The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(50)

"There was no truth to the allegations against you?"

"I'll pretend you didn't need to ask that question."

On the television, two men in cardigans were lighting each other's cigarette. Ozzie flicked his thumb against his forefinger, mimicking them.

"You think it's still happening?" I asked.

"What — smack running through RideWorks? Del Brandon couldn't think his way off one of his own merry-go-rounds, kid. He couldn't handle something that big."

"Hector and Chich were worried about Zeta Sanchez coming back to town. Del Brandon was too. He was also real worried about his brother Aaron, who was reading articles about how to sic the IRS on your relatives to take over a family business. Maybe Del and Hector and Chich got together and killed two birds with one stone — framed Sanchez for Aaron Brandon's murder."

Ozzie laughed. "Mr. Navarre."

"Sir?"

"You really want to get Zeta Sanchez off the hook, don't you?"

"I don't think he killed Aaron Brandon. Call me old-fashioned. I think that means we should look for whoever did."

"Guys like Zeta Sanchez — you can't go soft for them. They're Attila the rat."

"Attila the what?"

Ozzie held up the TV remote and punched the volume down to zero.

"Something from when I was a kid in the fifties, down in Harlingen. I never told you this story? My mom was a waitress, worked a lot at night so she wanted to get me a pet. Only she couldn't afford a dog or anything, so she came home one night with these two dime-store rats — the little kind, one black and one white."

"Rats?"

"Yeah. Only we found out pretty quick they weren't both males. A week went by and they had a litter of little pink things, looked like grubs. My mom said we'd have to drown them, but we never did. They grew into gray adult rats, then had babies and pretty soon the babies had babies. I woke up one morning and the original two rats were gone. Nothing left but little patches of hair in the wood shavings. Their kids had eaten them. My mom didn't know what to do. The rats kept having babies, and eating them, and eating the weaker adults. Most horrible time in my childhood, waking up every morning and dreading to look in that cage, wondering what I'd find. Finally, there was only one rat left — he must've been fourth or fifth generation — and he'd eaten all the other rats. This fat, mean little f**ker had made a bed out of their fur. I'm not kidding you. I named him Attila. My mom said we had to let him go, that Attila was big and mean enough to survive in the world, so we let him loose in the alley."

"That's pretty intense for a young kid."

"You won't see me keeping pets, Navarre. The thing is — every time you look at a veterano like Zeta Sanchez or Hector Mara, somebody who made it through the gang life and got past the age of twenty, you're looking at Attila the rat. You're looking at the end product of generations of truly efficient cannibalism. They've made themselves a bed out of all the weaker ones."

"It's not that simple."

Ozzie shook his head sadly. "What do you hear from George Berton?"

"I'm seeing him later tonight. I get the feeling Hector Mara might be trying to tell him something."

"How do you mean?"

I told Ozzie about Hector's comments at the Poco Mas — how Hector seemed to be considering some kind of offer George had made.

Ozzie thought about that. His eyes closed. They stayed that way for half a minute before opening again. "I got to get some sleep."

"Okay."

"Let me know how it goes with George. You mind getting the drapes?"

I got them. The room dipped into cool darkness. Ozzie turned the television off.

"Thanks for the tree," Ozzie said.

I told him no problem.

"And, Tres — I owe you. Pulling me out of the line of fire the other day. Don't think I've forgotten that."

"It's okay, Ozzie."

"It's not." He shifted, tugged the covers over his bare belly. "It's not. You need anything — you need anything at all, you come find me."

"Thanks, Ozzie. I'll do that."

Gerson mumbled something I couldn't make out.

I left him in the dark, swathed in downy beige comforters, the bedroom quiet except for the ping of carbonation in his Sprite can.

I went into the living room to reclaim my boots.

TWENTY-FOUR

I wasn't planning on meeting the SWAT team at Hector Mara's farmhouse that afternoon. I just got lucky.

When I pulled over at the Y in the road where Hector's property sat, the shoulder was already crowded with police vans, lights flashing. SWAT members with black flak suits and assault rifles milled around in the road.

With typical April fickleness, the sunny morning had turned into an overcast afternoon — fiberglass-yellow clouds, air as moist and warm as dog's breath. Ana DeLeon and Kelsey were having a chat with a squad sergeant over by the banana trees as I walked up.

"Remembered the reinforcements this time, did we, Kelsey?"

Kelsey pointed at me without speaking, balled his other fist, then gestured to the SWAT sergeant to follow him. The two men walked toward the nearest patrol unit.

"Navarre." DeLeon's voice was weary with the sound of recently jettisoned adrenaline. "What do you want?"