The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(21)

"Apparently that hasn't changed."

"He also said Ozzie was one of the few deputies he'd trust with his life. If Ozzie advised you to stay out of this matter—"

The patio door slid open and Jess entered the room, an army-green duffel bag over his shoulder. He swiped his Cowboys cap off the television. "I'm going."

Mother stood, unlacing her fingers from the wineglass. "Jess?"

He trudged up the steps into the living room.

"Jess?"

The front door slammed. Over the Joni Mitchell and the poolroom chat and the bubbling of shrimp we could just barely hear Jess' truck engine start in the driveway.

Mother turned, sank back into her chair. Her eyes had gone blank.

"I could call off my plans," I offered.

"Don't be silly. Everything's fine. Go on your date, dear."

"You're sure?"

She stared at me, daring me to contradict her. "I'm sure." Her voice was tin. "You go on."

I looked at my watch. George Berton was on the South Side, our dates back in Monte Vista, reservations at Los Barrios for eight-thirty. I could stay here maybe another ten minutes. Safer if I just canceled.

Mother reached over and patted my hand, tried for a smile. "Don't worry."

"Jess will probably just drive around awhile, blow off some steam."

"Yes," she agreed.

When I met her eyes, I realized how completely clueless I was about their relationship, about what they were like the ninety-five percent of the time I wasn't around. I'd never wanted to know before. Now I felt about as useful as a paperweight in a wind tunnel.

I left Mother at the kitchen table with a refilled glass of cabernet and the new Texas Monthly. The kitchen timer was still going next to her, ticking off the minutes until the shrimp were boiled. I followed the smell of Jess' cologne all the way through the house and into the front yard, where it finally dissipated.

I tried to convince myself that it was only my shitty day, my strung-out nerves that were giving me the urge to ram my VW into Jess Makar, if I could've found the bastard.

Cultivating that sense of well-being, I got in my car and started the engine, heading out to be a lucky lady's dream date.

TEN

George Berton stood in his front yard looking like an extra from Dr. No. His Panama hat brim cut a black ribbon across his eyes. His pencil mustache was newly trimmed. He wore a pink camp shirt with the obligatory Cuban cigar in the pocket, black slacks, polished white shoes, and a tiny gold cross in the V of hairy chest at his open collar. He carried a bouquet of wildflowers wrapped in cellophane.

I pulled the VW up to the curb.

"For me?" I asked.

George leaned into the passenger's-side window. "I been standing here so long I got three other propositions. I was starting to think you'd chickened out."

"That would've been the smart choice," I agreed.

George dropped the flowers on the seat. "Reminds me. I do have something for you. You want to wait or come in?"

"You think we have time?"

"Not my fault."

"Hey, you could've picked me up, Berton. I was on the way."

I pointed to the carport, where George's restored red 70 Barracuda convertible sat enshrined.

George looked appalled. "Drive her? I spent all last weekend on that chrome, ese. It's supposed to rain tonight. I'm talking mud and everything."

"I'll come in."

George's front lawn was a quarter acre of colored fish-tank gravel lined with aluminum edging. Pyracantha bushes made perfect cubes underneath the windows. The cottage itself was white stucco with blue-and-white awnings, white drapes on the picture windows. Like George, it could've shifted back in time forty years and no one would've been the wiser.

I followed Berton into the living room.

"Hang on a sec," he said. "It's in the back."

There wasn't much to look at while I waited. The walls and floors were bare, the furniture consisting of two papasan chairs, a TV on the floor, and a glass coffee table with nothing on it. George's only clutter was carefully confined to a coat closet by the front door — a space that held the altar for his wife at Dia de los Muertos, and the rest of the year held George's Sinatra CDs, his car magazines, his gothic novels, his cigar box, and everything else dear to his heart. It was a space he could close off quickly and make it seem, to the casual visitor, that he was a man living in complete austerity.

The closet was open tonight. I peeked inside. Unpainted Sheetrock was pinned with photographs of George and friends. One showed George and me on our trip to Corpus last Christmas. George was grinning and pointing at the marlin he'd goaded me into catching. Another showed George and the kid he was Big Brother to on the weekends — Sultan, I think his name was, eleven years old, already flirting with gangs. Another photo showed George's forty-third birthday party at Pablo's Grove, where I and about five hundred other well-wishers had shown up chewing Cuban cigars and wearing Panama hats and the loudest golf shirts we could find. Interspersed with these photos were years of thank-you letters from the Elf Louise program, the local charity that collected Christmas toys for poor kids.

"Close that damn thing," George said behind me.

I turned.

George handed me a brown bag with something rectangular inside.