Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(32)

Wil found what he was looking for under a loose floorboard, right where he’d left it, as if it were too small , too insignificant to have been disturbed. He took what he needed to take, then left his sketch of Soledad in exchange. It seemed the right thing, to leave her image here in this building—the place she’d been happy.

Or perhaps that wasn’t his only reason.

Crouching in the silence of the ruined apartment, Wil thought about his encounter with Tres Navarre and Jem Manos. Revenge would be much harder, much more complicated than he’d imagined.

Perhaps he was leaving Soledad’s picture here because he was no longer sure he could do what she would’ve wanted.

It was a long time before he trusted himself to get up, walk outside again, and join Pablo in the car.

“We shouldn’t be here, man,” Pablo said.

Wil knew he was right.

Dimebox Ortiz had found this place for him, years ago. He had said, Nobody will ever think to look for you here, man. It’s one of those places that you just drive by. It’s invisible.

They had searched al morning for Dimebox Ortiz. Wil wanted to make him eat those words.

“Any news?” Wil asked.

Pablo shook his head. He’d been manning the phone. They had hired a guy to tail Erainya Manos, just to make sure she didn’t do anything stupid.

Pablo had made the cal s, dropped off the payment, just like he’d done the face-to-face work asking after Dimebox Ortiz. Nobody knew Pablo in San Antonio. That’s why Wil kept him alive.

Across the street, the San Antonio River was flooding its banks. Soledad used to walk along the edge of the water there. She used to talk to the man who sold hubcaps from his front porch. She’d make jokes with the boys who fished off the oil drums in the shade of the sycamore trees.

The tail on Erainya was costing them two hundred bucks. The video camera they’d gotten for a hundred bucks at one of the Arguel o pawn shops.

Even with the stash Gerry Far had provided, they were getting low on money and food. Wil hated banks.

He hated anything that left a paper trail. But he should risk a trip to the ATM, dip into the emergency fund his friend had set up for him. He didn’t have time to be knocking around the old neighborhood.

Wil put the car in drive.

He eased across the Grand Avenue Bridge, through a half foot of water. He parked in front of the San Antonio Art Museum.

“Hey, man . . .” Pablo again, nervous.

The museum was a big limestone castle with two turreted towers, a glass skywalk connecting them. It used to be the Lone Star Beer Brewery, and in Wil ’s opinion that had been a better use for the building.

He’d only been here once before, with Soledad, and for her sake, he hated the place.

It had been two weeks after the McCurdy Ranch story broke. Wil had been pissed about the media coverage. It would mean trouble for him, for everybody in his line of work. Then came the cal —the invitation for a meeting he never should’ve attended.

He got out of bed at midnight, as quietly as he could. A ful moon was coming in the window.

Soledad sighed in her sleep. Her silver Saint Anthony medal glinted at her throat.

Four months she’d been sharing his bed. He kept waiting to get tired of her, for the feeling of wanting her to pass. But the feeling didn’t pass. He was no longer worried about her running away. He didn’t have her watched, or lock the doors when he left.

She said she loved San Antonio. This was where she was meant to live. And the way she treated him in bed—maybe it was a lie, but she acted as if she wanted to be with him. If it was a lie, he didn’t want to know.

She had put on some weight since he’d bought her, but he didn’t mind. She had been too thin, anyway.

Now she looked healthy. Her skin and hair had a glow that hadn’t been there before.

She stirred as he was getting dressed, and opened her eyes. “Where are you going?”

“The museum.”

The answer, he realized, was absurd. She laughed, and it was impossible not to laugh with her.

“It’s closed, loco boy!”

“Not for me,” he said. “I’ve got to meet somebody there.”

“I like the museum.”

“You’ve been there?”

“Got to do something while you’re gone al day. Take me with you.”

Her smile made him want to take off his clothes again, join her under the covers. A lot more pleasant than what he had to do.

“I can’t,” he said. “These aren’t good men I have to see.”

Her eyes widened. “Are they worse than you?”

“No.”

“Then I got nothing to worry about, do I?”

He couldn’t tel her no. She dressed quickly. Together they walked down Jones Street in the dark, holding hands under the ful moon.

The museum was al lit up.

They walked straight up to the doors. The security guard wore an I-Tech patch on his uniform.

He didn’t look happy about it, but he let them in. “Fourth-floor skywalk.”

They walked upstairs, Soledad pointing out paintings. She made faces at the abstract stuff. She thought the nude models looked sad.

“You draw better,” she told him. “Why couldn’t your stuff be in here?”

She was one of the few people who’d ever seen his sketches—the drawings he did late at night, when he woke up haunted by some il egal immigrant’s face, one of the hundreds he’d imported that week. He didn’t know why some faces stuck with him and others didn’t. He didn’t know why sketching them made him feel better. But it al owed him to sleep. It got their faces onto the paper and out of his dreams.