The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan

by Rick Riordan

  The tour was quick. Del waved in different directions, said a few words, snuck occasional glances at Erainya to see if bags of money were forthcoming. The corrugated walls of the warehouse were lined with workbenches and machine tools, welding equipment, scrap metal shavings heaped in corners. In the middle of the room were three carnival rides in various states of assembly — a Super-Whirl with the multicolored base attached but the seats scattered around the cement floor like massive wobbly Easter eggs; an eight-armed Spider Rider stripped to just the hydraulic mechanisms; a miniature carousel that looked pretty much complete.

  "I can have the two ready in a few hours if I call up some of my boys," Del promised. "The carousel's cash-and-carry."

  Del led us over to the Super-Whirl and started pointing out the hydraulics underneath. "Forty-five-degree lift-and-twirl action. Thirty rpms. You don't get any better on a trailer-mounted unit. It's a classic."

  Erainya nodded sagely. "How much?"

  "Very reasonable. Thirty thousand."

  Erainya managed to keep any reaction off her face. I set my mouth hard, thinking about the few people I'd known in my life who dealt in cash amounts that large and were fearless enough to tote it around in grocery bags. None of them were nice people.

  Jem had been jumping on the balls of his feet, anxious to try out everything. Finally he broke loose and ran toward one of the disassembled carriage units on the ground. Del lifted his finger, thought about the last time he'd told the kid "Don't," then turned to Erainya instead. "That's not safe."

  "Jem," Erainya said. Jem scootched to a stop, reined himself back to his mom's side. He didn't stop grinning.

  "It's late," Del reminded us. "Let's talk business."

  Erainya said, "So this is all you got?"

  "Right now. We can also repair any old units you got."

  She nodded toward the Cro-Magnon man looming behind me. "You always need him in the room?"

  Del glanced at Bo Peep, then at me. He apparently decided the security risk was not high. "Get a Nehi, Ernie. We'll be in the office."

  Bo Peep drifted away. The rest of us followed Brandon out of the warehouse. "You got to understand about Ernie," Del said as we crossed the yard. "Guy's gone state-to-state with the carnies so long, on the lam, he's just about fanatical to me for giving him a settle-down job, no questions asked. You worked the road long?"

  "I know Ernie's type," Erainya assured him.

  We walked up the office steps between the plaster horse and the blue elephant. Both glistened with hysterical smiles.

  Inside, the reception area was no more than seven feet square, rafter beams lower than a miner's cabin, walls so old and dim and brown it was impossible to tell what they were made of. Whatever it was, it was solid enough to accept nails, which is how the majority of things were posted — an old Hung Fong's calendar, some company notices, photographs of workers at the shop, pictures of the rides. Up along the top of the walls were ripped fragments of old party decorations in several different colors. A truly impressive collection of gimme caps hung on more nails behind the receptionist's desk.

  The receptionist, in fact, was about the only thing that wasn't nailed to the wall. She was flat on her back on the desk, snoring. After what I'd already seen of Del Brandon's business practices, it somehow didn't surprise me to find his receptionist in this condition, still in the office at midnight. She was Latina — minute size, frizzy red hair, improbably large bosom, and much spandex. In sleep, her little pointy face twitched and slanted like the drunken dormouse from Alice in Wonderland.

  Brandon walked past her and swatted her knee. "Jesus Christ, Rita."

  She stopped snoring instantly. "Yeah, Del, like you don't want me horizontal."

  Brandon glanced back at us, his face pained. "She's got a lousy sense of humor. I got a wife."

  Rita snorted. She sat up, rubbed her eyes, then focused on Jem and grinned.

  "Hey. A cutie." She groped in the drawer behind her and came up with a smushed box of Mike and Ikes. "Want some?"

  Del grumbled something about Rita getting to work, then led us down a short hall into a somewhat larger office. The carpet was threadbare sulfur. The fluorescent lights gave everything a greasy hue. Lined along the floor next to Del's desk, like luminarias, were leftover Taco Cabana bags filled with aluminum foil wads and smelling of old carne guisada.

  Behind the desk was a framed, poster-size black-and-white photograph of Jeremiah Brandon, Our Founder as a young man, leaning against a half- dismantled printing press. The shot looked straight out of a World War II-era Life — the happy industrial worker laboring for Democracy. Except for the youthful softness in his cheeks and neck, Jeremiah looked not much different from the other picture I'd seen of him in middle age. Still the buzzard's face, crooked smile, a merciless light in his eyes that spoke of past poverty and a determination to avoid it in the future. Jeremiah's fingers were long, resting on the rubber-coated rollers and steel gears of the printing press like they were keys of an organ. His arms were black with machine grease up to his elbows. Grease speckled his collarless white shirt, his trousers, his cap. I had a feeling the liquid could've been blood and Jeremiah would've smiled just the same way.

  I looked from the photograph to the real-life Del Brandon.

  You couldn't miss the contrast. Del looked like his dad after twenty years of Prozac and eclairs — a fatter, duller version of the original, the ferocious hunger in his eyes watered down to a kind of unfocused discontent.

  Del sat down at his desk, which was absolutely empty — no pens, no paper, nothing. The desk of an untrustworthy man.

  He spread his arms. "Well?"

  Erainya patted Jem's head. "Why don't you go play with Rita, honey?" Jem ran fearlessly into the other room — a lot more fearlessly than I would have if someone suggested I play with Rita. Erainya shut the door behind him, then sat in the only free chair. I leaned against the wall by the desk. Del sat back in his chair, waiting.

  "Mr. Brandon," Erainya said, "we're private investigators."

  Del had been about to prop his boot up on the desk. He missed, dropped the foot to the floor, and sat up. "Come again?"

  "I'm a private investigator, honey. I need some information about your brother."

  Brandon's eyes got very small. "Did Arno tell you to fuck with me like this?"

  "I don't know Arno."

  "You said—"

  "No, I didn't. You assumed."

  Del opened his mouth, looking back and forth between me and Erainya. When the color came back into his face, it came a little too quick. Maybe he wasn't really planning to go for his side arm, but when his hand started slipping toward the edge of the desk both Erainya and I had the same idea. Erainya pulled her 9mm from her purse. I walked around the desk, lifted Del's hand, and removed his .38 semiauto from its holster.

  Del didn't object. He took the intrusion calmly, like a man who was used to being disarmed. When he spoke again, he addressed Erainya.

  "You think this is a good idea? You think you can treat me like this?"

  "We don't want you getting stupid, honey. That's all."

  I ejected the gun's magazine into the trash can. I checked the desk, found no other weapons, then nodded to Erainya.

  She put her 9mm back in her purse.

  "I yell now," Del warned, "that kid of yours will be Ernie's lunch. What are you thinking?"

  "All we want is to ask a couple of questions, honey."

  "You tricked me."

  "I do what's easiest. Tell me about your brother."

  "He's dead. What's to tell?"

  "You sound real broken up about it," I noticed.

  Del shrugged.

  "You looked broken up this afternoon," I added, "kicking Aaron's widow and kid out of their home."

  Del's eyes got even smaller. "That's where — on the porch, yeah. What the fuck is this about?"

  "We're working for UTSA, Mr. Brandon," Erainya said. "The University wants to make sure their professor didn
't get shot full of holes through any fault of theirs. You heard the police are holding a suspect in your brother's murder?"

  "I didn't know that, you think I'd be out at night conducting business? Years I've been waiting for them to catch that fucker. He killed my father."

  "You believe Zeta Sanchez had a grudge against you?"

  "Fuckin' A."

  "Your brother too?"

  Del's gaze slid down to his empty desktop, then back to Erainya. "Look, lady, the police already asked me all about that. I told them I don't know."

  Erainya nodded sympathetically. "And the truth is?"

  Del licked his lips. "You just want to know so UTSA will relax."

  "That's right, honey."

  "Then you'll get out of here?"

  I gave him the Scout's honor.

  "Just so you understand," he started, "Zeta Sanchez— Anthony — he should've been grateful to us. Nobody else would've given him the kind of chance we did."

  He looked at Erainya for support.

  She said, "Absolutely."

  "Sanchez's folks worked for us for ages. His dad was a metal welder. His mom worked in the office." Del nodded past me, toward Rita's reception area. "I remember her pretty well. I was about fifteen when Anthony was born. Sanchez's dad died not too long after that but his mom worked here a few more years before quitting. The thing about my dad, though — once your family worked for him, he kept track of you, tried to help out any way he could. So he kept tabs on the Sanchezes. When Anthony started getting into trouble with gangs, Dad offered him a job here. Dad did that for a lot of the employees' kids."

  "Heartwarming," I said.

  "Everybody got a chance in Dad's business. Even Zeta Sanchez. Even my stupid fucking brother. Everybody."

  From out in the office, Rita's voice exploded with laughter. Jem was singing her something.

  Erainya said, "Why would Sanchez want you and your brother dead?"

  "We shut the bastard down, that's why. Zeta was moving drugs through RideWorks. Using our fucking company to move heroin for his friends on the West Side. If he'd been found out, we would've been closed down. Everything my dad built, everything Aaron and I were going to inherit— gone. I got Dad to see what was going on. Aaron didn't have much to do with it, but Sanchez didn't know that. He blamed us both, told us we were just jealous he could run the company better than we could. Dad had it out with him after that — threw Sanchez out on his ass. You know what Sanchez did to retaliate."

  "And the rumor about your dad sleeping with Sanchez's wife?" I asked.

  "That story's bullshit."

  "The girl's name was Sandra," I recalled. "Her brother's still around — Hector Mara. You wouldn't happen to know him?"

  "I don't have to convince you two of shit," Del blustered. "I told you what you wanted to hear. Now you can get the hell out."

  In the reception area, Jem kept laughing along with Rita. They both said "Whoops!" in unison.

  Del nodded toward the door. "Ernie'll be coming back about now, checking on things. My transactions don't take this long, miss."

  Erainya took a card from her purse, slid it across the table toward Del. "You think of anything you forgot, honey, call us."

  "I got other things to do, lady. Either you got thirty thousand dollars to spend or your time is up."

  "Your wife awaits?" I asked. "Or Rita?"

  His face reddened. "I'll remember you, asshole."

  "Good night, Del," Erainya said. "Thanks a million."

  We went outside to collect Jem, who was giggling at Rita trying to balance a beer bottle on her forehead. Jem asked if we could come back here tomorrow. He said it was fun even without the amusement rides working.

  Erainya told him probably not.

  We left Rita still trying to do the beer bottle trick, Del Brandon glaring at us while he reloaded his gun.

  FOURTEEN

  Wednesday morning came way too early and it brought along a friend named Margarita Hangover.

  I sweated through an hour of the Yang sword form, then showered until Gary Hales banged on the wall to let me know his bathtub was backing up. The plumbing at 90 Queen Anne is fun that way.

  I shaved carefully around the gash on my cheek. The discoloration and puffiness had gone down since yesterday. I could see the shape of the new scar — a little smile, half an inch long.

  I read my morning battery of E-mail reports from Erainya, breakfasted, dressed in coat and tie, and got on the road by nine. Most of Robert Johnson's hair went with me on the coat, since he'd used it as a bed the night before, but when you have exactly two nice outfits and one of them smells like a bomb blast, you make do.

  I drove northwest on I-10 until the real estate developments and strip malls began falling away to the natural topography of the Balcones Escarpment — crumpled folds of land thickly covered with live oak and prickly pear. Just inside Loop 1604, the UTSA campus rose from the woods in an isolated cluster of limestone cubes. The area around it had begun to urbanize over the last few years, but occasionally in the early morning you still see deer, armadillos, roadrunners at the edges of the parking lots.

  I'd lived in the Bay Area for ten years before moving home to San Antonio. My California friends would not have called this a particularly beautiful place. Those brave enough to visit me in Texas complain of the boring vista, the oppressive storm clouds that frequently rolled in, the harsh flat prairie ugliness. I try telling them that it's a matter of perspective, that San Francisco is like a Monet — any idiot can appreciate it. San Antonio, on the other hand, takes time, patience. It's more like a Raymond Saunders, put together with muddy strokes and scraps of handwriting and broken stuff. But it's beautiful, too. You just have to be more perceptive.

  Of course my Bay Area friends counter that, by my logic, all the truly perceptive Mensa types should be living in Allentown, Pennsylvania, appreciating the completely subliminal beauty there. At that point in the argument I usually order more tequila and tell my friends to screw themselves. I turned onto Loop 1604 and drove across the dusty access road to the north entrance of campus. I parked in the faculty lot and tried not to feel strange about it.

  After twenty minutes filling out paperwork for the provost's secretary and the dean's secretary and the campus police lieutenant's secretary, I was back in the late Aaron Brandon's office — my office.

  The hole in the window had been covered with clear plastic tarp. Odds and ends and half-burned essays from the floor had been heaped onto the desk. Unfortunately, many of the essays were still readable, thus gradable. I sat down in the black leather chair. Outside, the spring morning looked glazed behind plastic. The picture of Aaron Brandon with his wife and child had been replaced upside down on the desk.

  My graduate medieval seminar started in three hours. I began sorting through my predecessors' files — syllabi, lecture notes, grade sheets, highlighted readers, personal effects. It didn't take long to learn what belonged to Brandon and what belonged to old Dr. Haimer, the office's original occupant. Haimer's materials were the tried and true and dusty — the General Prologue, Gawain, the Wakefield plays. Brandon's syllabus, as I anticipated, tended toward the flashy and gory — Crusade narratives, miracle plays, fabliaux. The Middle Ages according to Stephen King.

  I'd stacked about a foot of paper into two piles, Brandon and Haimer, when I hit a thin folder labeled RIDERWORKS stuck to the back cover of Brandon's Riverside Chaucer.

  Inside was an eight-by-ten photograph of Aaron with father Jeremiah and brother Del. All three stood on the running board of an old-fashioned carousel. Jeremiah must've been in his sixties by the time this shot was taken, not long before his murder. His hair had turned greasy white, his face thinner with age, but his eyes still glittered with the same fierce intensity. I tried to imagine this man making advances toward a seventeen-year-old married girl named Sandra Mara-Sanchez, and I decided with a cold certainty that Jeremiah Brandon would've been capable of it.

  The brothers Del and Aaron loo
ked strikingly similar to each other but hardly like Dad at all. None of the three men looked particularly happy.

  Under the photo was a Xerox copy of an article from a Texas business journal, dated three years ago. The story announced that a settlement had been reached between the IRS and a drill-bit manufacturing company in the Permian Basin. An insider at the company had tipped IRS investigators about cash transactions the company owner was conducting with wildcatters. A sting operation had been launched. Once caught, the owner had bargained his way out of jail time for tax evasion by agreeing to massive fines and relinquishing control of the company to a board of directors made up of other family members.

  I read the article again. I looked at the photo.

  When knuckles rapped on the door, I closed the folder and set it aside.

  "Tres?"

  Professor David Mitchell looked better than he had the day before — his jeans and dress shirt freshly pressed, white sideburns trimmed, face hinting at a good twelve hours of sedative-assisted sleep. He sawed a piece of paper against his thigh.

  "I've asked my secretary to delay her," he told me. "We have about five minutes."

  "Come again?"

  He looked behind him nervously, then came all the way in and closed the door. "Ines Brandon."

  "Aaron's widow. She's here?"

  Mitchell sighed. "Mrs. Brandon needs to collect some of her husband's things. I wasn't sure how you'd — Perhaps we could talk in the hall?"

  "Talk about what?"

  He stared over my shoulder for a few seconds, then shook his head, coming out of his reverie. He held up the folded paper in his hand. "I'm sorry. The first report from Ms. Manos. You've seen it?"

  "Have a seat."

  "But—" He pointed behind him. "You're sure?"

  I waved him toward the student's chair.

  Mitchell checked his watch. He sat down reluctantly, probably remembering what had happened the last time he sat there, then unfolded Erainya's report and frowned at it. "Ms. Manos seems to be urging us to end the investigation."

  "Erainya would love to keep taking your money. She's just trying to be clear with you. The State Licensing Board takes a dim view of investigators who churn cases, string clients along for more hours than necessary. If the police are right, UTSA has nothing to worry about. Brandon's murder was some kind of personal matter between Aaron and the man who killed him, Zeta Sanchez. Sanchez is a former employee of the Brandons. He might've murdered Aaron's father back in '93. If that's all true, you may wish to discontinue your investigation."