The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan (10 page)

"Close that damn thing," George said behind
me.

I turned.

George handed me a brown bag with something
rectangular inside.

"You're a damn saint," I said. "Why do
you care if the closet is closed?"

"Just open the bag."

Inside was a paperback novel — Wilkie Collins' The
Woman in White. I asked, "Do I get to choose between this and
the flowers?"

"You're missing out on the greats, ese. And you
a damn English professor now."

"Doesn't mean I've read everything the
Victorians ever wrote. Like some people I could name."

George grinned. "I spend enough time waiting
around for you, I need long novels."

Having taken the book as a gift, I couldn't very well
throw it at him. I said thank you. Then we closed up the house and
walked back out to the VW. I had the convertible top down and the
night had cooled off pleasantly, smelling like rain. We drove south
from Palo Blanco onto Jefferson. The business strip was bright with
car dealership lights and taqueria neon, the air rich with blooming
mountain laurel from every South Side yard.

I waited until we turned onto S.W Military before
broaching the subject of our dates. "So — Jenny."

George smiled. In the nighttime illumination his skin
glowed like whipped butter. "Don't get nervous on me."

"I'm just wondering why I'm the one dating her.
I had you and her figured for a pair a long time ago."

"She's worked at the title office since before
Melissa died, man. Going out with her would be like going out with my
sister."

"But why me?"

He laughed. "Is it that bad a favor? Didn't you
say Jenny was nice? Don't you guys joke around every time you come
over?"

"Sure."

"And you think she's pretty?"

"Sure, George. It's just—" I stopped.
"Who's your date?"

Berton wagged his hand, palm down — the
burned-on-an-oven gesture.

"Jenny's got this friend. Ay que rica. Seen her
at Jenny's house a few times and I started asking about her — like
is this girl single or what? Jenny said yes, and maybe she could set
me up but it had to be a double and it had to be with you. So here we
go."

"Jenny said me specifically?"

"Don't ask me why. I reminded her what an ugly
bastard you were, unlucky with women, but she still said she wanted
to give it a go."

"Who's her friend?"

"Wait 'til you see her, man. Not that Jenny is a
pig or anything."

"I'll tell her that. 'George said you weren't a
pig.'"

We drove a few more blocks, listening to the wind
crinkle the cellophane on George's bouquet.

"I talked to Ralph Arguello this afternoon,"
I said.

George raised his eyebrows, looked over.

I told him how I'd spent my afternoon.

George slid a cigar from his shirt pocket. "Wish
somebody had clued me in sooner. I spent all day talking to some very
pissed-off Latinos, all the radical groups I knew of, a couple more I
got from a buddy at La Prensa. I'm talking about people who spend all
day field-stripping AK-47s and reading Che out by Braunig Lake.
Complete wackos. None of them gave me anything on the UTSA bombing.
Nobody knew any new players in town. Nobody targeting the local
campuses. Nobody even knew the name Brandon."

"So you buy the personal vendetta story? Sanchez
came back with an old score to settle, decided to finish off the
Brandon brothers the way he finished the dad?"

"I talked with an ATF guy I know. They've
already passed on the bomb investigation. FBI likewise. Officially,
they're still standing by to advise, but basically they're turning it
back to SAPD. Bomb is too obviously a local make. The hit looks
personal. They like Sanchez for it just fine."

"You don't sound convinced."

George lit his cigar, puffed on it thoughtfully.
"Hector Mara running heroin, huh?"

"Ralph suggests being careful," I said.
"It's usually a good idea."

"Mmm."

We turned north onto I-10 and skirted downtown,
finally exiting into the palatial dark hills of Monte Vista. The
sound of the wind and engine died sufficiently for conversation.

"Maybe we should listen to Ozzie," I
continued. "Just tell the University what they want to hear —
that the murder had nothing to do with them and their faculty is
safe. We could close out the case and bill them for a day's work."

George looked over, his eyebrows raised.

"Nah," we said together.

We turned onto Mulberry and rode west, heading toward
the address George had given me for Jenny's condo.

George's cigar smoke collected in front of his face
each time I changed gears, then evaporated as I accelerated again.
His eyes squinted almost shut.

After a while I noticed that he seemed to be
muttering to himself — counting, or praying maybe.

"You all right?"

He removed the cigar, licked his lips, then laughed.
"Yeah, fine."

"The case?"

"No. Just thinking — you know this is my
hundredth date? You think I should get a door prize or something?"

"You keep track of every date?"

"Oh, yeah."

"One hundred exactly. You mean since—"

"Since Melissa. Yeah."

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Nope. Don't ask,
Navarre. Remember, this man liked his closet closed.

Berton said, "You really want to know?"

Another block, then morbid curiosity got the best of
me. "I heard — it was some kind of accident, right?"

George touched the tip of his cigar to his mouth. His
tilted hat brim swamped his face with shadow. "We were camping
up by Garner State Park, way up in the hills by the Frio River. At
dawn 'Liss was still asleep in the tent, so I figured I'd go down to
the Frio to do a little fly-fishing. This was our first vacation
since I'd gotten out of the service, you know? A little time to get
away, we figured. I came back to the tent about noon and found her."

"Found her."

"Raped," he said. "Then murdered —
chopped up with my camping ax."

My hand tightened on the wheel. "George—"

"'S'okay," he said. "Really. Seven
years later, you know, and it's okay. But..."

"They ever catch who did it?"

He shook his head. "They suspected me for a
while — I couldn't blame them. But it still keeps me awake at night
— the fact that this monster got away. That and the guilt. I'm not
careful — it's like one of those balloons of coke the drug mules
swallow to get across the border, you know? I'm always wondering if
it's going to pass through my system eventually or maybe 
upture, explode my heart."

I looked over at him, met his eyes briefly in the
streetlight, looked back at the road. What do you say to a story like
that — sorry?

George sat up and tried to lighten his tone. "So
anyway... now you know, huh? A hundred dates later. Maybe this'll be
the special one."

He smiled frailly at me, looking suddenly, as we
passed under another streetlight, like a very old man, someone who'd
come from 1962 the hard way. Jenny's condo building was a new
high-rise behind Trinity University, designed for young professionals
or students with rich daddies. It was the kind of place where the
condos cost as much as the older two-story homes around them but with
half the maintenance and none of the charm.

We buzzed Jenny's number in the lobby. Ninety seconds
later she came down the elevator alone.

"I'll be," she exclaimed. "Two
handsome men! Hey there, stranger!"

She squeezed my arm, noticed and decided not to
comment on the new facial scar, then decided to get a little bolder
and fold herself around my elbow.

Jenny was a nice-looking woman — maybe
twenty-seven, her skin so smooth and shining with health it looked
like air-mattress plastic. Her hair was floofy blond, teased to the
consistency of cumulus cloud, and her dress just as light — willowy
white layers of cotton. The only things of any hardness about her
were her black boots and her large earrings shaped like fish
skeletons.

George fiddled with his flowers. "Where's your
comadre?"

"Oh." Jenny sighed, brushed her hand
against my chest. "Ana's on her way down. Her pager went off
right when you buzzed and she had to call the office. She's always —
well, here we go."

The elevator doors opened again. The woman who
stepped through was about five-nine, a dark-skinned Latina. Her red
sleeveless dress was mid-thigh length and showed off well-muscled
legs and arms. Her black hair was wedge-cut at the jawline and done
in bangs on top — a style that might have made another woman's face
look babyish, but not hers. Hers was serene, softened with amber and
blue highlights but not enough to dilute the stern set of her eyes
and her mouth. She came out of the elevator trying to fit something
into her small black purse.

She looked up and gave us an economic, careful little
smile, took two steps, then took another look at me and froze.

She continued forward, her smile a little more
forced. As she got closer I could see crisscross abrasions under the
makeup on her cheek.

"George," Jenny said, "Tres, let me
introduce Ana."

"Ana," I repeated, greeting Detective
DeLeon for the third time that day.

"Nice to meet you."
 

ELEVEN

The ride to the restaurant was a long one.

Not that I had to avoid conversation with Ana DeLeon.
The detective and George were isolated in the backseat by the wind
and the roar of the VW engine, but in front Jenny was bending my ear
about her day, her week, her month. She must've been used to people
tuning her out, too, because she double-checked my attentiveness with
annoying frequency.

"And so I was telling George we shouldn't be
using a check-writing service," she said. "There's really
just four of us at the title office and that didn't justify the cost,
you know?"

"Mm-hmm."

"Right?"

"Right."

"And so I started doing the bills myself and we
saved so much money. I just went to this seminar on Peachtree and I
mean I can't understand how I got along without it. I mean you must
have to do that kind of thing with Erainya's agency, right?"

"Right."

"Yeah?"

"Uh-huh."

And so forth.

I liked Jenny. Intelligent. Good sense of humor.
George was right that she and I joked around whenever I visited his
title office. But the mean-spirited truth was I had nightmares about
the man Jenny would marry, what he would look like after thirty
years. I pictured him sitting in his easy chair with the game shows
on and his nose buried in a magazine, a bright-faced geriatric Jenny
standing over him chirping about her day and his responses of
"uh-huh" that were once politely upbeat now reduced to
inured grunts. It was not an image I wanted to have in my head on a
first date.

When we got to Los Barrios the dinner rush was in
full swing. The restaurant's green exterior walls were floodlit, its
pink neon sign glowing. The surrounding two blocks on Blanco were
lined with cars and people crowded into the brick entryway.

"You can sometimes find parking in the back,"
Jenny advised. "This place has gotten so busy since it expanded
it's unbelievable, even on a Tuesday night. You know?"

"Sure."

"Hasn't it?"

"Oh, yeah."

She was right about the parking. We were able to
wedge the VW between two Cadillacs in front of a house halfway down
Santa Rosa. I held the door as George and Ana extracted themselves
from the backseat. As DeLeon passed me she whispered, "Great
car."

I made a snarly face at her but she'd already brushed
past and was asking Jenny something about her shoes. George helped me
put the top up on the Bug as the first splatters of rain started
falling.

We had to wait for our table. The foyer was full of
couples in evening wear, families with children, some college kids.
Through the arched interior windows you could see into the
restaurant's different sections, each crammed with diners. The decor
was nothing fancy — plastic tablecloths, pseudo-Aztec art, fake
plants, cheap wood paneling. The smell, however, promised great
things.

While we waited we were again spared the problem of
communication by the rockin' svelte sounds of Rod "the Rod"
Rodriguez and his electronic mariachi band. Rod was doing a number
somewhere between "My Way" and "Gracias a la Vida"
— kind of a black velvet, Hammond-organ-salesman sound with a
Tijuana twist. A couple of young drunk women were dancing. There were
quite a few dollars in Rod's jar.

We finally got a booth in the oldest section of the
restaurant, the part that had once been a Dairy Queen.