The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(78)

"I want to understand what you really saw that night, Paloma — it doesn't make sense to me."

"I do not want to talk to you."

"Someone else fired those shots into Aaron Brandon. Zeta Sanchez was merely set up for the kill."

Her face flattened. "You call me a liar?"

"Nobody else saw Sanchez that night. Nobody else heard the shots. Only you. A man's life rests on what you say."

Footfalls on the steps outside.

"La policia believe me." Paloma said it evenly.

"The police are licking their lips to put Sanchez away. What really happened, Paloma? Why are you willing to lie?"

From the doorway, her son said, "Leave her alone, mister."

I turned. Juan's face was hard. His red Chris Madrid's T-shirt was untucked from his shorts. His fists were balled.

Paloma kept turning the deer's eye around in her thick fingers like a tiny steering wheel. She darted her eyes at Juan and said, "La caja, mijito."

Juan hesitated, then saw the sternness in his mother's expression. He got the box, hefted it, then carried it out, his dark eyes still cracking the whip at me as he passed.

When he was gone, Paloma sighed. "I saw what I saw, senor. Es todo."

"Somebody put two bullets into Hector Mara. If you think silence will keep you safe, it won't."

Her expression hardened. She picked up another ceramic mug, this one shaped like a man's head with a battered blue hat and grizzled beard and a drunken grin. Paloma wrapped its face in newspaper.

"I keep everything, senor." Paloma set the mug in her box, picked up an ashtray. "My children's things. My husband's photograph. Ines' things too, now. Where I go, these things all go with me. Even the bad is important."

She gave me a wary look, as if she hoped but did not anticipate that I would follow her reasoning. "You understand, senor?"

I stared down into Paloma's half-packed box. I took a deep breath, trying to control the desire to kick myself. "Maybe I do, Paloma."

I headed back down her rickety stairs, past her glaring son, down the driveway to George's red Barracuda. I had a meeting to make at the 410 Diner.

FORTY-TWO

Sunset was a good time to hit the 410. The luminous strips of blue and orange sky went well with the neon trim on the nuevo moderne diner. Its long oval windows glowed with light and the bar inside glistened green and black. Even the menu board exuded a kind of oily class — black acrylic inscribed with Day-Glo colors that made the words mashed potatoes & meat loaf seem chic and trendy.

In the main room, booths were molded from enough chrome to refit several '57 Chevy Biscaynes. Along the walls hung neon-laced portraits of Jimmy and Marilyn and the other Hollywood regulars.

By the front window, three middle-aged Anglos were drinking margaritas and talking about a cattle auction. Midroom, at one of the black Formica tables, an older couple ate in silence — the man with grizzled beard and pony-tail, leather cowboy hat, pastel Apache-print Western shirt; his date an enormous pasty woman in a denim dress.

Ines and the kids sat at a back booth. Del Brandon, my favorite person, sat in a chrome chair at the end of the table. Del was talking to Ines, tapping his finger on a set of documents. Jem and Michael were playing with packets of Sweet'n Low.

I grabbed a menu from the waitress station, then slid into the booth beside the kids. "Sorry I'm late."

Jem shrieked with delight and gave me a crushing hug. Nobody else did. Ines' hair was loose around her shoulders, her face washed clean of makeup. She was dressed for moving — jeans, no jewelry, an oversized Fiesta '98 T-shirt with a glistening crumple of packing tape stuck to one sleeve.

Del's Hawaiian shirt and slacks were disheveled. His wedge of black hair had started to crumble. His expression was equal parts anger and weariness. "What the f**k are you doing here?"

"There are children present, Del. Behave. I'm just picking up my amigo Jem. You remember Jem."

Jem waved hello by flapping a Sweet'n Low packet.

Del glared at Ines. "You invite this jerk?"

I picked up the three-page document in front of him. "Something from your lawyers?"

Del tried to swipe the papers.

I kept them away.

The document seemed to be an agreement between Ines and Del. It recognized Del's ownership of RideWorks, Inc., and renounced all future claims by Aaron Brandon's estate. Ines had already signed it. Her signature—

I looked up at her. "Why?"

Del said, "That's none of your goddamn business."

"Tres." Ines looked protectively at Michael, saw that he and Jem were occupied with saccharin and Captain's Wafers. "Del's right," she said firmly. "This isn't your business."

I flipped the document into Del's chest. "Won't do you much good in jail, partner."

He tried to grab the front of my shirt.

I intercepted his wrist, forced it down on the Formica tabletop. "Temper," I said softly.

Ines hissed, "Stop it! Both of you."

Del yanked his hand away. "You want to see something from my lawyers, Navarre? You'll get it."

"Del," Ines said. "You have what you wanted. Now leave."

Del kept glaring at me. He folded the papers, pocketed them. "Don't f**king come near me again, Navarre. You understand?"