The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan (23 page)

A minute after that the excitement was over. DeLeon
and I were alone in the room again, staring down at a crawl space
that smelled of cool damp earth and was absolutely empty.

"So much for that," she said.

"Let me call Ralph."

"No."

"In another twenty-four hours, Mara will be
gone. An APB won't accomplish anything and you know it."

"I said no, Tres."

The use of my first name caught me off guard as much
as the tone of her refusal.

"Ana, I want to see you win on this. Let me
help."

She turned away. After a ten-count she surprised me.
She said, very softly, "Let me think about it."

I didn't push it. I walked to the window and looked
out at Hector's smashed garden, the apple tree with the muddy tracks
of his Ford Galaxie still fresh underneath, the white mobile home in
the field of spear grass. I tried to imagine a young woman, Sandra
Mara, at this bedroom window every day — looking up from a book of
poetry or from a journal she was writing in, being surprised every
time that the scene outside was not the asphalt-and-brick housing of
the Bowie Courts.

I flicked a slip of paint off the window ledge,
watched it helicopter into a sailor's-head mug. "I could maybe
get used to it here. The quiet. The country."

DeLeon met my eyes. She looked surprised, momentarily
vulnerable, as if I'd intercepted one of her thoughts.

I said, "If I grew up where Hector and Sandra
grew up, I might not want to leave this place once I'd dug in."

She nodded. "I suppose."

"You want to plant tomatoes this fall?"

Grudgingly, Ana smiled.

Then Kelsey's voice called her name from down the
hall. My reward evaporated. Ana kept my eyes a moment longer, then
left without a word, leaving me in Sandra's room, staring at the hole
in the closet floor, crumpling a red and gold George Berton cigar
seal between my fingers and wondering about a lot of things.
 

TWENTY-FIVE

I spent the rest of the afternoon by the phone at 90
Queen Anne, waiting for calls back from my contacts with the local
press. I wanted anything on the heroin trade from the last seven
years, any articles that might mention the Brandons, the Maras, Zeta
Sanchez, Chich Gutierrez, or Detective Thomas Kelsey of the SAPD.

By the end of the day, my contacts hadn't returned my
calls, and I'd been forced to actually grade a set of papers for
UTSA. Robert Johnson, the lazy bastard, helped not at all.

Over dinner of homemade dolmades and spanakopita, my
weekly allotment from Erainya, I read Sandra Mara's journal.

Sandra's cursive was flawless — delicate loops,
perfectly slanted, page after page written in the same golden brown
ink. It was the kind of cursive that would drive handwriting analysts
crazy because it was completely devoid of anomalies. Sandra didn't
believe in beginnings. No Dear Diary or I haven't written in a while
or Today I have something special to tell you. No dates on the
entries or signatures at the end. It was difficult to tell where one
entry started and the next stopped. Sandra merely indented for the
next paragraph and started writing.

This to Sylvia Plath.

I want to cut your thumb a few more times.
I want to leave off the gauze and
make
you squeeze limes instead.
A thrill?
Look at my brother's leg.
Tell
me what part of him is white.
Only what the
gun splashed open, melted into a star,
smoothed
out by a year with demons so that I could live.
Don't
impress me with your slip of a knife.
Don't
talk to me about soldiers.
No one ever bought
your life with an open wound.

Your typical light verse from a seventeen-year-old
girl.

Several pages later.

I should have stayed inside this afternoon. The
letter came.

Acceptance. Full scholarship. Grandmother and I set a
jar of raspberry sun tea under the apple tree and we danced.
Grandmother with her cane and all. We laughed at the chickens. I
thought of college. And then the car in the gravel drive and Hector
walked up with Him. After two years. He was only larger, no less or
more frightening. A devil like that can have only His fixed amount of
horror, never more or less than 100% — as a child, as a man. I
should have stayed inside. I knew His look, the weighing He did. I
was naked on a scale. I took my letter and I went inside. My
grandmother became old again, hobbling alongside and muttering
encouragement about college, but I just felt His eyes on my back. I
knew what He was thinking. I should have stayed inside.

The other entries were equally intense. Tiring to
read, unsatisfying. They told me about Sandra Mara like an
intravenous feeding.

I skipped to the end and read the last paragraph.

How could a few minutes in a hallway shake me so
much? He's so unexpected. I still can't write about it without
catching my breath. Recognition in a dozen words, maybe less. He'd
been standing in the same shadows as I, knew them instantly.

He kissed me today.

I closed the journal. Then I sat watching the light
die in the crape myrtle outside the kitchen window.

When the light was gone, I went out to my car.

Fifteen minutes later I was pulling up in front of
RideWorks, Inc.

It wasn't any prettier than it had been two nights
before, but it was a hell of a lot more crowded. Rusted pickup trucks
and low-rider Chevies lined the curb. The chain-link gate was open
and the Super-Whirl Erainya and I had seen in pieces in the warehouse
on Tuesday was now fully assembled in the yard, workers buzzing
around it. The ride's giant metal arms were fully extended, lit with
purple and yellow bulbs like dingo balls.

I walked through the gates, one hand in my pocket,
the other slapping Sandra Mara's journal against my thigh. When I
caught the eye of a worker, I smiled amiably, pointed toward the
office door. "Del?"

The worker had a Fu Manchu mustache and a grimy face.
On his head was a metal welder's visor the size of a snowboard. He
considered my question, shrugged, then went back to his cigarette.

I went up the office steps, past the carousel
animals, into the Room of Infinite Gimme Caps. No one was passed out
on the secretary's desk this time. Del's office door was open. The
restroom door at the other end of the reception area was closed and
muffled thumping noises were coming from behind it.

I poked my head into Del's office.

Empty. Jeremiah Brandon smiled coldly at me from the
1940s photograph on the wall, daring me to trespass, double-daring me
to sit at his son's desk.

"Screw you, Jerry," I told him.

I made myself comfortable and waited.

A few minutes later, I heard water running in the
bathroom. Del's voice muttered something. Then the bathroom door
opened and Rita the secretary came out, followed by Del.

Rita had her purse on her shoulder and trotted
straight out the door, dabbing her lipstick as she went. Del walked
toward the office. He didn't see me until he got in the doorway. Then
he turned a lovely shade of magenta. "What—"

"Hey, Del."

He was wearing jeans and a red shirt with parrots on
it. His unruly mat of black hair was flat on one side.

He drew his .38 from his side holster. This time I
didn't stop him. He said, "Get the hell out of my chair."

"Wearing your gun in the bathroom with Rita.
You're inviting embarrassing accidents."

"Get out of my chair."

"There's another right there. Sit down."

Del Brandon had apparently been hoping for terror.

He shifted uneasily, squeezed the gun's grip a few
times for reassurance. "I warned you."

"You sure did, Del. Now sit down and put away
the gun. We need to talk."

"What makes you think you can just—"

"Sit down," I repeated.

He seemed to be thinking of options. Apparently he
couldn't come up with any. His gun hand sagged. He lowered himself
into the chair across from me.

"Hector Mara," I said. "I was about to
look him up in your personnel files but maybe you could save me some
time. You got him listed under M for Mara or H for heroin?"

Del's face paled. "What?"

"You remember. Hector Mara. The guy you were
arguing with at the Poco Mas a couple of weeks ago."

"I wasn't—" Del's eyes tried to latch on
to something in my face, some toehold of doubt he could push up from.
"Who told you that?"

"That would be smart," I said, "telling
you."

"It isn't true."

"Of course not, Del. So set me straight."

Del glowered at the empty desk. He seemed to have
forgotten he was holding the .38, which would've been all right if it
hadn't still been pointed at my gut. "Hector Mara does some
accounting work for me from time to time. But I wasn't at that bar. I
don't go there and you should know why. My father died there."

"Accounting work," I repeated. "Hector
Mara. The bald veterano with the snakes tattooed on his arms. He's
your accountant."

Del licked his lips. "Sometimes — you know. We
deal mostly in cash. It's a hassle to just drop it in the bank."

"Mara launders money for you through his salvage
yard."

"I didn't say that."

Del had developed this cute little tic in his right
cheek that was doing a 2/4 beat — DUM-duh, DUM-duh. It made me
laugh.

"You know Ozzie Gerson, Del?"

The tic kept up its little rhythm.

"Deputy," he mumbled. "Used to give my
dad a hard time."

"Ozzie Gerson told me you weren't smart enough
to find your way off a carousel, much less run heroin out of your
company. Was he right?"

His face slackened to putty. "Wait a goddamn
minute. You got no right to talk about me that way. Ozzie Gerson..."

His voice trailed off. He sat there on the visitor's
side of his desk, suddenly staring at nothing. His shirt was
mis-buttoned, longer on one side than the other — probably from his
armed restroom encounter with Rita. Looking at Del Brandon, I felt
tired.

"Forget it," I told him. "Let's talk
about your brother. You and he had been arguing over the company,
right? Watch your muzzle, Del."

Del managed to focus on his .38, which had been
slowly tilting its little black eye up toward my forehead. Del
frowned, like he was wondering where the gun had come from. He
clunked it on the desk.

"Aaron and me always argued," he told me.
"Doesn't mean I shot him. You can ask the police — I got an
alibi."

I whistled. "An alibi."

Del didn't seem to catch the sarcasm, if indeed
sarcasm was something Del ever caught. With some effort, he hauled
himself out of the chair. He drifted over to the file cabinet,
rummaged around until he came up with a bottle of Chivas Regal, still
in the little purple sack. Then he came back over and sat down.

"Stuff gives me gas like you wouldn't believe,"
he grumbled. He uncapped the bottle and took a long hit.

I braced myself.

Del's eyes watered immediately. He tried to rub his
nose off his face, then blinked at me through the tears.

"You want to know about Aaron?" Del sloshed
his bottle around, pointing at things in the office. "Aaron
never wanted this damn company. Growing up, me and him, Aaron could
always figure the numbers faster. He could've worked the deals, no
problem. If he'd shown even a little interest, Dad would've handed
him the whole company, shut me out. I'm sure of that. But God forbid
Professor Aaron should ever get his collegiate hands dirty. Never
wanted to touch the business. Me, I had a hard time learning the
ropes. Dad used to beat the shit out of me when I'd screw something
up. 'Why can't you think on your feet like Aaron?' Then he'd get
pissed off that Aaron wasn't around, and he'd beat the shit out of me
some more for that. I took thirty years of that kind of crap for
Aaron and me both, because I was the one who was always in the
office. So you tell me — who deserved this company?"

"You, Del," I sympathized. "Obviously
you."

"Damn right." Del took another swig of
liquor. "Even then Dad didn't leave me the whole business.
Couldn't bring himself to cut out Golden Boy completely. RideWorks
was split sixty-forty, with me named president. But there were ways
to get around that."

"Such as?"

As if to demonstrate, Del shifted in his chair,
grimaced, then glared accusingly at his Chivas bottle. Brandon: the
very name connotes charm and grace.

"You were saying?" I prompted.

"What?"

"How you got the whole company for yourself."

"Oh. Yeah. According to Dad's will, I was
supposed to turn over Aaron's share of the profits when the profits
showed up. Only I made sure none ever did on the books. After a few
years of that, I finally got Aaron's approval to sell. I sold
RideWorks to a paper corporation, mine, gave my brother half the
selling price — about twenty dollars. Then I bought the company
back from myself and kept operating it."