The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan (30 page)

"I'm only here to watch. I hear anything worth
following up on, I'll do so later, legally. I'm not condoning
anything illegal. I'm not participating in anything illegal."

"Then you'd better wait in the car," Ralph
said evenly. "That's legal."

"Not good enough. And unless I have to, I don't
have a name."

"She's my girlfriend," I explained
helpfully.

Ralph looked back and forth between us. He chuckled.
"Okay. You a little paranoid, chica?"

"I want to find out what I can," DeLeon
told him. "I don't intend to lose my job."

Ralph chuckled again. "Ana, chica, you think
cops don't do this shit all the time? I know a detective — the
brass have known for years he's associating with the Mexican Mafia.
He gets the busts on their competition, uses intermediaries, does
business with people worse than me. Nobody can prove shit. You should
see the car this guy drives to work, man. I know another guy—"

"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.

"You know who I am, Chich?" Ralph asked.

"Arguello."

"Then you know to get the fuck up."

Chich's eyes slid to Ana DeLeon. They dismissed her,
then focused on me. I smiled.

Slowly, Chich stood.

His face was dead still except for his mouth, which
kept twitching at the corners — from fear or amusement, I couldn't
tell which. He said, "You going to  make this a small
mistake or a big one, Arguello?"

Ralph motioned for him to move to one side. I frisked
him, removed two switchblades and a tiny 9mm from his pockets. Ralph
found some keys and a cash box in the desk. We threw it all in the
corner with the .38.

"You can sit down now," Ralph told him.

Chich sank back into his chair.

"You ice Hector?" Ralph asked.

Chich's mouth twitched. "That supposed to be a
joke?"

"You the man in the white van, Chich. You better
start telling me some things about last night."

"Fuck off, Arguello."

Ralph moved to the wall fan. He ran a fingernail
thoughtfully along the plastic grill, then slid his .357 back in his
belt. "I knew a guy once, got his hand stuck in one of those old
metal fans. You know the round ones? Nowadays everything is fucking
plastic, man. Look at this."

Ralph put his left hand on top of the fan, worked the
fingers of his right into the holes of the grill, and pulled. The top
wasn't fastened very well and bowed out. On Ralph's second pull, the
grill ripped away with a watery zing, exposing the white circular
haze of spinning fan blades. Ralph dropped the grill to the floor. He
had little bloody lines on the pads of his fingers.

Ana stood in the corner of the room, her black Justin
boot resting on Chich's .38.

"Cheap Taiwanese shit," Ralph said. "You
think it'd do much damage, Chich?"

Chich tried for a smile. "You're full of it.
Fuckin' pawnshop man."

He wasn't so chatty when Ralph picked up the
open-faced fan and heaved it at him.

The spinning blades caught Chich's upraised forearms,
grinding into him. The sound was like an outboard motor hitting a
sandbar. Metal and plastic shuddered and Chich screamed. He lurched
backward out of his chair, flailing, cursing, brushing himself
violently like he was covered with fire ants, dragging the fan with
him, a blade snagged on his tux shirt, the cord ripped free from the
outlet. The fan clattered at his feet.

"You fucking lunatic!"

Chich held up his arms. They were ridged from wrist
to elbow with smile-shaped contusions, some merely deep welts, a few
ripped open and bleeding. Ralph walked over to Ana, smiled at her,
then bent down and picked up the .38 he'd knocked off Chich's desk.
He pointed it at its owner. "Get up."

"I'm bleeding!"

"That was just an icebreaker, man. Get us
through the posturing shit. Now sit in your chair."

Chich stood. He wiped his clothes, wiped his mouth.
He didn't seem to notice he was smearing blood. Finally he got back
into his chair.

Ana said, "Ralph—"

Ralph raised his hand, gesturing for patience. "So,
ese, you want to tell us what you been up to?"

Chich crossed his forearms, pressed them against his
stomach to stop the bleeding. The gesture didn't hide the fact that
he was shaking. "I'll fucking kill you, man."

Ralph checked the revolver's chamber, spun in a
round, aimed the gun at Chich's head.

"Me and some of my men," Chicharron
started, "we were following Hector around. We were there last
night. We didn't kill nobody."

"Uh-huh."

"I'm telling you. Hector and me done business
together for years. I had some questions over the last month or so,
but I wasn't looking to kill him."

Ralph kept the gun leveled. "What kind of
business?"

Chich's look of hatred dissolved momentarily in pain.
He chewed his lip, pressed his bloody forearms against the cloth of
his shirt. "Jesus, man, put the damn gun down. Four or five
years, Hector's been a steady customer — a key or two a month.
Mostly black tar."

A kilo of black-tar heroin, depending on how it was
cut, how far north it went, could bring anywhere from $20,000 to
$50,000.

"Hector moved the stuff through RideWorks?"
I asked.

Chich glared at me, then squeezed his eyes shut,
rocked a little bit. "You're that asshole from the Poco Mas."

"Answer his question," Ralph said.

"I don't know how Hector moved the smack,"
Chich said. "I got my suspicions about RideWorks, but Hector's a
friend. He pays on time, wants his privacy, I respect his business."

"Which is why you were following him in your
white van, why you're here the day after he died, going through his
desk."
 
"Hector'd been
doing some strange shit. I was getting a little curious. Last month,
he doubled his order — got two extra keys of heroin, wanted it on
credit. Man's money's never been a problem before, so I said sure.
He's an old friend. But that was four weeks ago and I ain't seen no
money yet. Then I see him at the Poco Mas Wednesday night with this
asshole—" He nodded courteously to me. "And I'm starting
to get a little nervous. Last night, I shadow Hector and watch him
make this meet out on Palo Blanco. While me and my boys are waiting,
thinking about what to do, boom — gunshots inside. By the time we
get inside and check it out, there's two bodies. Mara's dead. Your
buddy Berton's bleeding like a pig. Looks like they got in a little
discussion that went bad, I figure maybe it's over my stuff. But
there's no heroin, no money around that we can see. Then you drive
up, and we decide it's best to hit the road. So you tell me. You
answer my question — where's my fucking stash?"

Ralph grinned, looked at me. "I ain't happy yet,
vato. You happy?"

Chich made a shaky sound that might've been a laugh.
"I'm going to tell some of my friends in the big league,
Arguello. I'm going to mention that an asshole named Arguello's been
threatening me, throwing fans at me. What do you think my friends
would do, man?"

Ralph jacked the hammer on the .38. "I think
they'd have you replaced in twenty-four hours."

Chich's eyes went blank. "I don't know nothing
else."

Ana DeLeon asked, "You see Sanchez since he was
back in town, Chich?"