The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(101)

Now the palm trees dotting the shore were dying. The Casting Pond was choked with watercress and cattails and old shoes. Most of the Spanish villas and Southern plantation homes fronting the water had long ago been divided into apartment blocks, their lawns gone to crabgrass and wild pyracantha.

Still, in the fresh light on a late spring morning, the place glowed with a kind of faded dignity.

Along the shore, joggers did their routes. Preschool-aged children toddled after the flocks of grebes and geese. The smell of roasted buttered corn filled the air from vendors' wagons.

We parked across from the old docks, in front of Ines and Michael's new apartment.

It didn't look like much — a two-story brownstone cube with white-framed windows and a briar patch of TV aerials on the roof. The first time I'd seen it, I'd been reminded of those buildings in atomic bomb test films, a few seconds before annihilation. I hadn't shared that observation with Ines.

On the doorstep, we found a wicker basket full of food, heavily cocooned in Saran Wrap. Ines' name was on the tag. Erainya's handwriting.

"Greek leftovers," I pronounced.

Ines hefted the new addition to her larder. "But she brought us a basket this big yesterday. We haven't even started—"

"Erainya is relentless," I warned her. "Now that you're on her list, she won't stop until your breath permanently smells like gyros."

I followed Ines and Michael upstairs to number five. Across the hallway, their neighbor's door was cracked open just enough to let out the sound of Spanish soap opera and the smell of cooking beans.

Ines unlocked the door to number five and Michael pushed through immediately, tugging at his tie as he disappeared around the corner. Ines leaned against the doorway. She hugged the basket of food to her stomach and closed her eyes. Pain tightened in her face. I got the uncomfortable impression that she was passing through a labor contraction. Congratulations, sir. It's a dolma platter.

Finally she murmured, "I don't know what to do."

"Buy some fresh yogurt. A couple of bottles of ouzo."

She smiled wanly. "You know what I mean. I don't trust myself to stop moving. I'm afraid I'll fall apart."

"The worst is over."

She opened her eyes and looked straight through me, as if calculating the distance to the horizon. "Is it?"

She didn't sound like she expected an answer. That was just as well.

"You want me to stay for a while?" I asked.

She shook her head. "You don't have to."

"I could keep Michael company, if you want to take a nap or something. You look like you could use one."

She moistened her lips, tasting the idea, then asked almost timidly, "A hot shower?"

"A hot shower," I agreed. "Followed by several million calories of spanakopita. Just what Hippocrates ordered."

She laughed despite her weariness.

After Ines had disappeared into the bathroom, I unpacked Erainya's Greek food plates, put them with their brethren in the refrigerator, then walked over to the living-room windows.

The apartment was saved by its view — three wide picture windows looking out over Woodlawn Lake, just above the fronds of the palm trees. You could see the Y-shaped piers below, the lighthouse, the jogging trails, clusters of waterfowl, sunlight turning the water to hammered silver. On the eastern horizon, rising above the live oaks, the yellow-capped spires of Our Lady of the Mount gleamed. I could just make out the tiny iron Jesus who stared down at the Poco Mas Cantina.

I turned to the apartment's interior. Not as promising. The living-room wallpaper was blistered pink, the ceiling water-stained and fixed with a tiny glass chandelier. There were heaps of moving boxes everywhere. Despite Ines' cleaning efforts, the carpet still smelled faintly of cat urine.

On the right, master bedroom and bathroom. On the left was the kitchen, and the short hall that led to Michael's room. His father's silk tie was lying in a melted P on the floor just outside Michael's doorway.

I thought about it for a good three minutes. Then I walked over and peeked in. No sheet cave. Michael's bed consisted of a stripped mattress and a sleeping bag. The walls were bare except for a little window that looked out on the trunk of a palm tree. Moving boxes were crammed into the tiny closet.

Michael sat cross-legged on the turquoise carpet, cutting out ads from a magazine.

He was still in his button-down and slacks but he'd pulled off his dress shoes and socks. His pale, bare feet were splotchy with chigger bites. He seemed completely focused on the toy advertisement he was cutting out.

When I'd visited the night before, Jem had come with me, bringing his PlayStation unit and a spare TV for Michael to borrow. Erainya had insisted. Poor paidi needs to learn these things. Donkey Kong as a life skill. Jem had done most of the playing last night himself, and the television was still on. As near as I could tell it was the same game. The basketball-dribbling dinosaur was doing continuous, pointless flips, waiting for someone to give it directions. Michael ignored it.

I rapped on the door. "Can I come in?"

Jem's PlayStation game kept cranking out the carnival music. I walked inside, sat down on the carpet, pressed escape on the gameset. It told me to enter my name. I was one of the high scorers. I punched in T-R-E-S, then shut off the TV. Michael finished cutting out the picture. It was an advertisement for a G.I. Joe. He looked at it for a second, then added it to a stack of cutouts next to him. "Hey, kiddo," I said. "You doing okay?"