The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan by Rick Riordan

and everything else
dear to his heart. It was a space he could close off quickly and make
it seem, to the casual visitor, that he was a man living in complete
austerity.
    The closet was open tonight. I peeked inside.
Unpainted Sheetrock was pinned with photographs of George and
friends. One showed George and me on our trip to Corpus last
Christmas. George was grinning and pointing at the marlin he'd goaded
me into catching. Another showed George and the kid he was Big
Brother to on the weekends — Sultan, I think his name was, eleven
years old, already flirting with gangs. Another photo showed George's
forty-third birthday party at Pablo's Grove, where I and about five
hundred other well-wishers had shown up chewing Cuban cigars and
wearing Panama hats and the loudest golf shirts we could find.
Interspersed with these photos were years of thank-you letters from
the Elf Louise program, the local charity that collected Christmas
toys for poor kids.
    "Close that damn thing," George said behind
me.
    I turned.
    George handed me a brown bag with something
rectangular inside.
    "You're a damn saint," I said. "Why do
you care if the closet is closed?"
    "Just open the bag."
    Inside was a paperback novel — Wilkie Collins' The
Woman in White. I asked, "Do I get to choose between this and
the flowers?"
    "You're missing out on the greats, ese. And you
a damn English professor now."
    "Doesn't mean I've read everything the
Victorians ever wrote. Like some people I could name."
    George grinned. "I spend enough time waiting
around for you, I need long novels."
    Having taken the book as a gift, I couldn't very well
throw it at him. I said thank you. Then we closed up the house and
walked back out to the VW. I had the convertible top down and the
night had cooled off pleasantly, smelling like rain. We drove south
from Palo Blanco onto Jefferson. The business strip was bright with
car dealership lights and taqueria neon, the air rich with blooming
mountain laurel from every South Side yard.
    I waited until we turned onto S.W Military before
broaching the subject of our dates. "So — Jenny."
    George smiled. In the nighttime illumination his skin
glowed like whipped butter. "Don't get nervous on me."
    "I'm just wondering why I'm the one dating her.
I had you and her figured for a pair a long time ago."
    "She's worked at the title office since before
Melissa died, man. Going out with her would be like going out with my
sister."
    "But why me?"
    He laughed. "Is it that bad a favor? Didn't you
say Jenny was nice? Don't you guys joke around every time you come
over?"
    "Sure."
    "And you think she's pretty?"
    "Sure, George. It's just—" I stopped.
"Who's your date?"
    Berton wagged his hand, palm down — the
burned-on-an-oven gesture.
    "Jenny's got this friend. Ay que rica. Seen her
at Jenny's house a few times and I started asking about her — like
is this girl single or what? Jenny said yes, and maybe she could set
me up but it had to be a double and it had to be with you. So here we
go."
    "Jenny said me specifically?"
    "Don't ask me why. I reminded her what an ugly
bastard you were, unlucky with women, but she still said she wanted
to give it a go."
    "Who's her friend?"
    "Wait 'til you see her, man. Not that Jenny is a
pig or anything."
    "I'll tell her that. 'George said you weren't a
pig.'"
    We drove a few more blocks, listening to the wind
crinkle the cellophane on George's bouquet.
    "I talked to Ralph Arguello this afternoon,"
I said.
    George raised his eyebrows, looked over.
    I told him how I'd spent my afternoon.
    George slid a cigar from his shirt pocket. "Wish
somebody had clued me in sooner. I spent all day talking to some very
pissed-off Latinos, all the radical groups I knew of, a couple more I
got from a buddy at La Prensa. I'm talking about people who spend all
day field-stripping AK-47s and reading Che out by Braunig Lake.
Complete wackos. None of them gave me anything on the UTSA bombing.
Nobody knew any new players in town. Nobody