The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(24)

When we got to Los Barrios the dinner rush was in full swing. The restaurant's green exterior walls were floodlit, its pink neon sign glowing. The surrounding two blocks on Blanco were lined with cars and people crowded into the brick entryway.

"You can sometimes find parking in the back," Jenny advised. "This place has gotten so busy since it expanded it's unbelievable, even on a Tuesday night. You know?"

"Sure."

"Hasn't it?"

"Oh, yeah."

She was right about the parking. We were able to wedge the VW between two Cadillacs in front of a house halfway down Santa Rosa. I held the door as George and Ana extracted themselves from the backseat. As DeLeon passed me she whispered, "Great car."

I made a snarly face at her but she'd already brushed past and was asking Jenny something about her shoes. George helped me put the top up on the Bug as the first splatters of rain started falling.

We had to wait for our table. The foyer was full of couples in evening wear, families with children, some college kids. Through the arched interior windows you could see into the restaurant's different sections, each crammed with diners. The decor was nothing fancy — plastic tablecloths, pseudo-Aztec art, fake plants, cheap wood paneling. The smell, however, promised great things.

While we waited we were again spared the problem of communication by the rockin' svelte sounds of Rod "the Rod" Rodriguez and his electronic mariachi band. Rod was doing a number somewhere between "My Way" and "Gracias a la Vida" — kind of a black velvet, Hammond-organ-salesman sound with a Tijuana twist. A couple of young drunk women were dancing. There were quite a few dollars in Rod's jar.

We finally got a booth in the oldest section of the restaurant, the part that had once been a Dairy Queen.

George grinned nervously and called Ana DeLeon "princess" and insisted on ordering for her — the chile relleno. DeLeon allowed the order to stand, though she didn't look dazzled by George's manly charge-taking. Jenny had a long conversation with the waitress about different sauces and finally decided on the green enchiladas, only with red sauce, and refried beans rather than borrachos,and no MSG in the rice and a couple of other changes on the clauses and subparagraphs of the menu that probably should've been initialed when it was all agreed on. I ordered the quesadillas, regular, with a kid's order of cheese enchiladas on the side.

Jenny looked across the table at me, her fingers lacing a cradle for her chin.

"A kid's order?"

"For Robert Johnson."

Jenny frowned. "Who?"

"A hungry mouth to feed at home."

She thought about whether she wanted to follow up on that, apparently decided it might spoil the evening. She turned to DeLeon. "So, girlfriend — tell them what you do."

DeLeon glared at her.

Jenny glanced at me meaningfully, preparing me to be impressed. "Jenny," DeLeon complained.

George sat forward. "What? What do you do?"

DeLeon shot me a warning look. "I work for the city. It's nothing."

George waited for more. Jenny nudged DeLeon but she nudged right back. "It's not that interesting," DeLeon promised. Then to me, coolly, "What about you, Mr. Navarre? How do you come to know George?"

"George and I work together."

She frowned, trying to make a connection. "You mean with the title company?"

She would've run George's name through TCIC, of course, just to make sure she wasn't going to be socializing with a felon. That's standard procedure for any cop who dates. But the system wouldn't necessarily have told her about George's less reputable line of work.

"George is a private investigator," I told her, smiling.

"Like Tres," Jenny put in, hoping to impress.

DeLeon stared at George, who was still grinning nervously. She looked back at me and mirrored my amused little smile. "How nice. Must be fun work."

George shrugged. "Better than what I did before. Police work."

DeLeon raised her eyebrows, nodded cool encouragement. "Oh?"

Just as George was about to explain himself, the food arrived. I thought we'd been saved. Jenny found a few small faults with her specialized order, and then the rest of us had to do the obligatory "Yum" comments and make remarks about how many doggie bags we would need.

I put Robert Johnson's to-go order aside and admired my entree.

Los Barrios is one of the few restaurants that does quesadillas right — making the cornmeal into thick, triangular pastries, deep frying them with the cheese and slices of poblano pepper inside. Crispy and spicy. Heaven, once you put a little garlic chimichurri sauce on top. I concentrated on the food, on my excellent margarita, on the blissful momentary silence.

Then, just as Jenny was about to redirect us toward some innocuous new topic, DeLeon said, "You were saying something about police work, George?"

She had a good voice for interrogations — detached yet encouraging, almost big-sisterly.

George dabbed his napkin against his mustache. He'd taken off his Panama hat and his hair glistened in neatly Bryl-ed rows. "Used to be in the Special Police. Air force."

"Really," DeLeon said. "I considered SP."

Berton jerked his head back. "You were in the air force?"