Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(34)

Guy White’s manservant had taken one look at Ralph, then given him a tough-guy outfit—black jeans, leather jacket, boots. Me, I got a silk suit. Bloody typical.

“Zapata’s mom,” Ralph said. “I remember now. She runs the souvenir shop.”

“Are we going in?” Madeleine asked.

“Chiquita, you ever meet Zapata?”

Madeleine’s scowl reminded me of the angry little girl at Howdy Night—a ten-year-old foolishly determined to hold her ground.

“Call me chiquita again,” she said, “and I’ll cut out your tongue.”

Ralph pulled out his .38, opened the door for Madeleine. “Ladies first.”

Inside, the souvenir shop was crammed with postcard carousels, shelves bristling with plaster saint figurines, holographic Jesus portraits that smiled and suffered and ascended in 3-D.

Johnny Zapata stood at the jewelry counter with Mr. Thug, both of them getting yelled at by a gray-haired Latina cashier so hideously ugly she could only have been Zapata’s mother.

She was waving a taco under Mr. Thug’s nose and yelling, “Tripas, Ignacio! I wanted tripas!”

Mr. Thug/Ignacio raised his hands. “Mrs. Z—”

“Ma,” Johnny Zapata cut in, “they don’t sell tripas no more!”

“Bah!”

“I told you, Ma. It’s illegal now.”

The old woman made a barking sound. “Since when do you care about illegal? Huh?”

Had I been thinking more clearly, I would’ve backed out, let the three of them fight, and questioned the survivors later.

Unfortunately, they noticed us.

Zapata stood up straight when he recognized Ralph.

Ignacio started to reach for his coat pocket, but Madeleine stuck her gun in the side of his nose.

Ignacio raised his hands.

“Who are these people?” Mama Zapata yelled at her son. “More of your enemies?”

Zapata studied us.

He was just as huge as I remembered. His fashion sense hadn’t improved. He sported a black and gray polyester shirt, white pants and white leather cleats. With his Mongolian features and his small evil eyes, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Genghis Khan out for a night of bowling.

“Old acquaintances,” Zapata told his mother softly. He glanced at Madeleine. “You’re Guy White’s daughter. What you doing with these babosas?”

“We thought she’d get along with your mom,” I offered.

“What?” Mama Zapata shrilled. “Did this little punk insult me?”

“Ignore him, Ma.” There was nothing human about Zapata’s voice. It was free of emotion, calm and ruthless, the way sharks would talk if they could. “This is Tres Navarre, the PI. He thinks he’s funny.”

“Eh, Johnny,” Ralph said. “We’re overdue for a chat. You sure you want your mother here for that?”

Zapata’s eyes drifted from me to Madeleine to Ralph. He was trying to read the score. He didn’t seem able to do it.

“Ignacio,” he said, “this is the second time you failed me.”

The henchman’s face turned the same color as his peroxide crew cut. “Me?”

“You didn’t do the job last night,” Zapata said. “The wrong man died. Now you’ve led these people here.”

“Wasn’t my fault!”

“Take Ma outside,” Zapata told him calmly. “When you come back, you choose what to lose.”

Ignacio’s face beaded with sweat. “Johnny, man, please . . .”

“You want me to let Miss White shoot you? That’d be quicker. Now take Ma and go.”

Ignacio swallowed. He tried to take the old woman’s arm, but she pulled away.

“I ain’t going,” she grumbled. “Who’s gonna watch the store?”

“I’ll watch the store, Ma.”

“They gonna steal St. Peter.”

“No, Ma. They ain’t gonna steal St. Peter. Go on.”

Before Ignacio could leave, Madeleine dug her free hand into his coat pocket and pulled out a Smith & Wesson. She said, “I’ll hold this for you.”

Reluctantly, the nervous thug escorted Mama Zapata out of the shop, the old woman still eyeing me like she expected me to filch her plaster apostles.

ZAPATA PEELED THE FOIL OFF A beef taco. “Well?”

The situation didn’t need any more guns, but before I could try the diplomatic approach, Ralph pointed his .38 at Zapata’s head.

“You set me up,” Ralph told him.

“So?”

“Frankie White’s sister is standing here. She wants to know whether you’ve really got a lead on Frankie’s murder or if you were bullshitting. How about I count to five?”

Zapata smiled. “That would’ve been a scary threat, Ralph, back in the old days.” He took a bite of flour tortilla, glanced at Madeleine. “You understand who you’re working with, right? Ralph Arguello? He’s old news. Gone soft.”

“Five,” Ralph said.

“Hey, Shoes,” Madeleine said, “if I were you, I’d talk.”

Zapata wiped his mouth. “You sure you want me to, miss? I hear a lot of things about your family. I got too much respect for Mr. White to go spreading rumors.”