Rick Riordan: Southtown

“Yeah.” His voice was hoarse. “We got a deal, Fred.”

“My name is Tres.”

“I know that, damn it.”

“I’ve got to go talk to Maia Lee. You want to come with me, Sam?”

“No. I’ll wait here. I like the porch.”

“You’ve got some cereal on your chin.”

He brushed it off.

When I got to the bottom of the steps, he called, “Tres.”

I turned, surprised that he’d remembered my name.

“Call the FBI for me, will you? Tell them I’m going to work at home today. I just got an idea.”

“I’ll tell them, Sam. Be right back, okay?”

He didn’t acknowledge me. He was too busy rearranging his photos, as if he’d just figured out how to break the case wide open.

Maia Lee stood across the street, looking in the window of Tienda Guadalupe. She was admiring the folk art devils.

“The one with the furry butt looks like you,” she said.

I told her about my deal with Sam. I got the feeling she wasn’t exactly surprised.

“I think I’ll buy that devil to hang on my back porch,” she decided. “By the neck, maybe.”

“I love you.”

She turned toward me, gave me a long kiss. A family of tourists walked the long way around us. A couple of Chevy-cruising vatos made some appreciative catcalls.

Maia gently pushed away from me. She said, “I won’t ask if you understand what you’re getting yourself into. I know you better than that. But if you need any help with the legal stuff…”

“I’ve still got a hotshot attorney in Austin?”

She looked down at the grimy sidewalk, the same brick path San Antonians had been walking since the 1800s. “You can’t get free of this place, any more than Sam Barrera can. I might as well admit that.”

“Where does that leave us?”

“Long-distance,” she said. “I’ve got to go now.”

“I don’t have a car.”

She kissed me once more for the road. “You don’t need one, Tres. You’re home.”