Read The Last King of Texas - Rick Riordan for Free Online Page B

meanest talent from the local gangs. Wasn't
any accident he was killed at that cantina on Zarzamora. That was
where old Jerry held court, bought drinks every night, let his
employees grovel to him. He'd lend them money, get them out of
trouble — whatever they needed, as long as they remembered who
owned them."
    "Nice guy."
    "I'm probably being too easy on him. The thing
was, King Jerry knew talent when he saw it, and he saw it in Zeta
Sanchez. He started Sanchez on simple stuff — arm-breaking,
fencing, your occasional murder. Pretty soon Sanchez was flying all
over the country collecting from RideWorks' delinquent debtors,
bringing back attaché cases full of cash. Brandon was so pleased he
gifted Sanchez with a gold-plated .45 revolver for a calling card.
Beautiful weapon."
    "And they lived happily ever after."
    "Until the Brandons screwed Sanchez, yeah.
Jeremiah's sons, Del and Aaron — they started getting a little
jealous about this upstart Mexican getting so tight with their old
man. They decided to sour the relationship, turn Dad against Sanchez.
Pretty soon the favors toward Sanchez were drying up. Sanchez and
Jeremiah argued more and more. Then a rumor got around that old
Jeremiah had been boinking Sanchez's wife, pretty little thing about
seventeen, eighteen years old. Wouldn't have been the first time
Jeremiah did something like that. Most of his mistresses came from
the families he employed. Who'd complain? Like I said, you took
Brandon's money, everything you had belonged to Brandon. Sanchez
forgot that — forgot he was just hired help."
    "And when Sanchez heard the rumor about his
wife—"
    "Sanchez decided to take a little nighttime
drive down to the Poco Mas, have a chat with the Old Man. Jeremiah
was at his booth like always, polishing off a bottle of Cuervo,
hitting on some chiquitas. Jukebox was going. Place was packed. So
Sanchez walks up to his boss, cool and easy, and draws on him —
that same damn gold-plated .45 Jeremiah had given him. Empties every
damn round into Jeremiah's chest. Hollow-tipped bullets, filled with
mercury. Then Sanchez goes to the bar, takes a shot of tequila, walks
out. Course by the time we come asking, nobody saw anything. Nobody
remembered what the gunman looked like."
    "You were at the scene?"
    "You ever seen a man with no chest, kid? I mean,
hollowed out like a balloon? You don't forget that too easy. I'm
telling you..."
    Ozzie glanced over in weary camaraderie, his smile
pleasant and dead as an open-casket display.
    We turned into a worn-down residential area and
cruised the streets. Every white person in every yard waved. The
Latinos and a few African Americans stared at us. None of them waved.
    Ozzie watched the houses go by, his big glassy eyes
deconstructing the architecture and the landscapes and the people in
the yards with the same dispassionate criticism.
    "Not enough trees," he said.
    "Pardon?"
    "I couldn't live here. Not enough trees. And all
the garages in the front. Makes
for an ugly
facade."
    "What happened to Zeta Sanchez after he killed
Jeremiah?"
    Ozzie's gaze kept sliding over the lawns and garages.
"Disappeared. Word was he ran to Mexico to escape a hit by
Brandon's older son, Del, who took over the business. Or maybe
Sanchez got hit and was buried in the countryside somewhere. The
manhunt yielded exactly nothing. There never was any hard evidence to
connect Sanchez to the kill — no shells. No prints. None of the
witnesses would break no matter how hard we questioned, not and risk
retaliation from Sanchez's veterano friends on the West Side. Sanchez
just vanished. Jeremiah Brandon's murder case stayed open — still
is, but you know how it goes. Old Jeremiah wasn't exactly a great
loss to society. Then about three weeks ago, Sanchez reappeared. Just
showed up at the Poco Mas. Walked in after six years like he was a
regular guy, ordered a tequila shot, and told the bartender to call
some of his old vatos, tell them the 'Z' was back in town."
    "And a