Tres Navarre 5 - Southtown by Rick Riordan

Author:Rick Riordan
Language: eng
Format: mobi, azw3
Published: 2004-04-27T00:00:00+00:00

According to the radio, half the West Side was underwater. Woodlawn Lake had overflowed, manhole covers burst open, storm drains exploded into geysers. Hundreds of residents were stranded on rooftops. Four teenagers had disappeared, sucked into the current while trying to body-surf a drainage ditch.

Even the affluent North Side had not been spared. Right down the street from J.P.’s chosen restaurant, at the corner of Basse, an elderly couple’s Cadillac had turned into an underwater coffin. Erainya could see the police lights flickering through the treetops.

But you could tell none of that from the crowd at Paesano’s. The parking lot gleamed with eighty-thousand-dollar cars. Inside, the elite of San Antonio packed the dining room, laughing and talking without concern, the air infused with oregano and expensive cologne.

J.P. made everyone’s face light up as he walked through the room.

“Dr. Sanchez!”

Surgeons, trial lawyers, politicians rose from their tables to shake his hand. J.P. introduced Erainya, though it was clear none of them cared about her. J.P.’s arm around her waist, his complete deference toward her, seemed to irritate his acquaintances.

J.P. politely cut short each conversation, declining their offers for a drink.

“You must excuse me,” he told them. “When I am with Miss Manos, my time becomes very valuable.”

Erainya loved him. She loved the way his friends’ mouths hung open, the way their wives stared after her as they wrung their diamond bracelets.

J.P. had managed to reserve the restaurant’s best table—a corner spot with windows overlooking the golf course and, across Basse, the man-made canyon that had once been the Alamo Cement Quarry. She could just make out J.P.’s house, there on the far rim of the canyon, its windows bright with buttery light.

Erainya wondered if this was a subtle invitation, eating dinner within sight of his bedroom. But no—she would think that way. J.P. wouldn’t.

Last night he had comforted her so patiently, asked no questions, expected nothing in return. He had completely understood when she wanted to sleep next to Jem, so they ended up camping out in his living room, all three of them—down sleeping bags on his plush carpet, bowls of popcorn, flashlights, Yu-Gi-Oh! DVDs instead of ghost stories. All night, Erainya lay awake, listening to the easy breathing of her child and her lover, and pondering how she would kill Will Stirman.

J.P. ordered dinner—shrimp Paesano, Parmesan salad, fettuccine Alfredo. He waved aside the wine list and ordered a magnum of ’97 Brunello di Montalcino, not making a big deal out of it, but Erainya knew the vintage would cost more than she earned in a week. She’d made a point of learning about wine since she’d started dating J.P.

The bottle arrived. He declined a taste test, sent away the waiter, and poured Erainya a generous glass as if it were Kool-Aid or Strawberry Ripple. “So did you get Jem settled?”

“I suppose. He loves this lady . . . Maia Lee.”

“Tres’ girlfriend.”

“Yeah.”

J.P. placed his hand on hers. “If I had to pick one eight-year-old to watch my back in a fight, I’d pick Jem.

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