The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(68)

"And did you?"

DeLeon nodded.

"Must've made her proud."

Ana's face stayed blank. "If she'd lived that long, I think she would've been proud. I've never ignored a lead, Tres. I've never backed off anything because it was risky or unorthodox. But I'm not lying — going anywhere with you and Ralph could end my career."

"You want me to tell Ralph to forget this?"

"You'd do that?" DeLeon locked eyes with me.

"I'd try. The thing is, it's personal now. Ralph knows George Berton."

"That's worse," she said. "Personal makes it worse."

Son Becky kept singing — "Mistreated Washboard Blues." Robert Johnson reclaimed his place on the futon, sniffed it cautiously, then curled into a ball. DeLeon kept looking into me, trying to assess how serious my offer to call our expedition off was. I could see what she was thinking, and in the end I don't know what disturbed her more — the realization that I was serious, or the realization that she wasn't going to take me up on it.

She glanced over wistfully at Robert Johnson, now sound asleep.

Her face hardened. "Are we going or what?"

THIRTY-FOUR

Tell any San Antonian, "Meet me at the Boots," and they'll instantly know what you mean — the three-story-tall pair of white-and-brown shitkickers standing outside North Star Mall at Loop 410. It's a popular place for radio announcers to do live broadcasts, or occasionally for P.I.s to use as an easy rendezvous point. This afternoon we were lucky enough to have both.

Those crazy folks from KJ97, "all kinds of country," had set up a trailer platform next to the right heel. Two scraggly DJs with beards and black KJ97 T-shirts and headphones were bantering with each other into the mikes, making vapid jokes and promising fabulous giveaways and otherwise trying to lighten up the homeward commute of all the schmucks fifty yards away, crawling down 410.

Ana parked her Miata in the covered mall lot and we walked across the driveway to the asphalt island from which the Boots rose.

About fifteen people had gathered to watch the DJs. As we skirted the crowd, one of the DJs introduced a new song by rising local star Miranda Daniels. "This is — what, Joey, the third cut from her debut album to hit the charts?"

"That's right, Bear."

"Man, this girl is hot. We're talking about 'Tell Me Something,' right here on your country station, KJ97."

I clenched my fists and kept walking. It was the fourth time I'd heard the song that week, and I didn't even listen to country stations. Never do an investigation for a singer, especially an investigation that goes bad. I'm sure I'll be sixty years old riding in a department-store elevator someday and the Muzak version of "Billy's Senorita" will come on, and I'll see the blood and hear the shots in that warehouse all over again.

We pushed by a couple of ladies who were asking the soundman for freebies. Ralph Arguello was waiting for us just between the tips of the Boots. He was still in his milky suit, the black shade overlays on his glasses giving the impression that someone had shot him cleanly and bloodlessly through the eyes. He gave me a cross-thumbs handshake. "Glad you made it, vato. I had to listen to one more pinche redneck song, I was going to shoot somebody." Then he sized up Ana DeLeon. "Long time, chica."

"Not long enough."

He spread his hands. "She loves me, vato. We got to excuse the lady's broken heart."

"Fuck you, Ralph," DeLeon said.

The last time I'd heard someone say that to Ralph, in a barroom on South St. Mary's, the resulting scene had not been pretty. This time Ralph's razor stayed in its sheath. Ralph gave DeLeon his standard demonic grin.

"Sure, Ana." He held up his pinky, touched between his eyes, then pointed toward DeLeon's head. "But we know, eh?"

DeLeon said, "Let's get to business."

I agreed.

Ralph said, "Chicharron."

"You know where he is?"

Ralph looked at me.

"Of course you do," I corrected.

"Hector's salvage yard. Hector's dead, guess who's minding the store, tying up some loose ends before the cops come by. And taking whatever he can get."

"First," Ana cut in, "we need to lay some ground rules."

Ralph turned his palms up. "Such as?"

"I'm only here to watch. I hear anything worth following up on, I'll do so later, legally. I'm not condoning anything illegal. I'm not participating in anything illegal."

"Then you'd better wait in the car," Ralph said evenly. "That's legal."

"Not good enough. And unless I have to, I don't have a name."

"She's my girlfriend," I explained helpfully.

Ralph looked back and forth between us. He chuckled. "Okay. You a little paranoid, chica?"

"I want to find out what I can," DeLeon told him. "I don't intend to lose my job."

Ralph chuckled again. "Ana, chica, you think cops don't do this shit all the time? I know a detective — the brass have known for years he's associating with the Mexican Mafia. He gets the busts on their competition, uses intermediaries, does business with people worse than me. Nobody can prove shit. You should see the car this guy drives to work, man. I know another guy—"