Browner

By Gretchen Rix

When an irascible San Antonio P.I. attracts the wrong kind of attention from a family of cops, his whole life changes in an instant. They love him. Think he's cute.

He's not.

At least, he wasn't.

BROWNER, another mystery novel by G.L. Rix, picks up where BROWN started, at a parking lot meeting a new client who has a familiar beef he wants Brown to check out--El Condor, San Antonio's most interesting crime boss, who was abducted by aliens when he was just a kid.

And that's just the beginning of Brown's troubles. He usually gets saddled with the little cases. The ones nobody else will take. This time is no different, but . . .

Warning!

Kangaroo ahead!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gretchen Rix
• Release date: Dec 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005909864

Gretchen Rix

Gretchen Rix--I write Texas cozy mysteries in the Boo Done It series set in Lockhart, the barbecue capital of Texas. Tag line: Where there's more than indigestion brewing.I've worked as a bookstore clerk, a newspaper writer, and a book reviewer. I've had jobs as a professional typist, a truck dispatcher and a health insurance claims processor. I learned a lot from these jobs. But my true inspiration for these mysteries was our family's stubborn, huge, skittish and always-hungry dog Boo Radley. This dog could drag anybody into an adventure.My sister and I created and ran an international ghost story writing contest. It lasted four years. Now I no longer ever desire to be a magazine editor. I go to science fiction conventions. I'm a member of RWA. Halloween is my favorite holiday and I take the motto "Keep Austin Weird" seriously even though I live 35 miles away."Talking to The Dead Guys" is the first in a series of murder mysteries about a dog, strong women, and small-town living (or is it dying?). Check out all my books at http://rixcafetexican.com and my blog at http://gretchenrix.com.

Book preview

1

Downtown San Antonio reeked of half-eaten discarded tacos and greasy tortilla chips. Brown (just Brown, ma’am) studied the evidence of abandoned Fiesta revelry with amused disgust. Around the corner on the sidewalk someone had left a Styrofoam take-out box splayed open and upside down over a grate and then stomped on it. He’d pick it up later. He wasn’t in the mood to get slimy food on his hands.

Brown had an appointment to get to at the Bowie Street parking lot just steps away, but if he’d kept his job on the police force, it would be a different story. He’d be dashing off a bunch of tickets for littering and then issuing them to the tourists at the shopping mall just ahead, guilty or not.

Tourists were always guilty of littering, even at the beloved Alamo Mission just a block away.

Being a lowly private investigator these days, Brown merely took mental notes.

Most egregious to his post-hangover sensibilities that morning were the days-old machine-made margaritas slowly congealing in their Fiesta-branded plastic cups.

Empty cups clogged the gutters alongside Brown’s favorite downtown parking lot. Along with the merely crumpled and the miraculously intact cups were red, yellow, blue, and burnt-orange splintered plastic bits. It looked like someone had put hundreds of them through a shredder.

Brown added that detail to his mental list of current irritants and resumed his morning prowl. Except for a couple of cars near the PAY HERE automated kiosk, he was alone in the parking lot. His appointment had yet to arrive.

The past weekend had been the end of Fiesta month. April had come and gone in a haze of too much paperwork, too much walking, too many small jobs, and too many strangers. And now it was raining. The earthy scent rising up from the ground raised his spirits.

Shallow puddles already lay on the lot surface nearest the crosswalk. Brown hadn’t noticed the drizzle much until he’d stopped. He was out on the mean streets of his adopted hometown to clear his head and to take on a new client, not to get wet. Other than hunkering down in the shopping mall parking garage, there wasn’t another single spot of protection.

Hell, it wasn’t raining that hard.

While he waited for his client to arrive, Brown changed his mind, deciding that it wouldn’t hurt if he cleaned some of the mess out of the gutters and off the sidewalk. He stood straight, took a deep breath, then laughed loudly. Sticky, dirty hands could be washed. Pigeons erupted from their hiding places in the four thin-trunked trees clear across the lot, sounding eerily like crumpling copy paper. Brown watched until they disappeared over the Macy’s sign before snatching a plastic bag out of his pocket and putting it to use. Before long, he’d collected half a bag of trash.

The Kacey clan that had filled his thoughts for much too long this week was weighing on his mind again. He was beginning to worry that hiring the bunch of them had been a mistake. A huge mistake. And this after only a few months of them. Mother, son, daughters. Brown wished he’d never met a single one of them.

To keep the Kaceys or to let the whole bunch of them go. That was his dilemma. Brown snorted his disgust and got another lungful of rain-freshened air in return. Unlike its scent, raindrops up your nose and in your mouth didn’t taste like earth, only like water.

As Brown straightened from his task, he felt his thigh muscles strain, then throw him suddenly off balance. He did the comic dance of a heavy man trying not to fall, and ended up out in the street but still upright. The sound of one hand clapping was an old black man grinning at him from behind one of the cars by the kiosk.

Brown knew that taking a bow was a calculated risk, but he just had to follow through. The maybe-homeless man applauding his efforts expected it, and sure enough, when Brown’s weight shifted forward, he felt a muscle move in a way it wasn’t supposed to, and he started the dance of catching his balance all over again.

The one hand clapping continued, but Brown barely heard it over his own heavy breathing. Miraculously, he’d ended up where he needed to be, standing upright, flat on his feet, his sides heaving from his efforts. Looking up at him from a motorized office chair was his audience.

Whoever said white man can’t dance needed to see some of you, the old black man commented. He slapped his one good hand down hard on the pile of folders he had in his lap so quickly that it sounded like a whole man’s clap of admiration.

Almost.

Brown noticed with dismay that along with one arm missing, the man was also a leg short. The drizzle had stopped. I haven’t seen you before, Brown commented. Have I?

Maybe, came the reply.

The rustling of paperwork under the crippled man’s one hand and the manila folders in his lap reminded Brown of a rattlesnake he’d once tripped over. It hadn’t gone well for the poor snake, but somehow Brown figured it was himself on the losing end this morning, and not this old guy. Even disabled, the man in the chair radiated strength and confidence.

Maybe you seen me, maybe you don’t, the man continued. The papers rattled again. Brown wanted to snatch them up and stuff them down in the plastic trash sack he still commandeered.

He tried subtly eyeing the man’s lap. Got caught right away. Brown didn’t return his subject’s knowing smirk.

You don’t look too busy to me, his adversary pointed out.

Where had that observation come from? Brown was always busy.

Brown flinched. He didn’t like the way the conversation was going. Nor did he like the official look of the pile of papers in the guy’s lap.

If he’d still been on the police force, Brown would have expected some sort of prank was being played on him. And if he’d been actively investigating a case any more important than a missing cat, he’d suspect he was being served a subpoena.

It only took him a few more seconds to figure it out.

Oh, hell, Brown growled when the chair-bound stranger grinned maliciously up at him. You’re my appointment.

One more look at him and Brown was sure he was right, and was equally sure it’d be a small case. Just what he didn’t need. This guy didn’t seem like he could even pay for a cup of McDonald’s coffee.

Damn it, he said. I’m not taking on any more small cases.

That’s not what I hear, the man said with a shrug that sent his folders, and the papers within the folders, cascading out of his lap.

Brown spent the next five minutes chasing down the stray bits the breeze had picked up and scattered into the wet parking lot. Over and over again he warned himself not to look at the type, not to glance at the photos, to keep his eyes averted at all costs. His ego couldn’t afford another small case.

Brown tossed the man’s paperwork back at him from a safe distance, hoping that calculated bit of rudeness would sour his appeal. But it was a mistake.

The crippled man in the motorized office chair not only caught the papers midair by twisting his body into an impossible pretzel shape, it looked like he was going to swat them back at Brown like a volleyball.

Brown raised his hands to ward off the onslaught, but it didn’t come. At least not as he’d expected. He knew from experience that the cheerful grin on the black man’s face meant he knew he’d won. Brown had himself another new client with another small, inconsequential problem.

Okay, he said. Let’s start this all over. We’ll start with names. My name is Brown, he said. Just Brown. Nothing else.

The guy nodded, the grin growing ever larger on his face. I hear it’s because you got a badass first name, he said, then his voice lowered to a whisper. Like Leslie or Galahad or something.

Brown couldn’t control his snort. Hearing Galahad put forth for the first time was a surprise. He’d heard Herbert, J.R., Possum, and even Secondus put forward as guesses, but never Galahad.

Tell me something, Brown asked when the grin on his face finally grew soft enough to speak around. Why does my using only my last name bother everyone so much?

The black man compressed his lips and looked like he was pondering a physics equation, but Brown knew he was mocking him. Both men shrugged at the same time. Brown laughed.

If we can gets back to the important stuff, the black man said, my name is Walter Q. Barnum. I was told you do small cases. Told you the only one does small cases.

The only one who took small cases.

It figured.

Brown couldn’t control the way his mouth turned down as he digested that information.

So, he had the reputation of taking the small stuff. He hadn’t known that. Brown thought he cut a more dangerous swath. That he commanded more respect. That what he did amounted to more than a hill of beans in the great scheme of things. He looked around before replying.

The parking lot was still deserted, the sidewalks cluttered with abandoned electric scooters and the trash from San Antonio’s Fiesta. An occasional car passed by, but he’d noticed that the pedestrians who’d come up the sidewalk from the shopping mall side of the building had all hesitated at seeing the two of them and turned back.

Well, they did sort of look like two guys making a drug deal.

Brown laughed, then gritted his teeth hard enough to scrape enamel. He hated that gritty taste.

Yes, he answered Walter Q. Barnum’s question. I take the small cases. What is your problem?

2

I t ain’t my problem, Brown, so much as San Antonio’s problem, Walter Q. Barnum said, looking at the folders in his lap as he straightened them with his one good hand. Just barely sheltered by the parking garage overhang, the old man’s motorized office chair glittered with mist.

Brown’s gaze followed where Walter’s fingers settled. He hoped the man was shuffling papers back into folders that had been disturbed by their flight across the parking lot, and that then he would leave. Walter instead opened the folder and shook out a photograph.

It had stopped raining. Drops of water congealing on the underside of the parking garage structure poised ready to descend. Brown wasn’t fast enough to deflect the drop from hitting the picture. Walter’s photo of Davy Crockett got wet. Brown waited as the old man wiped it off and put it back.

Roll your chair out of the splash zone, Walter.

As he waited for the man to move, Brown surveilled their location one more time. This parking lot wasn’t the best spot to conduct business, but maybe Walter’s handicaps kept him off most modern transportation. Do you live around here? he asked belatedly. That would explain some things.

Walter pressed a red button and his motorized office chair moved a few inches forward. Brown rescued his trash bag from being run over and positioned it on the yellow concrete square just under the PAY HERE kiosk. Then he leaned his butt on the nearest car hood and gave his newest client his full attention.

The Menger Hotel, Walter said.

What about the Menger Hotel? Brown fixed his eyes back on the guy. No one else was near.

You asked where I live.

Brown couldn’t help it. He laughed, then ineffectually tried to turn it into a cough. The Menger Hotel was right around the corner. Brown couldn’t remember if it took long-term tenants or not. In any case, it was a way too expensive place for someone like . . .

Damn, he was doing it again.

Assuming.

If Walter Q. Barnum said he lived at the Menger, then he lived at the Menger. Brown envied him the bar and the dining room. Many an evening he’d wrapped up his work session with a glass of throat-burning, smoke-tasting whiskey raised in tribute to Teddy Roosevelt. Who recruited his Rough Riders there.

Brown suddenly realized he was being scrutinized by very intelligent eyes. He opened his mouth to begin an apology but was stopped when Walter quickly shook his head no. Work there too, he explained. Then added, In the bowels. The underbelly. In the basement. The part of the hotel they never want guests to see. I fix the leaks.

Having seen the bowels of several old San Antonio hotels, Brown knew exactly what Walter meant. Knew about the leaks, too, so he didn’t pursue this conversational gambit. He hoped Walter didn’t also live in those bowels. That he had a real room. Even in the best maintained establishments, the smell of mold permeated their underbellies. The San Antonio River was only a couple of blocks over.

But it wasn’t any of his business. Brown’s business was with the contents of the folders on the other man’s lap. Brown decided not to ask why they didn’t meet at the hotel.

Was that a photo of Davy Crockett I saw? Brown pointed at the folders, careful not to touch their now-soggy surfaces. The city of San Antonio was gearing up to change the area around the Alamo in ways that had some of its citizens agitated. Maybe this was about that.

Sort of, Walter replied. He carefully slid the photo back out, picked it up, and shoved it at Brown. I hear you know this guy.

Brown caught the picture before it hit the ground.

Davy Crockett my ass!

Brown gritted his teeth when he realized who it really was.

His crime boss friend of the moment, El Condor, was done up in a Davy Crockett–style costume, obviously from one of his wife’s famous masquerades. With a small black mask across his eyes and the oversized Davy Crockett buckskins on his body, he looked like a cross between Zorro and Grizzly Adams.

Walter’s fierce face lit up with triumph.

Brown knew better than to lie. Yeah, he said. It’s El Condor. From last year’s costume party.

When the old man didn’t say anything and remained silently staring at him, Brown finally took the initiative. "Just how is he San Antonio’s problem?" he asked, remembering exactly how the handicapped black man had initiated their meeting minutes before.

San Antonio had a problem.

Brown could think of a dozen ways El Condor was San Antonio’s problem, he just hoped Walter Q. Barnum didn’t want the impossible out of him. He was only a private investigator, not a miracle worker.

Man’s gonna be mayor someday, Walter finally answered. That’s the problem.

Privately, Brown agreed. San Antonio didn’t need a criminal mayor.

But better a mayor than a governor. Finally putting a name to El Condor’s ambition took a load off his mind. Brown had just done a thorough background check on the man, for the man himself, but he hadn’t had a clue which political position El Condor was aiming for. Now he knew.

Go on, he said. Brown wondered if Walter knew just what private investigators did. Most people didn’t. They saw them as cops.

It was right there in the job title—investigate. And Brown already knew more than he wanted to about El Condor. He could do nothing for this new client.

He’d decided to tell him so when the folders on Walter’s lap slowly slid off. Brown propelled himself off the car hood just in time to knock them into a small puddle left by the morning’s rainstorm. It wasn’t what he’d been trying to do.

Brown hoped Walter didn’t misunderstand. He bent to gather the folders, wincing in embarrassment.

As if he had misread Brown’s facial expression for contempt instead of concern, Walter Q. Barnum gunned his motorized office chair into action. Running right over his paperwork, Walter crossed over the clover and grass fringe of the parking lot. And got stuck. Back and forth, back and forth the chair lurched.

Brown was afraid Walter would tip over, but after one look at the man’s face, he jerked his hands away and backed up. Angry didn’t even begin to describe Walter Q. Barnum. Furious, maybe. Brown stood silent as Walter ranted and raged. Brown stood respectfully out of range.

Disrespect me, you? Disrespect me? No need to throw my papers around like they trash! I came out here to hire an investigator. People told me that was you.

Hoping that was the end of the tirade, but knowing better, Brown tried again to get Walter settled in his chair.

Get your hands off me, Galahad or Leslie or whatever your real name is. Get your hands off. That Condor’s an alien! He ain’t fit to be mayor. I got the proof right here. I just need some validation. Some validation.

Brown’s mouth dropped open in dismay. Bloody hell. Only six months since Woodrow Kacey had dug up that particular and peculiar bit of dirt on El Condor and it was already known on the streets. Walter had his facts straight. And depending on what he’d already done with this information, Walter was in major trouble. And might actually be in danger, depending on El Condor’s mood at the time.

At the very least, El Condor would have a fit.

Calm down, Brown said, distracted by Walter’s revelation. Brown stared across the lot, fixing his sight on the overturned scooters on the sidewalk. Why had the youngest generation of adults turned out to be such slackers? In Austin they’d actually thrown scooters into Lady Bird Lake, lithium batteries and