The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(73)

Robert Johnson closed his eyes, pleased by the attention to his tailbone. Ana  said, "No, you're right. Probably not."

"I'm not kidding, Ana." Kelsey was just warming up. "If I find anything, anyone who tells me they were coerced into giving you information pertaining to the Brandon homicide—"

"Chicharron file a complaint?"

"You know damn well he didn't."

"Then go home, Kelsey. It's after hours. I don't need to listen to your shit."

Kelsey smacked the drink out of her hand. Robert Johnson disappeared before the first drop of margarita splattered on the counter. DeLeon shoved Kelsey backward.

I started to come around the counter and Ana snapped, "No."

"You're a f**king disgrace, Ana," Kelsey said. "You'd think you'd be a little more careful, try to set some kind of example. What are we supposed to think, for Christ's sake? You screw up, you're screwing it up for every damn—"

DeLeon had a hell of a slap. Kelsey's face jerked to one side with the force of the strike. Ana's ring made a cut on his cheek — a small, bright ruby of blood. Kelsey stepped back, rubbed his cheek, and smiled. "I wish it were that easy. I wish we could go at it for a few rounds and make things better. We can't. You know I'm right."

"Get out," Ana rasped.

Kelsey retreated, turned once in the doorway as if thinking of a final comment, then decided against it. He closed the screen door quietly on his way out.

"I'll get you another drink," I told Ana.

THIRTY-EIGHT

I filled our margarita glasses from my pitcher, came around the counter, and pulled up the stool next to DeLeon. We sat shoulder to shoulder, drinking silently.

When her drink was gone I refilled it.

She stared at Robert Johnson, stroked his fur. I found myself watching her fingers.

"It's too much," she said.

"What is?"

"Being a model for every other damn Latina detective for the next three generations. I won't accept that."

"It's too much," I agreed.

"I have enough trouble being responsible for myself."

"Sure."

She pressed her eyes closed, then held the margarita to her mouth.

We sat there until the Herradura tequila in my special recipe was starting to knit its way into my joints, turning my limbs into giant hot-water bottles. After a while Ana started focusing on the things in my kitchen. She asked about the Bay to Breakers poster on the cupboard door, Jem's watercolor pictures on the refrigerator. I even managed to get a faint smile from her when I told her about my brother Garrett and his postcard from Key West.

She glanced at the half-written lesson plans on the counter. "I'm not helping you get those done."

"Tomorrow. I've got the whole weekend now. I'm still supposed to visit George Berton in the hospital tonight."

"I didn't tell you the truth about Ralph."

I plinked the rim of my glass. "It was a little more than just one date, wasn't it?"

She didn't say anything.

"So... you two used to be—" I searched for the right word. Thinking about Ralph Arguello and Ana DeLeon, no word seemed applicable. In fact, the whole idea seemed so absurd I started to laugh. Or maybe it was the Herradura.

Ana scowled. "Oh, screw you."

"I'm sorry. It's just — I've never seen anybody get under Ralph's skin the way you did today. At least not somebody who lived to tell about it."

"He tricked me," she said. "He left me feeling more betrayed than anybody I've ever known. If I got under his skin — good."

My smile faded. "He really hurt you."

"He's your friend. You don't want to hear it."

"Ralph is my friend," I agreed, "in spite of things that sometimes make me want to lock the door when he comes over, or not answer his phone calls. Some of the things I know about Ralph—"

I stopped. Ana didn't seem particularly surprised by what I was saying, but I reminded myself somewhere under the tequila buzz that I was talking to a homicide detective.

"Why do you keep him as a friend?" she asked softly.

"Because he's the most fiercely loyal person I've ever met. In some ways, he's also the most honest."

She made a sour laugh. "Honest."

"Ralph never lets me get away with anything. I get deluded, Ralph is the one who brings me back to reality every time. Ralph is never anything but Ralph. No pretense."

"For six weeks he convinced me he operated a retail chain."

"His pawnshops. They are a retail chain."

She gave me a withering look. "And what do you call the rest of it? Throwing electric fans at people. Pistol-whipping them. Where the hell does that come from — that side of him?"

It was my turn to be silent.

Ana swirled her drink. Between us, on the counter, Robert Johnson had his feet tucked under his chest and his eyes closed and his motor on full outboard purr. Life was good with Ana DeLeon's fingers in your fur. The bastard.

"You must've guessed he had that side," I told her. "You're a detective."

She scowled. "But he didn't — Ralph wasn't like that. Intense, sure. Kind of crazy. Relentless when it came to having fun. Like everything was on fire all the time with him. He kind of — he took my breath away. But violence..."