In Big Trouble

get set-ups-cokes, ginger ales, tonic-for a dollar. There's also food, although this isn't much of an eating crowd. Just bags of chips and pork rinds, and fresh tamales when Sam's wife gets inspired.'

Her newfound friend was a blond, perhaps twenty-five, in an embroidered white blouse and dangling silver earrings. The costume was clearly meant to be Mexican, but on this milk-fed, apple-cheeked girl, the effect was more St. Pauli girl on her night off.

'Well, thanks,' said Tess, who was unused to the kindness of strangers. 'You made this out-of-towner feel pretty welcome. I'm Tess Monaghan.'

'Kristina Johanssen,' the girl said, thrusting out her hand. 'Hector's can be pretty overwhelming on first visit. But you're in for a treat. How did you hear about Las Almas Perdidas?'

It took Tess a beat to recall this was yet another name for Crow's band. 'Actually, I go pretty far back with them. The guy-Ed-used to be in a band up in Baltimore, Poe White Trash.'

'You know Ed Ransome?' Kris asked breathlessly. 'Really know him?'

'We worked together in my aunt's bookstore-'

'Too cool. Enrique-' Kris grabbed Tess's hand in hers, which was warm and sweaty as a little girl's, and all but dragged her to a nearby table, where a tall, bored-looking man sat. He was as dark as she was fair, and wore clothes that looked more suitable for a country club dance-white shirt, blazer, khakis. 'Enrique, this woman knows Ed Ransome.'

'Try not to get so carried away, sweetheart.' Enrique's drawl was a surprise, the first genuinely Texan accent Tess had heard. It didn't seem to belong with the flan-colored skin and the Aztec warrior profile. 'It's not like he's Willie Nelson or Merle Haggard. Hell, he's not even Freddie Fender.'

'Oh, Enrique.' While Kristina's vowel sounds were Midwestern flat, she trilled the R in her beloved's name with admirable skill. 'You and that country music. Just my luck to finally find a Mexican boyfriend, only to discover he has the soul of LBJ.'

'I think of myself more in the Kennedy mode, darlin',' he said, stretching out his long legs. His studied preppiness ended at his feet, where he wore well-shined black cowboy boots instead of tassel loafers. 'Handsome, charismatic, great political future, women falling over me.'

Kristina snorted. 'You're more likely to defend a Kennedy than be one.'

'I can only hope one of them runs afoul of the law in Bexar County,' he replied placidly. 'The case probably won't be as challenging as some of the capital murder cases I've tried, but then the check won't bounce, either.'

Kris turned back to Tess. 'This is my boyfriend, Enrique Trejo. I'd like to say he's usually not this obnoxious, but the fact is, he's a much bigger cabron most of the time. That means asshole.'

'Rick Trejo,' he said, holding his hand out to Tess. 'And as long as we're having this little Spanish lesson, I wish I could introduce Kristina as mi novia, my betrothed, which sounds far more elegant than girlfriend or old lady, but she keeps refusing my pleas to make her an honest woman.'

'Enrique.' Kristina punched him on the arm-not some little fake girl punch, but a good, solid thump. 'Don't involve strangers in our private life.'

'Excuse me, but who brought this woman over to me? Miss, Miss-what is your name?'

'Tess Monaghan.'

'Miss Monaghan, can you imagine why any woman in her right mind wouldn't marry me? I'm an attorney-'

'Well, there's one reason,' Tess said.

'I'll ignore that. Lawyer jokes demean only those who tell them. As I said, I'm an attorney, with a thriving practice and the best winning streak of any criminal lawyer in the county. I'm handsome. Not being vain, just stating the facts of life as my mother has explained them to me.'

'She does,' Kristina put in. 'She almost swoons every time he stops by. ‘Oh Ricky, que guapo.' She calls me la flaquita-the little skinny one. And I'm not even skinny by most people's standards. She thinks he can do much better than some Wisconsin gringa.'

'And yet I don't want to do better,' Rick said, pulling Kristina into his lap. 'I'd settle for you, sweetheart. So what do you say? Say yes right now, and I'll let you have this goddamn punk conjunto music at the reception and you can walk down the aisle in one of those stupid Oaxacan dresses you love so much. I'll wear a guayabera, I'll let you fill our house with crap from your gallery. But you have to say yes right now.'

'Shhh.' She clamped a hand over his mouth, but she was laughing. Tess had never seen a more mismatched couple, or a happier one. 'They're about to start.'

The band emerged from the building at the edge of the vast patio. They had shucked their eighties costumes from the Morgue, and their eighties ennui along with it. This was an inspired, revved-up group, and the audience fed its energy. Emmie was right-the accordion, as wielded by the keyboard player, reinvented old songs and made the new ones soar. Tess felt a strange surge of pride, watching the couples get up to dance, hearing the slap of tapping feet on the poured concrete floor. Poe White Trash had never been this good. Crow had found his muse in Texas. Or in Emmie.

For she was the one everyone watched. She wasn't holding anything back and her full voice proved a huge, powerful thing with a life of its own. Tess finally understood why the voice was spoken of as an instrument. This was a separate entity that happened to live inside Emmie. As the set progressed, the voice seemed to grow stronger and stronger, while Emmie looked frailer. Her voice was like an incubus, drawing all the strength from her and she surrendered to it gladly, joyously.

After a fast thirty-minute set, the band broke, and while Crow disappeared inside Hector's, Emmie mingled with the crowd. With the men in the crowd, at any rate, flitting from table to table, bumming smokes from surly biker types. The surlier, the better.

Tess spotted the same moon-faced security guard from the Morgue, puppy eyes fixed on Emmie. He had it bad, she could tell-his dark skin was flushed with his yearning, his eyes had the same fixity of purpose that Esskay brought to a biscuit. Tess caught his eye and, feeling sorry for anyone lost in such a hopeless crush, waved for him to join them. He hesitated, then starteu walking over, keeping his gaze on Emmie as long as possible.

'Tess Monaghan,' she reminded him. 'I saw you last night.'

'Steve,' he said, stopping as if he smelled something very bad, then jerking his chin toward Rick Trejo. 'I didn't know you were with him.'

'We just met. They kept the bartender from gouging me for a generic cola.'

'Yeah, Mr. Trejo is a real stickler for legal technicalities. It's the big issues he's not so good on. I gotta get back to work. Enjoy the rest of the show.' And he shouldered his way back through the crowd, until he was back at his post near the stage.

'What was that about?'

'He's a cop,' Rick said. 'Steve Villanueve.'

'A rent-a-cop, you mean. I met him at another club last night.'

'No, he's a city patrolman. A lot of them do security work for extra dough. Mr. Villanueve is a good cop, but he's young, and he takes things personally. A guy he pulled over for speeding last year ended up getting popped in a sexual assault. It's not my fault the judge threw out the case when he found out the victim had seen the suspect on television before the police brought her in to see a line-up.'

'He raped a woman,' Kristina said, her voice small and tight.

'He was suspected of raping a woman. Hey, I did it pro bono, sweetheart. Doesn't that make me a good guy?'

'He got arrested two months later for another attack.'

'The band's starting,' Rick said, his tone resigned. The happy couple suddenly seemed less happy. 'Let's just listen to the music, okay?'

While the first set had been revved up and fun, a dancing set, Las Almas Perdidas was quieter and more contemplative this time around. Music to go to bed by, and you could define that anyway you wanted. These songs were slow, bittersweet. They could put you in the mood to grab a stranger, but they also provided a suitable soundtrack for going home alone.

After five songs, Crow spoke from the stage. His face was flushed from exertion, his voice ripe with what could only be called pride. No wonder he and Emmie phoned it in at the Morgue, Tess thought. They were saving