There was an uncomfortable silence. I drank my beer. Miranda pushed on the blue coolant gel in the bag on her wrist, one finger at a time. Allison got restless.

Suddenly she laughed. She leaned across the table toward me and her hair spilled over her right shoulder in a silky line, like somebody pulling a curtain. The front edge swept across the table until it got caught in a ring of water where her beer had been.

"Screw Les, anyway. Miranda was my discovery. Did you know that, Tres?"

Miranda started to protest.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. It's not often I get the credit for something like that. I've got to brag."

She took Miranda's forearm. It was meant to be a friendly gesture but with Miranda's despondent face the tableau looked more like Miranda was a little girl Allison was about to drag out of the supermarket.

"Tilden Sheckley did one good thing in his life," Allison told me. "He got Miranda a spot at the South by Southwest Conference last spring. I happened to see her there. We talked for a long time, got to know each other, then I told Les about her.

That's how it all started."

"That wasn't Milo's story," I said.

Allison rolled her eyes. "Why am I not surprised? If you're going to watch out for Miranda, the first place to start is with all those people who want to carve her up. She just won't kick butt for herself."

"Please—" Miranda had already made herself very small in her metal folding chair.

Now she was picking up the edges of her beer napkin as if looking for a place to hide under it.

"I mean it," said Allison. "Miranda needs to tell people that treat her wrong to go screw themselves. Tilden Sheckley, Milo Chavez, Cam Compton—"

"Even your husband?" I asked.

"Especially him. You're the bodyguard now, you can help me talk some sense into her."

"I'm not a bodyguard." I looked at Miranda.

"That's not a big deal—" she started.

"Don't be so sure," Allison said.

I asked what she meant.

Allison gave me a don'tlet'sbullshit look. She was about to elaborate when she seemed to notice for the first time how small the singer was making herself.

Allison tapped a fingernail on the edge of her beer bottle. "We can talk about that later.

Miranda still has a set to get through tonight. There's no sense in bringing up—"

She stopped, apparently envisioning things that were graphically unpleasant, then shook her head. "Just forget it. The point is, I hope we'll see you around a lot, Tres. We could use a few more heads bashed in a few more beer kegs."

The door opened. Miranda's brother stepped halfway into the room and said,

"Everything okay?"

Brent Daniels looked like he'd been treated to more than one drink since my altercation with Cam. His curly black hair was messed up. His checkered shirt was coming untucked. His eyes were focusing poorly and his face had reddened so much that his scruffy twoday whiskers stood out like a real beard.

He scowled at me, like a protective but not very bright guard dog. I smiled back.

"Everything's fine, Brent." Miranda's voice was suddenly hard. Cold.

Brent looked at Allison for a second opinion, then nodded reluctantly, like he still didn't believe it. "About five minutes, then. I'll be taking Cam's leads."

He closed the door.

"My big brother," Miranda explained. She frowned at her beer napkin, then looked up at me. She tried to rework the smile. "I need to start the next set."

"I'd like to talk to you sometime. Maybe now isn't—"

"There's a party at the Daniels house Friday night," Allison offered. "Miranda wouldn't mind—"

Allison looked at her friend to finish the invitation. Miranda nodded unenthusiastically, then met my eyes and made a quiet counterproposal: "We're taping tomorrow morning. Silo Studios on Red River. You could stop by if you're still in Austin."

She sounded like she wanted it to happen. Allison didn't look too pleased. Maybe that's why I said yes.

"What time?"

"Six," Miranda said, apologetically.

"In the morning?"

Miranda nodded, sighed. "We're working spec time. We have to take what they give us."

"What Milo gives you," Allison amended. "Like three hours sleep and gigs in different towns every damn night. I'd love to talk to you, too, Tres. I hope you can make the party."

I said I'd try, then got up to leave.

On my way out I turned. "I like that song, by the way. 'Billy's Senorita.' Did you write it?"

Miranda looked at me hesitantly. She nodded.

"I like the line about roses the colour of bruises. I wouldn't have thought of that."

Her face coloured. "Good night, Mr. Navarre. I'll tell Milo you came by."

For once, Allison didn't say anything.

When the second set started I was wheeling Garrett out the door, trying to convince him everything was just fine and Cam hadn't suffered any permanent damage since it was only his head I'd smashed. Onstage it was just the drummer using brushes on his trap set and Miranda singing a slow one, her voice low and sensual and powerful, the lyrics about lost love. The one time she opened her large brown eyes I was sure she was looking straight at me.

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.