The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(17)

I took a long hit on my margarita.

The sun had almost disappeared behind Mrs. Geradino's garage. I checked my watch. Two hours before I was supposed to pick up George Berton for our double date. Enough time to visit my worried mother, maybe make one other stop before that.

I began the almost impossible task of getting out of a butterfly chair with a margarita in one hand. I wasn't making much progress when the back door creaked open and a man's voice said, "Undignified, vato. Somebody was to shoot you like that, you'd spout like a wine sack."

I turned my head. "Your perception of the world is overly grim, Ralphas." Ralph Arguello grinned in my doorway, his knuckles rapping lightly on the frame as if some long-dormant instinct was reminding his body that it was polite to knock.

Ralph's chili-red face was completely clear of life's little worries — self-consciousness, doubt, morality. His eyes floated behind thick round glasses and his salt-and-pepper hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail. He wore an extra-large white linen shirt and black jeans. Several gold rings set with onyx stones glittered on his punching hand. "Sounded like you had a rough day, vato. Came by to see if you made it through."

I pointed to my stitched-up cheek. "Most of me."

Ralph stepped onto the porch, took a joint from his shirt pocket, then held it up toward me with a question — maybe did I want some? or did I mind? He proceeded to light up without waiting for the answer. I didn't want some, and I did mind, but neither of those facts would've fazed Ralph.

He held in the first toke, looked up at the corrugated tin of the porch roof, and let smoke escape through his nostrils. "Just wanted to tell you — when you're ready to mess with these people who blew you up today, come find me."

"You don't buy that the police have it under control?"

Ralph laughed. "Yeah. Mi amigo Zeta Sanchez."

"You know Sanchez?"

Ralph stared at me. Stupid question. Ralph knew San Antonians the way Audubon knew birds. The kill-and-study ratio was probably the same. "Zeta is sangron," Ralph admitted. "He makes a threat, it's going to happen. But pipe bombs at professors? No, man."

"Why so sure?"

"Zeta wanted to kill you, he'd walk up and shoot you."

"Sounds like that's what he did, in the end."

Ralph shook his head dolefully. "You meet Sanchez's brother-in-law, Hector Mara?"

"Bald guy, lives in a trailer home, likes to scream at policemen."

"That's him. Hector and Sanchez — they used to be rivals back at the Courts. Patched things up when Sanchez married Hector's sister Sandra."

"So they were brothers-in-law. So?"

Ralph took a second toke, stared into the backyard. "So nothing. Just that Hector Mara's been doing okay for himself the last six years since Zeta left town. Bought himself a scrap-metal yard on the West Side. Found enough money to pay off the mortgage on his grandmother's old house — that place he inherited out on Green Road."

"All that money from a salvage yard?"

Ralph shrugged. "He does a little fencing, takes away some business from my pawnshops. But the way I heard it, that's not where most of Hector's money comes from. Once Zeta Sanchez left town, Hector was freed up to do business with some of Zeta's old rivals — one guy in particular, Chich Gutierrez. Chich and Zeta, man — they couldn't stand each other."

"What kind of business?"

"Chiva, man."

"Heroin."

"Another thing — I hear Hector's more than a little bit in debt to Chich right now. Like maybe in debt enough to owe some large favors."

"Mmm. Hector thought Sanchez was gone for good, might be kind of inconvenient if his old compadre showed up again, started asking about his new business connections. Especially if Sanchez had ideas about getting back into the chiva. Sanchez, man — he's a war hero. People admire his style. He could take over Chich Gutierrez's business without half trying."

"I'll look into that."

"Just do it careful. Tell George Berton when you see him tonight — tell him I said to be careful."

"How'd you know I was going to see George?"

Ralph grinned.

"Uh-oh," I said. "Kelly?"

"No, man, I didn't hear it from her."

He was enjoying some excellent, private joke.

"What?" I demanded.

He took a long last pull on the marijuana, then flicked the joint to the ground, crushed it under his heel. He offered me a hand and pulled me effortlessly out of the butterfly chair. "Just remember to deal me in, vato, once you're ready."

"You said Hector Mara's salvage yard was taking away some of your fencing business."

"That's right."

"So are you siccing me on Hector because you think it might help me? Or because you want to get rid of the competition?"

Ralph grinned. "Your perception of the world is overly grim, vato. Enjoy your date."

I could hear him laughing quietly all the way through my house.

EIGHT

Aaron and Ines Brandon's house was a driftwood-colored craftsman on Castano, a few blocks east of Alamo Heights High School.

The street was one of those San Antonio gullies that floods in the smallest rainstorm, houses perched atop forty-five-degree yards on either side, the cars on the curb caked with dried flood lines of oak leaves and pecan pollen.