WILLEM (The Witches of Wimberley Book 1) (9 page)

After an hour of that I found myself thinking, “What’s vacation for if not naps?”

So I left the paper on the heavy wood and wrought iron coffee table and went upstairs. Before calling the number on the card I was pretty sure I hadn’t had a nap since the time when naps came with milk and cookies. Now I was about to rack up my second in a week. I stretched out on the bed and waited to see what would happen.

I must have fallen asleep pretty soon after that. When I woke, it was five o’clock, which coincidentally was the same time as the barbeque.
Shit.
I was making a habit of almost missing important events because of over-napping.

After throwing water in my face and running my hands through my hair a couple of times, I raced down the steps and out the front door. Fortunately it was a two minute jog. I knew where to go because I’d seen them setting up for it earlier in the day. There was a quaint-looking café that had access to the grassy river bank below, access that could be denied if you weren’t expected.

The entrance was being guarded by a djin. At least that was my first thought when I saw the enormous black guy with his shiny bald head and single gold earring. As I approached he gave me a big smile, said, “Good evening, Mr. Draiocht,” and opened the picket gate for me to pass through. “Glad you could make it. Just go down the steps. Everybody’s down by the river.”

I could hear that. A crowd of all men using conversational tones produces a distinct low rumble.

“Thank you,” I said, knowing it was an appropriate response but thinking it sounded lame anyway.

Following the sound of voices, I rushed through the café courtyard and down the steps. Several tents were set up in case of rain, but it was a nice night. In fact, it was a perfect night. Seventy degrees that would become sixty-eight when the sun went down. No wind. No insects. Just enough humidity to soften the air and keep my eyes from trying to wither away in my own head as they sometimes did in L.A’s dry air.

As I took the last three steps I was thinking that maybe Wimberley was heaven.

A few people looked over and visibly noted my tardiness. I supposed I was the only one who was late, but I’ve got to tell you, that nap was good.

I spotted Ivan. When I caught his eye, he gave me a friendly chin lift so I began moving in his direction to say hello. Before I reached him I was intercepted by a waiter.

“What can I get you to drink, Mr. Draiocht?”

“Margarita.”

“Very good, sir. Would you like frozen or on the rocks?”

“Rocks.”

“Salt or no salt?”

“No salt.”

“Would you like that with 1800, Hornitos, or we stock four kinds of Jose Cuervo: Gold, Silver Especial, Tradicional Reposado, and Extra Anejo.”

“Reposado.”

He smiled, gave a tiny head nod and disappeared.

Ivan smiled. He’d watched the whole exchange. “What is it with you and complicated drinks?”

“Seems they take their margaritas as seriously as I do.”

“Will,” he said, “this is Kellan.”

“Kellan,” I repeated as I shook his hand. Looking around I said, “So this is the competition.”

“Well, no. About fifteen of these guys are winners.”

“Other than the ones from the video, how do you know who’s who?”

Ivan shrugged.

Kellan said, “The older ones are probably winners.”

“Yeah,” said Ivan, “but just to be on the safe side I’m going to ask before I start talking.”

“Makes sense. If they tell the truth.” Turning back to Kellan, I said, “Winner or wannabe?”

He laughed, clearly surprised. “Good one.”

I smiled. “Thanks. But you didn’t answer the question.”

His grin resolved into a smile as he studied me with sparkling eyes. “Okay. You got me. I’m a winner. Been here for six years.”

Truthfully? I wasn’t expecting that. Partly because I wasn’t expecting the winners to be pretending to be contestants. I guess they were bound to tell the truth when asked point blank though. Good to know.

“So, Kellan. What’s your heart’s desire?”

He laughed again. “You’re a fast learner, Willem.”

I cocked my head to the side. “How did you know my birth name is Willem?”

“You’re a fast learner, but if you win, you’ll find you’ve got a lot to learn. Later.” He walked away, smiling like somebody who had the best secret in the universe.

“Wow,” Ivan said, looking a little stunned.

“You didn’t say anything incriminating, did you?”

Ivan looked worried. He seemed to be sifting back through their conversation. “I don’t think so. I just thought he was an amiable sort.”

“He probably is. Winners don’t have to be assholes. At least I don’t think so. The guys on the video seemed genuine enough.”

“Yeah. They did. Especially the musician.”

“Simon?”

“That’s the one.”

“Wonder if he’s here. I think he’d be most likely to give up juicy info.”

Ivan nodded. “Let’s hunt him down.”

Something about the way he said that brought out the predator in me. So I responded with what I thought was a manly nod and let my eyes wander over the gathering.

A tray appeared in front of my line of sight. “One margarita, Mr. Draiocht. On the rocks, no salt, Jose Reposado.”

The margarita was presented in a heavy Mexican blown glass goblet that could have come from one of the local galleries, and probably did. I took a sip and let my eyes go closed. Damn. I couldn’t make myself a margarita that good.

“Anything else, sir?”

“This is perfection, …?”

I let the question hang in the air making it clear that I was asking for his name.

“Roque. Quintanilla.” He added his surname as an afterthought.

“Thank you for the best margarita I’ve ever had, Mister Quintanilla.”

He nodded and disappeared into the crowd with a grin on his face.

We began skirting around the edges of the crowd for signs of Simon, but I suspected that everyone there was taller than our target. In the end it turned out that he was even shorter than the space in the air where I’d been looking, because he was sitting down at a long raised table in the big tent. Alone. With something that looked like a Tequila Sunrise, a little too colorful for guys’ night out if you ask me.

The table had chairs on only one side, like the Last Supper, so we went around the ends, each of us approaching him from opposite ends.

“Hey, Simon,” I said as we approached.

As I pulled out the chair next to him, he said, “This table isn’t for contestants. Contestants sit out there.” He gestured to the rest of the room.

“Okay. Well, we’ll leave when the party moves in here.”

I looked over at Ivan meaningfully. He said, “Yes. Soon as they start this way, we’re ghosts.”

Simon barked out a laugh that made him seem a little looney. He pushed his glasses up his nose.

“So,” I said. “We saw you in the video.”

His eyes slanted toward me with suspicion. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. So I don’t have to ask about your heart’s desire. You didn’t tell us what kind of music you write.”

He snorted. “You don’t care about music.”

“The hell you say!” I exclaimed, hearing that Alabama was creeping back into my speech with or without permission. I supposed that twenty-four hours of hearing Texas drawl was involuntarily extending my vowels and softening my consonants. “I know enough to know that was a five figure Gibson Les Paul you were fondling.”

His eyes widened just a little. He pushed his glasses up his nose, gave me a small smile, and glanced at Ivan, perhaps to see what he was up to.

“Not everybody would know that.”

“Damn straight.”

He looked curious. “You from around here?”

“No. Why?”

“Just your, uh, terminology. And your cadence. It’s more harmonic in the South. And in Texas. Although Texas is technically the Southwest.”

“Alabama,” I said. It had been a while since I’d felt pride in saying that and, by God, it felt good.

He grinned. “Sweet Home.”

“Amen.”

He chuckled. I had him.

“You gonna tell me what kind of music you’re writin’?”

“Here’s the thing, when times change music gets relabeled. I’m doing something that’s not rock and not country, but a little bit of both.”

“Like Rockabilly.”

“No. No. No,” he said. “Not like that at all.” He slanted his eyes toward me. “Do you really know what Rockabilly is?”

I shrugged. “Of course. Buddy Holly, Jerry Lee Lewis, Carl Perkins. And, don’t hate me for this, but Stray Cats.”

That got me a huge grin. He banged the table with the palm of his hand. “Hah! Stray Cats. They did fifties better than anybody in the fifties did fifties!”

I held my palm up for a high five and said, “My man!”

As Simon slapped my hand I allowed a quick glance at Ivan who was sitting back, enjoying the exchange and grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“Okay, so you know Rockabilly,” Simon began. “I like songs that tell a story. Like The Eagles. You know at one time they were considered rock. A couple of decades went by and then they were reclassified as soft rock. Another decade went by and they were being covered by every country singer who had a say in what went on albums.” I nodded encouragingly. “I think what they were doing is timeless.”

“So you’re reviving the sound.”

“Maybe,” he said with a new coyness. “That’s the goal.”

“Thing about The Eagles sound… the songs and the musicianship were flawless, but it was all about the harmonies. They used to say the Beach Boys were pioneers of harmony and they were settlers.”

He was nodding excitedly. “True, but I’m not a copycat. I’m creating something original. I’m just saying that Eagles were a big influence.”

“Gotcha. Well, if one of us wins, we’re gonna be banging on your studio door and demanding a private performance.”

He gave us both a small smile. “Maybe.”

“So, Simon, we keep hearing that there’s nothing we can do to prepare, no way to get an edge on the competition. That true?”

He nodded. “That’s true. You’re either it or you’re not.” As soon as he said it, he blanched, eyes going wide like he’d said something he wasn’t supposed to say. He stammered a little, trying to recover. “Look, there’s really nothing to tell. No way to game the outcome if that’s what you’re looking for.”

“Just tell me one thing. What are we supposed to wear to the thing tomorrow night?”

He chuckled. “I’ll bet somebody’s already told you it doesn’t matter and I’ll bet you didn’t believe them.”

Nodding, I said, “Maybe.”

“Believe it. Wear whatever you want. It won’t matter one way or the other. Winners aren’t chosen because of style. If they were, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting at this table.”

I held out my hand to shake his. “Thanks, man. Enjoyed the chat.”

Simon shook my hand. Ivan and I stood up just as people were filing in to be seated for dinner. “Later.”

As I rounded the end of the table to find a seat, he called after me. “I hope you win!”

I grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

“Since we’re already right in front of the head table, let’s snag two chairs.”

I nodded. “Back of the class never wins.”

“Exactly what I was thinking. Lucky you knew that music stuff.”

“Why? It didn’t get us any new info.”

“Disagree. I, for one, will feel okay about whatever I wear tomorrow night knowing clothes have nothing to do with winning.” He pulled out a chair. “How’d you know all that stuff anyway?”