The Last King of Texas - By Rick Riordan Page 0,63

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