face in newspaper.
"I keep everything, senor." Paloma set the mug in her box, picked up an ashtray. "My children's things. My husband's photograph. Ines' things too, now. Where I go, these things all go with me. Even the bad is important."
She gave me a wary look, as if she hoped but did not anticipate that I would follow her reasoning. "You understand, senor?"
I stared down into Paloma's half-packed box. I took a deep breath, trying to control the desire to kick myself. "Maybe I do, Paloma."
I headed back down her rickety stairs, past her glaring son, down the driveway to George's red Barracuda. I had a meeting to make at the 410 Diner.
Chapter 42
Sunset was a good time to hit the 410. The luminous strips of blue and orange sky went well with the neon trim on the nuevo moderne diner. Its long oval windows glowed with light and the bar inside glistened green and black. Even the menu board exuded a kind of oily class - black acrylic inscribed with Day-Glo colors that made the words mashed potatoes & meat loaf seem chic and trendy.
In the main room, booths were molded from enough chrome to refit several '57 Chevy Biscaynes. Along the walls hung neon-laced portraits of Jimmy and Marilyn and the other Hollywood regulars.
By the front window, three middle-aged Anglos were drinking margaritas and talking about a cattle auction. Midroom, at one of the black Formica tables, an older couple ate in silence - the man with grizzled beard and pony-tail, leather cowboy hat, pastel Apache-print Western shirt; his date an enormous pasty woman in a denim dress.
Ines and the kids sat at a back booth. Del Brandon, my favorite person, sat in a chrome chair at the end of the table. Del was talking to Ines, tapping his finger on a set of documents. Jem and Michael were playing with packets of Sweet'n Low.
I grabbed a menu from the waitress station, then slid into the booth beside the kids. "Sorry I'm late."
Jem shrieked with delight and gave me a crushing hug. Nobody else did. Ines' hair was loose around her shoulders, her face washed clean of makeup. She was dressed for moving - jeans, no jewelry, an oversized Fiesta '98 T-shirt with a glistening crumple of packing tape stuck to one sleeve.
Del's Hawaiian shirt and slacks were disheveled. His wedge of black hair had started to crumble. His expression was equal parts anger and weariness. "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"There are children present, Del. Behave. I'm just picking up my amigo Jem. You remember Jem."
Jem waved hello by flapping a Sweet'n Low packet.
Del glared at Ines. "You invite this jerk?"
I picked up the three-page document in front of him. "Something from your lawyers?"
Del tried to swipe the papers.
I kept them away.
The document seemed to be an agreement between Ines and Del. It recognized Del's ownership of RideWorks, Inc., and renounced all future claims by Aaron Brandon's estate. Ines had already signed it. Her signature -
I looked up at her. "Why?"
Del said, "That's none of your goddamn business."
"Tres." Ines looked protectively at Michael, saw that he and Jem were occupied with saccharin and Captain's Wafers. "Del's right," she said firmly. "This isn't your business."
I flipped the document into Del's chest. "Won't do you much good in jail, partner."
He tried to grab the front of my shirt.
I intercepted his wrist, forced it down on the Formica tabletop. "Temper," I said softly.
Ines hissed, "Stop it! Both of you."
Del yanked his hand away. "You want to see something from my lawyers, Navarre? You'll get it."
"Del," Ines said. "You have what you wanted. Now leave."
Del kept glaring at me. He folded the papers, pocketed them. "Don't fucking come near me again, Navarre. You understand?"
"Good-bye, Del," Ines insisted.
Brandon shoved the metal chair back, gave me one last drop-dead look, then pushed past the waitress who was just bringing the food. The waitress called after him, "But... sir - ?"
I tapped the table for her. "Right here, please."
Ines and Michael and Jem accepted their meals without a word. Low-cal chicken breast salad for Ines. Hot dogs and corn on the cob for Michael and Jem. Del had ordered the Sonora casserole platter with black-eyed peas and buttered squash and enough corn bread to construct a small toolshed. That was fine by me.
At the next table, the older couple sawed into their chicken-fried steaks. The geezer with the cowboy hat looked away quickly when I caught his