Big Red Tiquila - Rick Riordan Read Online Free Page B

any good bulls
lately?"
    The background noise placed her immediately. It was
Sunday morning at the Buena Vista.
    "No," I said, "but me and the boys are
hog-tying a futon even as we speak. It’s an uppity little filly."
    "You cowpokes sure know how to part."
    I could picture her standing in the dark green entry
hall of the bar, the receiver balanced between her I shoulder and
chin. She’d be wearing her business clothes—blazer and skirt,
silk blouse, always in light colors to show off her flawless
coffee-colored skin. Her hair, chocolate-brown and curly, would be
tied back. Behind her I could hear Irish coffee glasses rattling, the
unmistakable clanging of cable car bells.
    “ Listen," Maia said, "I wasn’t really
calling for a reason, if you’re busy."
    "That’s okay."
    In my doorway the futon seemed to be holding its own.
One mover was wedged against the wall and another was trying to
extract his leg from between two of its slats. The third guy had just
figured out that the bolts could be loosened. An ice cream truck
drove by, providing us with a momentary soundtrack: a very warped
recording of "Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’."
    "It’s a whole ’nother world down here,
Maia," I said.
    She laughed. “I remember telling you something like
that, Tex. But everything’s going all right? I mean . . ."
    “ It’s okay," I told her. "Being home
after so long is like—I don’t know."
    "Coming out of amnesia?"
    "I was thinking more along the lines of
infectious skin diseases."
    “ Hmph. You don’t pick your home, Tres. It just
is."
    Maia knew about that. Take away the Mercedes and the
law practice and the Potrero Hill loft, and Maia’s most important
possession was still a photograph of an unpainted Sheetrock shack in
Zhejiang Province. Logic had nothing to do with it.
    "Some things you don’t choose," I said.
    "Isn’t that the truth."
    I’m not sure either of us bought it. On the other
hand, I figured it was as close to an understanding about what had
happened between us as we would ever get. She told me she was on her
way to interview a client whose teenage son had been charged with
setting part of the Presidio on fire. It was going to be a long
morning. I promised to call in a few days.
    “ Drink one of those frozen strawberry margaritas
for me," she said.
    "Infidel," I said.
    By noon the movers had everything out of the truck
and into the living room without any major accidents. I gave them
directions back to Loop 410. Then I headed down Broadway toward
downtown.
    Ten minutes later I turned up Commerce and started
looking for street parking. Fortunately I was used to San Francisco
traffic. I U-turned across three lanes and beat a Hilton valet to a
nice meter spot without so much as a fistfight, then walked south
into La Villita.
    The place hadn’t changed over the last few hundred
years. Except for being cleaner and having higher rents, the restored
four square blocks of original settlement were not much different
than they’d been back in the days of the Alamo. Tourists wandered
in and out of the white limestone buildings. A family of large
Germans, severely overdressed for the heat, sat at a green metal
table in the sun outside one of the cantinas. They were trying to
look like they were having fun on their vacation, mouths open,
fanning themselves with menus.
    I wandered down the narrow brick lanes for almost
twenty minutes before I found the Hecho a Mano Gallery, a tiny
building in the shade of a huge live oak behind the La Villita
Chapel. The gallery didn’t seem to be getting much business at the
moment. I came in the door just as a glass paperweight flew past,
banging into the wall and rattling a few framed pictures of
Guatemalan peasants.
    A male voice around the corner of the entryway said:
“God damn it!"
    A loud disagreement followed.
    “ Lillian?" I called, loudly.
    I looked around the corner, cautious for more flying
objects. Lillian was standing up at a small wooden desk near the
opposite