The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan (19 page)

The rest of the block was lined with closed tiendas
and burglar-barred homes. Crisscrossed telephone lines and pecan tree
branches sliced up the sky. The only real light came from the end of
the block across the street — the Church of Our Lady of the Mount.
Its Moorish, yellow-capped spires were brutally lit, a dark bronze
Jesus glaring down from on high at the Poco Mas. Jesus was holding
aloft a circle of metal that looked suspiciously like a master's
whip. Or perhaps a hubcap rim.

At the entrance to the cantina, I was greeted by a
warm blast of air that smelled like an old man's closet — leather
and mothballs, stale cologne, dried sweat and liquor. Inside, the
rafters glinted with Christmas ornaments. Staple-gunned along the
walls were decades of calendars showing off Corvettes with bras and
women without. The jukebox cranked out Selena's "Quiero"
just loud enough to drown casual conversation and the creaking my
boots must've made on the warped floor planks.

I got a momentary, disapproving once-over from the
patrons at the three center tables. The men were hard-faced Latinos,
most in their forties, with black cowboy hats and steel-toed boots.
The few women were overweight and trying hard to pretend otherwise —
tight red dresses and red hose, peroxide hair, large bosoms, and
chunky faces heavily caked with foundation and rouge designed for
Anglo complexions. Long neck beer bottles and scraps of bookie
numbers littered the pink and white Formica.

On a raised platform in back were two booths, one
empty, one occupied by a cluster of young locos — bandannas
claiming their gang colors, white tank tops, baggy jeans laced with
chains, scruffy day beards. One had a Raiders jacket. Another had a
porkpie hat and a pretty young Latina on his lap. The girl and I
locked eyes long enough for Porkpie to notice and scowl.

Then I recognized someone else.

Hector Mara, Zeta Sanchez's ex-brother-in-law, was
talking to another man at the bar.

Mara wore white shorts and Nikes and a black Spurs
tunic that said ROBINSON. His egg-brown scalp reflected the beer
lights.

Mara's friend was thinner, taller, maybe thirty years
old, with a wiry build and a high hairline that made his thin face
into a valentine. He had a silver cross earring and black-painted
fingernails, a black trench coat and leather boots laced halfway up
his calves. He'd either been reading too much Anne Rice or was on his
way to a bandido Renaissance festival.

A line of empty beer bottles stood in front of the
two men. Mara's face was illuminated by the little glowing screen of
a palm-held computer, which he kept referring to as he spoke to the
vampire, like they were going over numbers. I climbed onto the third
bar stool next to Mara, and spoke to the bartender loud enough to be
heard over Selena. "Cerveza, por favor."

Mara and the vampire stopped talking.

The bartender scowled at me. His face was puffy with
age, his hair reduced to silver grease marks over his ears. "Eh?"

"Beer."

He squinted past me suspiciously, as if checking for
my reinforcements. Hector Mara just stared at me. Huge loops of
armhole showed off his well-muscled shoulders, swirls of tattoos on
his upper arms, thick tufts of underarm hair. He had an old gunshot
scar like a starburst just above his left knee. The vampire stared at
me, too. He clicked his black fingernails against the bar. Friendly
crowd.

"Unless you've got a special tonight," I
told the bartender. "Manhattan, maybe?"

The bartender reached into his cooler, opened a
bottle, then plunked a Budweiser in front of me.

"Or beer is fine," I said.

"Eh?"

I made the "okay" sign, dropped two dollars
on the counter. Without hesitating, the old man got out a second beer
and plunked it next to the first. I was tempted to put down a twenty
and see what he'd do. Instead I slid one of the Buds toward Hector
Mara.

"Maybe your friend could go commune with the
night for a few minutes?" I suggested.

Mara's face was designed for perpetual anger — eyes
pinched, nose flared, mouth clamped into a scowl. "I know you?"

"I saw Zeta today."

Mara and the vampire exchanged looks. The vampire
studied my face one more time, memorizing it, then detached himself
from the bar. He flicked his fingers toward the cholos in the back
booth and they all lifted their chins. The vampire walked out.

I watched him get into the white Chevy van and drive
away.

"Yo, gringo," Hector Mara said, "You
got any idea who you just offended?"

"None. Much more fun that way. Although if I was
guessing, I'd say it was Chich Gutierrez, your business partner."

Mara's eye twitched. "Who the fuck are you?"

"I was at that party you threw yesterday out on
Green Road. The one where Zeta blew a hole in the deputy."

Mara's eyes drifted down to my boots, then made their
way back up my rumpled dress clothes, my face, my uncombed hair.

"You ain't a cop," he decided.

"No."

"Then fuck off."

He pushed the beer back toward me and returned to his
PalmPilot, started tapping on the screen with a little black stylus.
On the jukebox, Selena segued into Shelly Lares.

I looked at the bartender. "Donde esta the
famous spot?"

"Eh?"

"The place where Zeta Sanchez killed Jeremiah
Brandon."

The bartender waved his hands adamantly. "No,
no. New management."

He said it like a foreign phrase he'd been trained to
speak in an emergency. Mara pointed over his shoulder with the
stylus. "Second booth, gringo. The one that's always empty."

The bartender mumbled halfheartedly about the change
of management, then retreated to his liquor display and began turning
the bottles label-out.

"The D.A.'s going to prosecute," I told
Mara.

"Big surprise."

"They figure ten to ninety-nine for shooting the
deputy, life for Aaron Brandon's murder, maybe federal charges for
the bomb blast. Quick and easy. That's before they even consider the
Old Man's murder case from '93."

"Hijo de puta like you gonna love that."

"And who am I?"

A stripe of green neon drifted across Mara's forehead
as he turned toward me. His eyes burned with loathing. "Reporter.
Got to let those nervous gringos see the right headline, huh? Mexican
Convicted for Alamo Heights Murder."

I pulled out one of my Erainya Manos Agency cards,
slid it across the counter.

"What if I thought Sanchez was framed?"

Mara's bad-ass expression melted as soon as he saw
the card. He looked from it to me. "The guy in the Panama hat."

"George Berton."

Mara pushed the card away, then leaned far enough
toward me so I could smell the beer on his breath.

"I told your friend," he hissed. "I
said I'd think about it. All right? Don't push me."

I tried to stay poker-faced. It wasn't easy.

"Sure," I said. "I was just in the
neighborhood. Thought I'd check back."

Mara sniffed disdainfully. He gestured toward the
back of the room and the screen of his PalmPilot flashed like
mercury. "You see the locos in the corner? No, man, I don't mean
look at them. They'll think you want trouble. Those are Chich's boys.
His younger set. You think I'm going to sit here and talk friendly
with them watching us, you're crazy."

"Make small talk. Were you in this place the
night Jeremiah Brandon got shot?"

"I—" Hector looked down at the bar. "No.
I missed it. Most righteous thing that ever happened in this place."

"I can understand why you'd think that."

"Oh, you can."

"The old man had an affair with your sister."

"Affair, shit. Raped, used, sent Sandra away
when she was so shamed and scared there wasn't no choice. Like a
whole bunch of girls before her. I never even saw her — not a
good-bye, nothing."

"Hard."

"You don't know about hard. Now you need to
leave."

"Tell me about Sandra."

Hector Mara hefted his PalmPilot. "I got a
salvage yard to manage, gringo. Books to balance. Don't help when the
fucking police keep me tied up the whole day, neither. Why don't you
leave me alone?"

Hector tried to ignore me. He started writing.

I drank my beer. Behind us, Shelly Lares sang about
her broken corazon.

"Was Sandra happy married to Sanchez?"

Hector's PalmPilot clattered on the bar. "Chingate.
What the fuck you want, man? Why do you care?"

"I like annoying you, Hector. It's so easy."

Hector stared at me.

I pointed my bottle at him and fired off a round.

"You fucking insane, gringo."

"Tell me about your sister and I'll leave."

Hector glanced across the room. The men at the tables
were bragging about greyhound races. One of the locos at the back
booth laughed and the pretty Latina squealed in protest. They didn't
seem to be paying us much mind. Hector Mara curled his large brown
fingers into his palm one at a time.

Tattoos of swords and snakes on his inner arm
rippled. "You want the story? I claimed a rival set to Zeta
Sanchez when I was fourteen. Chich Gutierrez, he was one of my older
vatos. We were a shitty little set but we thought we were bad. Then
one night Zeta and some of his homeboys cornered me at the Courts,
said I could die or switch claims. If I switched, I could tell them
where to shoot me."

"Your leg," I guessed.

He nodded, traced his fingers over the scar tissue
above his knee.

"I did that for one reason, man. I looked at
Sanchez and I knew he had the kind of rep I needed for me, my family.
Once I was down with Zeta, I got respect. My kid sister Sandra got
respect. People left her alone. That was important to me, gringo.
Real important."

Hector looked at me to see how I was taking the story
so far, maybe to see if the gringo was laughing at him inside.

Apparently I passed the test.

"Sandra wanted to be a poet," Hector said.
"You believe that? She never claimed no girl posses when we
lived in the Courts. Couldn't stand up for herself. Me claiming
Sanchez was all that saved her. Then when we were about sixteen, our
mom got busted for dealing. Me and Sandra moved out to my
grandmother's place."

"The property on Green Road."

Mara nodded. "For a couple of years I had this
stupid idea maybe Sandra was going to make it. Farm life. New school.
Perfect for her. She never got into trouble. Made it all the way
through high school. Even started college before Zeta got interested
in her, you know — in a new way. Zeta decided it was a good match."

"And was it?"

Hector turned his beer bottle in a slow circle. "Zeta
was old-fashioned. Didn't want his wife going to college. But he was
good to Sandra. Looked out for her."

"You believe that?"

More silence. "She and Zeta would've worked
things out, wasn't for the Brandons. After the Old Man caught her,
she didn't have no choice but to take his money and run. Sanchez
would've killed her for what she did, her fault or not. But, man —
it could've been different for her. She almost made it out."

"And you?"

"What about me?"

"Did you make it out?"

Hector smiled sourly. He dabbed his finger in the
circle of sweat at the base of his beer, smeared a line of water away
from the bottle. "I'm a man. Ain't the same for me."

"You decided to keep living on your
grandmother's property. Those chickens in the coop, the garden —
those things require maintenance. Somebody cares about that place."

"Go home, gringo. Quit while you're ahead."

"Zeta's gun — the gold revolver. He left it
with you."

The sour smile faded. "Say what?"

"The gun didn't go south with Zeta. He should've
ditched it, but for some reason he couldn't throw away that gift from
Jeremiah Brandon. He left the gun in San Antonio with somebody —
I'm guessing you. The fact that police found it near Aaron Brandon's
house is important. You see?"

Mara's eyes darkened to a dangerous shade. "Be
careful, gringo."

"'Cause the thing is, Hector, if somebody was to
frame Zeta, you'd be in a good position to do it. What with Zeta
staying at your place and all, and you doing business with Sanchez's
old rival Chich."

"I told your friend in the goddamn Panama hat—"

"Yeah, I know. You told George you'd think about
it. All I'm saying is maybe you should think a little harder. Let us
hear from you."

Hector studied me for another stanza of Shelly Lares,
then reassembled his cold smile. "You'll hear from me, gringo.
Now lo siento, eh? I got to do this now to keep appearances."