The Last King of Texas - By Rick Riordan Page 0,100

pictures with safety scissors.

I drove slowly all the way home.

Back at 90 Queen Anne, I stared reluctantly at the phone for several minutes, then called Ana DeLeon's work number, got her voice mail.

I left a cryptic message - I had new information, I might be able to share it soon, but first we needed to talk. Preferably over another pitcher of margaritas. DeLeon didn't call back.

I called Brooke Army Medical Center. No change in George's condition. Then I lay down on my futon and burned my eyes out reading The Woman in White. By page 200, I still couldn't fall asleep.

Maybe it would've been easier if the Suitez family across the street had had another party and lulled me with the familiar sounds of Freddy Fender or Narcisco Martinez. Or if Mrs. Geradino's Chihuahuas had yapped at the moon. Or if Gary Hales' upstairs TV had blared out a John Wayne movie on the night-owl theater. These noises I could've dealt with. But not dead quiet on a Saturday night in San Antonio.

Robert Johnson had no insomnia worries. He'd curled up happily on my crotch, closed his eyes, and proceeded to increase his body temperature by a hundred degrees.

I stared at the ceiling. I counted the inches that the moonlight advanced across my wall.

I thought about the ventilator in George's hospital room, about Zeta lying in his jail cell, looking out olive-green bars at more rows of olive-green bars, his eyes empty and maybe his thoughts just as hollow. I thought of Ana DeLeon the night before, in those few moments when the ice in her demeanor had melted. Mostly, I thought about Ines and Michael Brandon.

Finally I slid Robert Johnson as gently as I could off my crotch. I got up and dressed - black sweats, black T-shirt, black Nikes, a fanny pack with a few select tools.

The rumble of the Barracuda's engine seemed obscenely loud in the nighttime quiet. I headed down Broadway, past a group of low-rider Chevies in the Lions Club lot, a few teenagers smoking and talking outside Taco Cabana, the usual late-night crowd at Earl Abel's Coffee Shop. Otherwise, the town had shut down. I drove south, under I-35, past Southern Music, then turned right on Jones. Unless Del Brandon had another nighttime transaction under way, I planned on resolving some unanswered questions tonight. If possible, I also planned on finding something I could use to nail Del Brandon's fat ass to his Super-Whirl. RideWorks looked closed up, even the office. There were no cars on the street.

I parked at the gates, got out of the car, and was just examining the chain and padlock when headlights swung onto Camden behind me, about fifty yards back. The obvious didn't occur to me - that I should get back in the Barracuda and get the hell out of there. Instead, stupidly, I squandered five or six seconds watching the white van pull up alongside the Barracuda. Before it had even come to a stop the side door slid open and five Latino men unloaded. One was Chicharron - still a Child of the Night in his black leather and silver, his trench coat conveniently covering the damage Ralph's fan-throwing practice had done to his arms. The self-confident burn in Chich's eyes told me he'd coked himself up just enough to make this encounter enjoyably bloody.

His four friends were the teenagers I'd met at the Poco Mas - Porkpie, with the hat and loose-cut cholo threads, his Taurus P-11 drawn with no preliminaries this time. The other three formed a right flank - all smooth young faces and wispy black beards, jeans, white tank tops, expensive sneakers. I focused on little differences - one had a hairnet. One a gold nose ring. The third held a length of bike gear chain. No visible guns except for Porkpie's. Not yet.

"I hear you're a professor." Chicharron smiled at me with what looked like artificially pointed teeth. "For a teacher, you learn slow."

I said nothing. With Porkpie's Taurus trained on me, there didn't seem much point, I chose to stay standing, back to the gate, arms free, George's car between me and them.

Chich kept smiling, measuring me. He wouldn't be sure if I was carrying a gun or not, if I were alone or not. He'd want to be sure my situation was really as hopeless as it looked, that I'd truly been stupid enough