The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(12)

"For a couple of years, Zeta Sanchez was Jeremiah Brandon's right-hand

man."

"A kid from the Bowie Courts."

"Jeremiah always hired from the West Side. He set himself up like a feudal lord down there — bought up the local businesses for his cronies to run, slept with any of the women he wanted to, recruited the meanest talent from the local gangs. Wasn't any accident he was killed at that cantina on Zarzamora. That was where old Jerry held court, bought drinks every night, let his employees grovel to him. He'd lend them money, get them out of trouble — whatever they needed, as long as they remembered who owned them."

"Nice guy."

"I'm probably being too easy on him. The thing was, King Jerry knew talent when he saw it, and he saw it in Zeta Sanchez. He started Sanchez on simple stuff — arm-breaking, fencing, your occasional murder. Pretty soon Sanchez was flying all over the country collecting from RideWorks' delinquent debtors, bringing back attaché cases full of cash. Brandon was so pleased he gifted Sanchez with a gold-plated .45 revolver for a calling card. Beautiful weapon."

"And they lived happily ever after."

"Until the Brandons screwed Sanchez, yeah. Jeremiah's sons, Del and Aaron — they started getting a little jealous about this upstart Mexican getting so tight with their old man. They decided to sour the relationship, turn Dad against Sanchez. Pretty soon the favors toward Sanchez were drying up. Sanchez and Jeremiah argued more and more. Then a rumor got around that old Jeremiah had been boinking Sanchez's wife, pretty little thing about seventeen, eighteen years old. Wouldn't have been the first time Jeremiah did something like that. Most of his mistresses came from the families he employed. Who'd complain? Like I said, you took Brandon's money, everything you had belonged to Brandon. Sanchez forgot that — forgot he was just hired help."

"And when Sanchez heard the rumor about his wife—"

"Sanchez decided to take a little nighttime drive down to the Poco Mas, have a chat with the Old Man. Jeremiah was at his booth like always, polishing off a bottle of Cuervo, hitting on some chiquitas. Jukebox was going. Place was packed. So Sanchez walks up to his boss, cool and easy, and draws on him — that same damn gold-plated .45 Jeremiah had given him. Empties every damn round into Jeremiah's chest. Hollow-tipped bullets, filled with mercury. Then Sanchez goes to the bar, takes a shot of tequila, walks out. Course by the time we come asking, nobody saw anything. Nobody remembered what the gunman looked like."

"You were at the scene?"

"You ever seen a man with no chest, kid? I mean, hollowed out like a balloon? You don't forget that too easy. I'm telling you..."

Ozzie glanced over in weary camaraderie, his smile pleasant and dead as an open-casket display.

We turned into a worn-down residential area and cruised the streets. Every white person in every yard waved. The Latinos and a few African Americans stared at us. None of them waved.

Ozzie watched the houses go by, his big glassy eyes deconstructing the architecture and the landscapes and the people in the yards with the same dispassionate criticism.

"Not enough trees," he said.

"Pardon?"

"I couldn't live here. Not enough trees. And all the garages in the front. Makes

for an ugly facade."

"What happened to Zeta Sanchez after he killed Jeremiah?"

Ozzie's gaze kept sliding over the lawns and garages. "Disappeared. Word was he ran to Mexico to escape a hit by Brandon's older son, Del, who took over the business. Or maybe Sanchez got hit and was buried in the countryside somewhere. The manhunt yielded exactly nothing. There never was any hard evidence to connect Sanchez to the kill — no shells. No prints. None of the witnesses would break no matter how hard we questioned, not and risk retaliation from Sanchez's veterano friends on the West Side. Sanchez just vanished. Jeremiah Brandon's murder case stayed open — still is, but you know how it goes. Old Jeremiah wasn't exactly a great loss to society. Then about three weeks ago, Sanchez reappeared. Just showed up at the Poco Mas. Walked in after six years like he was a regular guy, ordered a tequila shot, and told the bartender to call some of his old vatos, tell them the 'Z' was back in town."

"And a few days after that, Aaron Brandon, Jeremiah's younger son, was shot to death in his living room."

"That's about the size of it."

"Aaron was an English professor."

"Maybe now. But six years ago? Back then he was snarled up good in the family business. My guess, he was helping his brother Del put a knife in Sanchez's back."

"You got anything more than a guess?"

Ozzie's head jerked back in a silent laugh. "You know what the M.E. pulled out of Aaron Brandon's fireplace last Saturday?"

".45 slugs."

"Better than that. Hollow-tipped bullets, mercury-filled. Not many sons of bitches ever used that kind of artillery in San Antonio."

"Still—"

"And there's a witness. The professor's wife and kid were out of town but they got this maid lives above the garage. Everybody else in the neighborhood is pretty much deaf old retirees, but the maid heard the two shots, gave a pretty good description of the guy she saw coming out of Brandon's back door just afterward. She made a positive ID on Sanchez in a photo lineup."