing for night classes or yawning as they waded through bad under graduate essays. I tried to imagine myself in either place. I couldn't quite do it.

All I got in my head was a cartoon vision of me as Wile E. Coyote, my toes clinging to two different icebergs, doing the splits as they drifted farther and farther apart. In my hand a little wooden sign that read yikes!

I looked at the thick gray envelope that was propped up by the sink. The maroon words LES SAINTPIERRE TALENT were printed in the upper righthand corner. No return address, just like there'd been no number on the business card. You either knew what you needed to know to get in touch with Les SaintPierre or you didn't merit the infor

mation. Cocky.

I opened the envelope and started to read.

On top of the stack, on a piece of yellow legal paper, Milo had brainstormed all the personal facts he knew about the missing talent agent. The list was surprisingly short.

Date of birth April 8,1952. Place of birth unknown, somewhere near Texarkana, Milo thought. High school in Denton, a year of formal music training at North Texas State before SaintPierre had dropped out and joined the air force toward the end of Vietnam. In '76, he'd started his music industry career as a songplugger for a large Nashville publishing group. He'd been partially responsible for the surge in Texas music that had happened over the following few years—the birth of the Austin City Limits TV show with its videotaped studio concerts, the rise of Willie Nelson and the other Outlaws, the sudden interest in places like Luckenbach and Gilley's and Kerrville. Les had been a confirmed bachelor until three years ago, when he'd met Allison Cassidy in Nashville. He and Allison now lived in Monte Vista, not far from the agency's office.

On the back of the page was a list of Les' favourite bars and hangouts in San Antonio and Austin. That list was more extensive.

Underneath the legal paper was a portrait studio photo of the God of Talent Agents.

Les SaintPierre looked like a cross between Barry Manilow and an amateur prizefighter. His mouth was a colourless Cupid's bow and his eyes were dark and soft.

Maybe the unsuspecting could even mistake them as sensitive. His nose had started out as a fine thin triangle but had obviously been broken at least once. His neck, his cheekbones, and his brow were all a little too thick, a little too Neanderthal for Manilow.

His hair was short and greasy and thinning and his shirt was open to reveal a chest that was robust enough but pale and hairless and somehow hollow looking. There was a slightly haggard look to his face, and a dangerous quality, too—the kind of omnivorous hunger you see in drug addicts and car salesmen and lowrated talk show hosts.

I skimmed through the rest of the package. A copy of Les' management contract with Miranda Daniels, a copy of the allegedly backdated agreement between Tilden Sheckly and Les, a list of present clients and how much the agency had grossed in commissions in the last six months—just over a million dollars all together. There was a rundown on the last dates Les had personally sold and the last people he had spoken with. Tilden Sheckly and Julie Kearnes were among them.

The last person who'd seen Les SaintPierre was the lady who watered his plants. Les had walked out of his house on the morning of October twelfth, told the horticulturist to lock up on her way out, then vanished into thin air. Neither of his two cars ever left the garage.

Milo had formulated a list of twenty or thirty people Les had antagonized over the years. Tilden Sheckly's name was on top. Several other names were famous country singers. There was no list of Les' friends.

I checked my watch. Still happy hour. I put the gray envelope and a wad of Milo's money into my backpack and headed out to make some friends in the service industry.

Seven bars and a dozen tipmeandmaybe I'llremember something encounters later, I wasn't much wiser than when I'd started. I told everybody I was an old friend of Les' trying to track him down. The bartender at the Broadway 5050 complained that Les had an unpaid tab of $230. The manager at Diamond Rodeo said Les was a bloodsucker but for God's sake I shouldn't tell Les he said so. A singer named Tony Dell at La Puerta told me a great story about how Les had once left him stranded in Korea doing an eighthouraday sweatshop gig that had almost driven Dell to suicide.

Dell said no hard feelings and if I could get a tape to Les he had some great new material. Everybody agreed that Les hadn't been around in the last couple of weeks.

Nobody seemed too concerned about it and nobody warmed up to me much when I told them I was Les' friend.

It was full dark by the time I pulled in front of the SaintPierres' Monte Vista mansion—a threestory white stucco wedge with a halfacre front yard, twocar garage, and just enough lit view around the side of the house to confirm that there was a swimming pool and a tennis court. I rang the doorbell for five minutes.

No Les. No Mrs. SaintPierre.

I went back to the VW and sat, pondering a next move. The night clouds darkened and turned the texture of cedar bark. The grackles gave way to the quieter drone of the crickets.

In the yellow dash light I ran my finger around the pages of Milo's handwriting, looking for nightclubs I hadn't yet visited. My finger kept coming back to one in particular.

What the hell.

I drove north to see if Tilden Sheckly still wanted to buy me a beer.

10

I came over the rise of San Geronimo Hill and saw the Indian Paintbrush below. The whole expanse of metal building was lit up stark white like some kind of giant UFO

hangar. Its twentyfoothigh trademark neon wildflower blinked one petal at a time, then flashed all at once.

The road sign out front said TAMMY VAUGHN TONIGHT! Underneath, in smaller letters that obviously hadn't been changed in a long time, it said MIR NDA D NIELS EVERY SAT.

Apparently Tammy Vaughn had some draw. The gravel lot was almost full and a line of trucks and cars was still snaking in from the access road. Inside the lot, parking attendants jogged around trying to give directions. Waistdeep clouds of shiny dust were rolling through the crisscrossed headlights.