The Devil Went Down to Austin (Tres Navarre #3)(30)

A second deputy burst out the door, dragging poor Dwight Hayes by the elbow. They were followed by Ruby McBride and Matthew Pena. The latter sported a beautiful contusion on his left cheek.

The first deputy looked at Dwight. "This your good buddy, too, Mr. Navarre?"

It bothered me that he remembered my name.

"Misunderstanding," I promised. "Everything's fine."

"Be even finer in the city jail," he said. "You like assaults, you'll love it there."

Matthew Pena said, "No."

The cops looked at him.

Pena's eyes were remarkably serene—that same burnt black look that had unnerved me thirty feet under Lake Travis. Blood traced his cheekbone, there was beer drool on his designer jacket, but the attack had not ruffled his composure for long. He seemed the same untouchable, patiently dangerous man he'd been that afternoon.

"I don't want to file charges," Pena said. "Mr. Hayes and Mr. Simms don't want any more trouble. Am I correct, gentlemen?"

Dwight stared at the asphalt, muttered something in the affirmative.

Clyde said, "Goddamn—"

I elbowed him. He said, "Yeah. Uhhuh."

The cops exchanged glances, silently conferred with each other. I'm sure they could've worked up enough justification for an arrest,

called APD and had us all hauled away. But then the music started up in the back, Kinky Friedman started singing, and I guess the deputies remembered who was paying their tab.

The first one pointed at me.

"I see you again ..." He let the threat hang in the air.

Pena turned and headed inside.

Ruby smiled at me, mouthed the words, See you later, honey, then followed.

Clyde gave me a look that was slightly less friendly. He wiped a string of blood off his lip, then stomped down the street toward the parking garage.

Dwight Hayes didn't look too bad for a guy who'd just decorated a display case. He had some superficial lacerations on his arms, a more respectable gash in the leg of his jeans, specks of broken bier stein in the brown fuzz of his hair.

I said, "Pena offer good health benefits?"

His features were pinched with anger. He reached into his pocket, pulled out part of a bier stein handle.

"Need a goddamn taxi," he mumbled.

"I'll give you a lift," I said. "Black truck across the street."

I got out my keys and pressed the remote, beeped off the car alarm and unlocked the doors.

Dwight muttered something. Maybe it was "thank you." Maybe it was just something stuck in his teeth. He stumbled across the street and climbed into the passenger seat of my F150, slamming the door behind him.

Finally, Maia and Garrett appeared in the doorway of the club. Maia helped Garrett pop a wheelie, then bump his way down the front steps to the sidewalk.

I told them I was taking Dwight home.

Maia took the news about as well as I had expected. She looked like she wanted to kill me, then like she wanted to throw up, then she gave in.

"I'm going to my hotel," said Maia. "I'm going to eat, take the longest bath in history, and then sleep. And Tres—just take Dwight home. All right? No weapons. No interrogations. No humorous excursions. Please?"

"Trust me," I said.

She closed her eyes, muttered some bitter ancient curse, and then walked toward the taxi stand.

I looked at Garrett, who seemed in a somewhat better mood now, no doubt thanks to the drubbing recently inflicted on Matthew Pena, Inc. "What's your plan?"

"My plan," he said, "is tequila shots on Sixth Street. The Iron Cactus. Pick me up on your way back."

"And then?"

"And then, just maybe, I'll be ready for Ruby."

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I can only go by what she's told me, but she's told me so much— more than she realizes.

I imagine a girl of fourteen.

She's too tall for the boys, developed, impossible to miss with her long hair, her brilliant eyes, her temper. She is so physical, so sexual, that she intimidates her peers, and yet she tries to imitate them as best she can. She studies fashion the way she studies calculus. She wears the right jeans, the right designer tops and shoes. This just sets her apart even more. She has never had a date, or a best friend. Since she turned twelve, she has learned to endure the looks grown men give her—comments from her father's workers at the dock, bits of Spanish they think she doesn't understand.

She understands.

Her discomfort makes her more stubborn, more determined to look mature and feign confidence.

I imagine this girl on a November afternoon at the top of a hill, in the woods, the lake spread out below her, glittering in the long winter light. Today she is not fashionable.

She is wearing a pair of boys' Wranglers, a longsleeve Tshirt, hiking boots, an orange down vest. She is not worried about how she looks now. She is with the one man she is not afraid of.

The air is cold enough to let steam escape from the cavity of the whitetail deer she and her father are field dressing.