Mission Road Read Free Page A

resilience that might’ve been carved from jade. Before losing everything to the Communists, her ancestors had been warlords of Guangzhou Province. I had no doubt Maia would’ve made them proud.
    She didn’t seem to notice the holiday lights or the traffic. Her eyes stayed fixed on some point a thousand miles away.
    “What’re you thinking?” I asked.
    “Nothing,” she said, a little too quickly.
    She turned on South Alamo, headed into Southtown.
    First Friday. The usual hordes were out in force for the monthly gallery openings. Cars circled for parking. Drunk socialites and
Nuevo
Bohemians wandered the streets. It was as if God had upended all the chic restaurants and coffeehouses in town, mixed the patrons thoroughly in alcohol sauce, and dumped them into my neighborhood to find their way home.
    Maia parked at the hydrant on the corner of Pecan, in front of my two-story Victorian.
    A lady in a mink coat was throwing up in my front yard. She’d set her wineglass on top of my business sign:

    TRES NAVARRE DETECTIVE AGENCY
    Professional Investigations
    (This is not an art gallery)

    As our headlights illuminated her fur jacket, the lady turned and scowled at us. She staggered off like a sick bear, leaving her wineglass and a steaming puddle.
    “Ah, the romance of San Antonio,” said Maia.
    “Stay the night,” I said. “It gets better.”
    “I have to get back to Austin.”
    I took her hand, felt the tension in her fingers. “Tomorrow’s Saturday. Live dangerous. Sam would love to see you.”
    She gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. “I have to catch up with work. I’ve been busy bailing out my no-good boyfriend.”
    “Men,” I said.
    She leaned in closer. “Some of them, anyway.”
    We kissed.
    I tried my best to convince her that one night together really wouldn’t hurt.
    She pulled away. “Tres . . .”
    “What is it?”
    She dabbed her lipstick. “Nothing.”
    “Something’s wrong.”
    “I have to go—”
    “Maia?”
    “—if I want to get home before midnight.”
    We sat there with the car idling. A group of drunk art gallery patrons parted around us.
    “Multiple choice,” I offered. “Work or personal?”
    Maia’s eyes betrayed a glint of desperation—like a cage door was closing on her. “I’ll call you, okay?”
    It wasn’t okay. Even
I
was sensitive enough to see that. But I also knew better than to press her.
    I kissed her one last time. We said an uneasy good night.
    Maia’s BMW pulled away down South Alamo. I fought an urge to follow her—an instinct almost as strong as when I’d grabbed my father’s gun and tailed Dr. Vale.
    “Hey,” a passerby called to me. “Gotta restroom in there?”
    He was an art gallery cowboy—grizzled ponytail and black denim, too much New Mexican jewelry. Judging from his slurred words, he was about three beers shy of a keg.
    “I got a restroom,” I admitted. “Last visitor who used it, I just got back from his funeral.”
    The cowboy laughed.
    I stared at him.
    He muttered something about not needing to pee that bad and stumbled off down the street.
    I glanced at my business sign, wondering how much longer it would be there if my license got revoked. The art patrons might have the last laugh. By the next First Friday, this place
might
be a gallery.
    I headed up the sidewalk, feeling like I was still walking behind somebody’s coffin.
    •                           •                           •
    SAM BARRERA AND OUR HOUSEKEEPER, MRS. Loomis, were playing Hearts in the living room.
    When I’d moved in last summer, I promised my accountant the whole first floor of the house would be used for business. The residential space would be confined to upstairs. Unfortunately, Sam and Mrs. Loomis did a lot more residing here than I did business.
    Slowly but surely, my waiting room had reverted to living room. Mrs. Loomis’ crystal knickknacks multiplied like Jesus’ loaves. My carefully