By Rick Riordan
From the number 1 ny occasions bestselling writer of the Percy Jackson and the Olympians sequence Everything in Texas is bigger...even homicide. Meet Tres Navarre...tequila drinker, Tai Chi grasp, unlicensed P.I., with a penchant for Texas-size hassle. Jackson "Tres" Navarre and his enchilada-eating cat, Robert Johnson, pull into San Antonio and locate not anything ready yet difficulty. Ten years in the past Navarre left city and the reminiscence of his father's homicide at the back of him. Now he is again, searching for solutions. but the extra Tres digs, attempting to placed his suspicions to leisure, the brisker the decade-old crime seems to be: Mafia connections, development web site payoffs, and slick politicians' video games all conspire to damage his homecoming. it is noticeable Tres has stirred up a hornet's nest of difficulty. He will get attacked, shot at, run over via an important blue Thunderbird—and his outdated female friend, the only he desires again, turns up lacking. Tres has to rescue the lady, nail his father's assassin, and get the hell out of stay away from sooner than mob-style Texas justice catches as much as him. the possibilities of staying alive seemed higher for the defenders of the Alamo....
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Extra resources for Big Red Tequila
This kept him occupied while I did the first hour of my tai chi set, at which point the moving truck gunned up the driveway and scared him into the closet. Three guys wearing baseball caps and leather weight belts were trying to figure out which way to fold my futon frame to get it through the door when the phone rang. I pulled down the ironing board and picked up the receiver. Maia Lee said: “Hey, Tex. " 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.
Back at home, I checked my newly installed answering machine. Mother had called twice, upset that I hadn’t given her a report yet on my first date with Lillian. Bob Langston had left a cryptic message threatening me with bodily harm and legal action. I unwrapped the ceramic skeleton-driven car Lillian had given me and put it down on the carpet in front of Robert Johnson. He hissed at it, puffing up his tail as thick as a raccoon’s, then walked backward into the closet, still staring at the new monstrosity.
In the background at my mother’s house I heard the sound of a pool cue breaking a setup. Somebody laughed. "Mother—" "All right, I didn’t ask. " After Gary had shuffled back over to the main part of the house, I checked my watch. Three o’clock San Francisco time. Even on Saturday afternoon there was still a good chance I could reach Maia Lee at Terrence & Goldman. No such luck. When her voice mail got through explaining to me what “regular business hours" meant, I left my new number, then held the line for a second longer, thinking about what to say.