The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(22)

"You're a damn saint," I said. "Why do you care if the closet is closed?"

"Just open the bag."

Inside was a paperback novel — Wilkie Collins' The Woman in White. I asked, "Do I get to choose between this and the flowers?"

"You're missing out on the greats, ese. And you a damn English professor now."

"Doesn't mean I've read everything the Victorians ever wrote. Like some people I could name."

George grinned. "I spend enough time waiting around for you, I need long novels."

Having taken the book as a gift, I couldn't very well throw it at him. I said thank you. Then we closed up the house and walked back out to the VW. I had the convertible top down and the night had cooled off pleasantly, smelling like rain. We drove south from Palo Blanco onto Jefferson. The business strip was bright with car dealership lights and taqueria neon, the air rich with blooming mountain laurel from every South Side yard.

I waited until we turned onto S.W Military before broaching the subject of our dates. "So — Jenny."

George smiled. In the nighttime illumination his skin glowed like whipped butter. "Don't get nervous on me."

"I'm just wondering why I'm the one dating her. I had you and her figured for a pair a long time ago."

"She's worked at the title office since before Melissa died, man. Going out with her would be like going out with my sister."

"But why me?"

He laughed. "Is it that bad a favor? Didn't you say Jenny was nice? Don't you guys joke around every time you come over?"

"Sure."

"And you think she's pretty?"

"Sure, George. It's just—" I stopped. "Who's your date?"

Berton wagged his hand, palm down — the burned-on-an-oven gesture.

"Jenny's got this friend. Ay que rica. Seen her at Jenny's house a few times and I started asking about her — like is this girl single or what? Jenny said yes, and maybe she could set me up but it had to be a double and it had to be with you. So here we go."

"Jenny said me specifically?"

"Don't ask me why. I reminded her what an ugly bastard you were, unlucky with women, but she still said she wanted to give it a go."

"Who's her friend?"

"Wait 'til you see her, man. Not that Jenny is a pig or anything."

"I'll tell her that. 'George said you weren't a pig.'"

We drove a few more blocks, listening to the wind crinkle the cellophane on George's bouquet.

"I talked to Ralph Arguello this afternoon," I said.

George raised his eyebrows, looked over.

I told him how I'd spent my afternoon.

George slid a cigar from his shirt pocket. "Wish somebody had clued me in sooner. I spent all day talking to some very pissed-off Latinos, all the radical groups I knew of, a couple more I got from a buddy at La Prensa. I'm talking about people who spend all day field-stripping AK-47s and reading Che out by Braunig Lake. Complete wackos. None of them gave me anything on the UTSA bombing. Nobody knew any new players in town. Nobody targeting the local campuses. Nobody even knew the name Brandon."

"So you buy the personal vendetta story? Sanchez came back with an old score to settle, decided to finish off the Brandon brothers the way he finished the dad?"

"I talked with an ATF guy I know. They've already passed on the bomb investigation. FBI likewise. Officially, they're still standing by to advise, but basically they're turning it back to SAPD. Bomb is too obviously a local make. The hit looks personal. They like Sanchez for it just fine."

"You don't sound convinced."

George lit his cigar, puffed on it thoughtfully. "Hector Mara running heroin, huh?"

"Ralph suggests being careful," I said. "It's usually a good idea."

"Mmm."

We turned north onto I-10 and skirted downtown, finally exiting into the palatial dark hills of Monte Vista. The sound of the wind and engine died sufficiently for conversation.

"Maybe we should listen to Ozzie," I continued. "Just tell the University what they want to hear — that the murder had nothing to do with them and their faculty is safe. We could close out the case and bill them for a day's work."

George looked over, his eyebrows raised.

"Nah," we said together.

We turned onto Mulberry and rode west, heading toward the address George had given me for Jenny's condo.

George's cigar smoke collected in front of his face each time I changed gears, then evaporated as I accelerated again. His eyes squinted almost shut.

After a while I noticed that he seemed to be muttering to himself — counting, or praying maybe.

"You all right?"

He removed the cigar, licked his lips, then laughed. "Yeah, fine."

"The case?"

"No. Just thinking — you know this is my hundredth date? You think I should get a door prize or something?"

"You keep track of every date?"

"Oh, yeah."

"One hundred exactly. You mean since—"

"Since Melissa. Yeah."

I opened my mouth. Closed it again. Nope. Don't ask, Navarre. Remember, this man liked his closet closed.