The Last King of Texas - By Rick Riordan Page 0,15

days before you worked patrol?"

Gerson's doughy face mottled with red.

"Why'd they demote you, Ozzie? You never talk about it."

"Drop it, Navarre. You weren't the son of the guy that hired me, you'd be walking home right now."

The Latinos got their cigarettes and paid for their gas and left. Ozzie looked disappointed. He wadded up his hot dog paper tray and made a basket in the trash can. "Screw it, anyway. I protested some bullshit evaluations from the new chief. It was all fucking politics, okay?"

He started toward the door, waved for me to follow. "See you, Mabel."

"Can't wait," she called.

We hadn't gone half a mile in Ozzie's unit before the call came through, not over the radio but on the cell phone, which meant Dispatch didn't want the media overhearing.

Ozzie said "Yeah" a few times, then checked the information that was clicking across his MDT in glowing orange. "36; P-32. Got it."

The patrol car was accelerating before he even hung up.

"Speak of the devil," he said. "They just got a warrant. Sanchez is bunking at his brother-in-law's house, just off Green Road."

"That's close to here."

He smiled. "Sheriffs jurisdiction. SAPD is requesting uniformed presence from us immediately. You up for this?"

He didn't wait for an answer. We hit eighty mph and subdivisions started falling away, the land turning to farms, rows of ripening watermelons, horse ranches.

"Trees," Ozzie murmured. "I retire, man, my place is going to have trees in the lot."

Then we careened in frightening silence onto Green Road and west toward Zeta Sanchez.

Chapter 6

If you didn't know better, you might think the right side of Green Road is lined with rolling hills - gray dunes covered with worn-out toupees of spear grass and skunkweed and now, in late April, an occasional stroke of wildflowers. But there are no hills in this part of Bexar County. What lines Green Road are mounds of landfill, compliments of the BFI city dump. When the wind blows in your direction, that quickly becomes apparent.

On the left side of the road were shacks of impoverished farmers, county welfare recipients, Texas backwoods families who'd been there for generations before the dump moved in. Their dirt yards were littered with plastic children's toys bleached white from the sun, stunted chinaberry trees, and patches of wild strawberry. Many had handmade cardboard signs in front that read BFI STINKS! Watermelon fields stretched out behind mobile homes that leaned and sagged at weird angles on cinder-block foundations.

On one front porch, a flock of half-naked toddlers, tanned the color of butterscotch pudding, scampered around, climbing in and out of an old clawfoot tub. Pale hairy adult shapes, also half-naked, moved through the interior of the shack.

Ozzie kept checking the telephone poles for block numbers, only occasionally finding evidence that we were going the right way. The idea of these shacks having mailing addresses seemed about as unlikely as them having Web sites. Click here for a virtual tour of my hovel!

After a half mile we got stuck behind a caravan of yellow BFI garbage trucks. Ozzie cursed and blasted his bullhorn, but there wasn't much space for the trucks to go on the shoulderless two-lane. Finally Gerson punched the gas and pulled into oncoming traffic. In the space of eighty yards we came close to smearing three truckloads of migrant fieldhands and ourselves all over the road. We swerved back into the right lane nanoseconds before colliding with a wide-eyed farmer in a Ford.

"Have a nice day," Ozzie grumbled without slowing down. I pried my fingers loose from the dashboard.

The land flattened to field and fence, shacks and farmhouses spaced farther apart. We left the dump behind.

"When we get there," Ozzie said, "we do nothing stupid. If we're the first, we sit on the house and wait for backup. If it gets bad, you stand behind the passenger's door, use it as a shield. Got it?"

"What's the brother-in-law like?"

"Hector Mara. West Side veterano like Sanchez. They go way back."

"Dangerous?"

"Everybody's dangerous. Show me a wife in a domestic disturbance call, I'll show you dangerous. But Hector Mara? Next to Zeta Sanchez he's a big old pan dulce."

Then we were on top of 11043 Green, and we weren't the first. The property sat on the Y intersection of Green and another, smaller farm road. Thick tangles of banana trees and bamboo lined both sides. The only visible entrance was blocked by an SAPD patrol car with both doors open and the headlights on. Two more cars, unmarked blue Chevrolets, were pulled