Big Red Tequila (Tres Navarre #1)(57)

I looked around the corner, into the back room of the gallery. Sure enough, against the side wall, his beer set casually on top of a metal sculpture, Fernando Asante was holding court. He had on an after-hours outfit--black jeans, white silk shirt over his huge belly, a denim jacket with the Virgin Mary embroidered in sequins on the back and on the breast panels. Two plump ladies in satin dresses stood on either side of him. A few businessmen laughed at his jokes. The curly-haired Anglo bodyguard I’d seen at Mi Tierra lounged nearby. He was the only one who didn’t look enchanted to be in Asante’s presence.

What the hell. I gave Carlon back his beer.

"Keep your eyes peeled, Lois Lane," I told him. "I have to go say hello to somebody." .

I looked at Maia to see if she was coming.

Maia looked at Fernando Asante, who was laughing at his own joke and patting the rump of the nearest satin cherub. Then she looked at Carlon, trying to eat canapés out of his palm. She let me steer her toward the back room.

Asante gave me his best gold-toothed smile as we came up. He gave Maia a head-to-toe appraisal and seemed to End her a good risk. When he nodded at his fan club, they excused themselves in unison, all except for the bodyguard.

"Jack," Asante said. "Good to see you again, boy."

He loosened the silver Texas-shaped bola around his neck. He offered me a well-manicured hand to shake.

I declined.

"Councilman," I said. "Hell of an outfit. That jacket weep on holy days?"

He just smiled and shook his head, then leered at Maia. "I like patronizing the arts, ma’am. I always do admire beautiful things."

Maia smiled warmly. “You must be Mr. Asante."

Asante looked gratified. His face just oozed Charming Elder Statesman.

"That’s right, princess," he said. "And you are?"

"Endlessly amused by the tabloid stories Tres reads me," she cooed. "Is it true, the one about you and your secretary in the same pair of underpants?"

Asante’s pupils dilated down to pinpoints. His gen**als probably followed suit. Somehow he managed to keep his smile intact.

“I can see Mr. Navarre has been around you a little too long, princess," he said.

Maia leaned close, as if to tell him a naughty secret. "Actually I taught him everything he knows. And if you call me ‘princess’ again I’m going to throw up on your Virgin Mary."

"Speaking of nausea," I said, "I didn’t know you were a fan of Beau’s work, Mr. Asante. Do you know him?"

He wasn’t quite sure who to look at now. He regarded Maia like a dog might look at a snake, trying to determine how dangerous this little thing was. The bodyguard had moved a little closer, just enough to share the gallon or two of Aramis on his chest. My eyes began to tear.

Asante looked from Maia to me. "Why, Jack? You looking for an autograph?"

"Just curious," I said. “I wanted Beau’s professional opinion on some photos I’ve come across."

I waited for a reaction, but I might’ve been talking about the Rangers’ chances in the finals.

A man in a yellow silk shirt and black genie pants came up to us, apologized, and peeled a red sticker off a sheet of labels. He pointed to a photo behind the councilman. "This one, Mr. Asante?"

The photo was about eight by eleven, with Beau’s name scrawled at the bottom. It showed an abandoned ranch house on a hill overlooking the Texas plains. In the nighttime sky behind the house was a bloated full moon and a single meteor streak. In the foreground, rusty iron gates rose up; the name “Lazy B" was arced across the top in black metal cursive. One gate was open and unhinged.

Asante looked back at it lazily. "Sure, son. That’s fine."

The gallery employee marked the picture sold, apologized again, and left.

"Lazy B," I said. “That stand for ‘Bastard,’ maybe?"

Asante ignored me. "Good bargain. I’m told it’s one of Karnau’s best, one of his older shots," he said to Maia. "I always buy something, long as it’s small and priced to sell."

He leered at her like that was a private joke. Then he looked back at me.

"And how’s the job market for you, son? Haven’t given up yet?"

"Actually," I said, "I was wondering if your friends at Sheff Construction could find me some work."

Asante stared. "Pardon?"

"I figure there’ll be a lot of money in this new North Side arts complex you’re planning. Biggest pork barrel since Travis Center, bigger maybe. I also figure it’s a sure thing Sheff will get the contract. That’s your arrangement with them, isn’t it?"

Asante looked at his bodyguard, nodding that he was ready to move on. The Aramis Man came and stood next to me.

"Misinformation is a dangerous thing, Jack." Asante said it almost blandly. "The City grants contracts by anonymous bidding. When we approve a bond package for a new project, we only then look for the right firm--goes through numerous committees and the Chamber. I really have very little to do with it. Does that clear things up for you?"

"Shucks," I said. "No kickbacks or anything?"

Asante couldn’t have smiled colder.

"You know if I were you, Jack," he said, leaning forward to deliver some private advice, "I’d take this young lady back to California. I’d go back where the prospects are better, the life expectancy is longer."