The Last King of Texas (Tres Navarre #3)(86)

Then I was dragged through a doorway and the scene disappeared in darkness. My feet hit the ground. I heard footsteps receding, then a metal door rolling shut. I lay on my back admiring the blackness, wishing for more feeling in my body. None came.

Maybe I slept. When I opened my eyes again I could make out the outline of an air duct above me, thin lines of a corrugated metal ceiling. I got excited when my fingers twitched, involuntarily, and I could actually feel the scrape of the cement floor.

I started to be conscious of my own swallowing. I could feel my hands and my feet. The leech on my face started slithering around.

After a long, long time, I was able to make a fist. Light seeped into the high ceiling through constellations of rust holes. They made beautiful patterns — smiling faces, animals, monsters. Metal support beams started appearing out of the darkness.

I tried to lift my arm. I was scared when my hand actually appeared in front of my face.

I opened my mouth and a sound came out — nothing very human, but sound. Whatever they'd drugged me with had a lot of staying power. I still felt no pain, just a greater heat — an invisible finger poking deeply into my rib cage over and over, trying to get my attention.

I was almost cocky enough to try sitting up when there was an explosion of sound, then light. The warehouse doors rolled open behind me and blinding sun poured in.

Men came in, talking. Some stepped around me. I saw flashes of faces — all Latino, most young and bearded, many with ski caps or bandannas.

Somebody told somebody else to move the pile of garbage. I recognized Chicharron's voice. Once I was jerked up off the floor and my vision twisted sideways, I realized the garbage was me.

I was shoved into a chair and promptly slid out of it again. Impatient hands dragged me back into a sitting position.

When my gyroscope readjusted itself, I saw a black leather executive chair with slash marks along the top. Chicharron sat in that chair, his legs crossed, his casual vampire-wear on — jeans, a billowy white shirt, lots of silver. Other men moved around behind him — circling, watching me with predatory eyes. I recognized Porkpie, and the kid with the hairnet who sported a nasty shiner I devoutly hoped I'd given him.

Chicharron adjusted the folds of his shirt, then flicked his fingers toward me.

"You got something to say?"

I worked my jaw and eloquently managed to reply, "Uh."

Chich looked at Porkpie, who moved a little closer, ever ready to serve and protect.

"Is he going to be like this permanently?" Chich demanded.

Porkpie said that I would come out of it eventually and they'd have to give me more of the stuff. "Unless we kill him." He said this hopefully.

Chicharron looked at me like I was a throwaway carpet sample in a color he didn't particularly care for.

"You're still alive for three reasons."

I made a small noise.

Chich examined his fingers. His nails were as long as a classical guitar player's. "First, your name is Navarre. I'd rather not kill a guy who's got friends in the sheriff's department unless I have to. Second, you fight okay. I appreciate that. C, there's a little matter about some heroin."

He waited. I blinked, once maybe.

"You want to talk?" Chich asked. "Or you want to spend another night here with my boys, maybe be their mascot?"

"Another night," Porkpie broke in, "and he won't have no brain left, we keep him on this stuff."

"I can talk."

I think they were almost as surprised as I was that the croak was comprehensible.

I tried to say something else, failed, then realized that the more I concentrated on how to speak, the more I choked. "Chicharron—"

Chich made an X with his index fingers. "Nobody here by that name," he said. "You want any hope of getting out of this place still breathing, you'll remember that. Tell me what I want to hear, Navarre. Where's my heroin?"

I was watching his mouth move. When it stopped it took me a while to realize he needed a response. "Don't know."

"You really want that to be your answer?"

"Ask Del Brandon."

Chich glanced at Porkpie. "If we were to pull some of his fingers off, you think he'd feel it?"

Porkpie opined that I probably wouldn't.

Chich accepted this disappointment with a shrug. "Brandon's been talking to the police, Navarre. He's been in there all night, singing any song the cops tell him to sing. You know what he's claiming, Navarre? He's swearing Zeta Sanchez's wife is still around. He's claiming Mrs. Sanchez and Hector have been using RideWorks to move smack. My smack. He says his job was just to shut up and be silent about it. Says he doesn't have anything that belongs to me. And you know why I believe Del? I believe Del because Del's too f**king retarded to move he**in by himself. Are you hearing me?"

He snapped his fingers, which brought my eyes back from space, back to his mouth.

I said, "You know a lot about what Del Brandon is telling the police."

Chicharron's mouth crept up at the corner. "What I want from you — the only thing — is the heroin."

"Heroin's not important."

"Not important. My heroin's not important."

"Hector needed runaway money. So he ripped you off. But that's incidental."