The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(69)

"There's always scum at the bottom of the barrel," Ana interrupted. "I'd expect you to know them all. You don't know the majority of the SAPD and you don't know me."

I'd never seen Ralph take words like that so calmly, but he just smiled. "She's fine when she's mad, vato. Ain't she?"

I suggested, "How about we go?"

The Miranda Daniels song ended, and KJ97 started raving about the Vince Gill number coming up. Ralph looked over at them with distaste. "Yeah, vato. Let's go. Your car or mine?"

I glanced at Ana. "We go with Ralph, you're liable to see him do something illegal."

"I'll make some U-turns, chica."

"And he'll smoke," I warned her. "Not Marlboros, either."

"On the other hand," Ralph said, "that sweet little Miata of yours only got two seats, Ana. Right? Guess somebody could sit on my lap."

"Don't look at me," I objected.

Ana DeLeon looked back and forth between us.

"I have no intention—" Then she faltered. Moral dilemma.

Ralph grinned, waved with a flourish toward the curb where his maroon Cadillac El Dorado was parked in a red zone.

"The road to hell is paved with that shit, chica," he consoled. "Right this way."

THIRTY-FIVE

The U-Best Scrap Yard on Southeast Military was a fine example of Early Apartheid architecture. Razor wire topped the fence. Sheets of corrugated metal lined the inside of the chain link so you couldn't see in to contemplate stealing the proprietor's countless riches. Dandelions choked the base of the fence and the sidewalk glittered with broken beer glass.

Beyond the entrance, narrow lanes twisted between mountains of electronics scraps, broken appliances, car fenders, road signs from defunct businesses. Sitting in folding chairs by the gate were two large Latino men who resembled lounging sea mammals. They were playing dominoes on a three-legged card table.

"Mira, affirmative action," Ralph said. "Yard used to belong to this gringo named Sammy L. He retired, sold the place to Hector, now it's an equal-opportunity fence spot. Hector got North Side kids, West Side kids — whatever. Didn't tell the kids what to steal — just took anything they brought. Paid by the pound, I hear."

Ralph's tone was disdainful, like this was a business arrangement seriously below his caliber.

As we watched, a couple of kids strolled out past the human walruses. One kid was Anglo, the other Latino — both about sixteen, both thin and hard-bodied, greasy hair and baggy clothes. Both were counting money from wads of cash.

"Looks like somebody's still minding the store," Ana DeLeon said. She opened the back door and got out. We followed suit.

One of the walruses nudged the other as we approached. They watched, sleepy-eyed, their slightly buck-toothed mouths slack under bristly spots of mustache. The guys must've weighed about two-fifty apiece. Their arms were slick, hairless brown slabs; their faces had the apathetic look of men who'd never had to move for anyone.

They barely blinked when Ralph drew his .357. The one on the right didn't even show expression when Ralph pistol-whipped him across the side of the face and sent him sliding to the ground.

The struck walrus slumped there on the pavement, his eyes glazed and stupid, the skin split open in a Z along his cheekbone. Even his blood ran slow, like it too was not used to being picked on.

His friend stayed frozen in his chair, gaping up at us.

I glanced at Ana. Her hands were in her back pockets. Her expression hadn't changed.

Ralph told the walruses, "That's how we say hello, eses. We're going in to talk to Chicharron now. You keep playing your little game, keep an eye on my car. You do anything else, anything stupid, we teach you how to say good-bye.

Comprendes?"

They stared at us in complete silence, amazed. Then, real slow, both nodded. We went inside.

"That was unnecessary," DeLeon grumbled.

"What's more," I said, "do you really think they're just going to sit still?"

Ralph grinned at me, and with a little discomfort I realized he didn't care in the slightest.

In the center of the scrap yard stood a stilted clapboard office that resembled a henhouse. Its exterior was covered with airbrushed graffiti — faux-cursive names outlined and colored to neon illegibility, scenes of violence and clusters of guns like bouquets, Spanish slogans, gang symbols from a dozen different neighborhoods. The windows were ragged squares made with a power saw. One of them held a large electric wall fan. A running board led up to the uncovered entrance.

Inside, Chich Gutierrez was sitting behind a metal desk, tapping a purple felt-tip pen against some paperwork that fluttered in the breeze of the fan's high-speed setting. Chicharron was sporting the same vampire look he'd had at the Poco Mas two nights ago — ponytail, silver cross earring, black leather boots, black jeans. He'd shed the trench coat in favor of a white tux shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. With a quill pen, the fashion statement would've been perfect.

Instead, there was a .38 revolver on his desk, but Ralph walked in and knocked it to the floor before Chicharron could even register our faces. The room could comfortably hold two. With four of us, the floor sagged. Ralph pointed his .357 at Chicharron. He said, "Get up."

The hum of the fan made Ralph's voice sound submerged. Chich studied us with black eyes. He looked at the gun, then at Ralph.