Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(45)

“Nothing. Let’s get out of here.” Under his breath, he muttered something that rhymed with itch.

Madeleine grabbed his lapels, hauled him to his feet. “Navarre and Arguello, will you excuse us a minute?”

She dragged Alex away through the crowd.

Ralph didn’t pay any attention. He was holding his wallet open like a tiny hymnal, staring at a photo of Ana and the baby.

I’m not sure why, but a wave of irritation washed over me. I told myself that wasn’t fair. Ralph had every right to miss his family, to feel shock and grief. Maybe he even had the right to shoot at Johnny Zapata. It had been my choice to follow him out the window . . .

I stopped a vendor, bought a couple of beers.

I sat next to Ralph and handed him one of the cups. “Salud.”

It took him a minute to focus on me. “Sam okay?”

I told him the story. I apologized that he’d risked getting captured just so I could check out a shot-off earlobe.

“S’okay,” he said. “Friends help each other.”

“Is that what we’re doing?”

Ralph stared at me. I hadn’t meant to sound so angry.

“Something you want to tell me?” he asked.

I should’ve shut my mouth, but I’d been saving up hurt I hadn’t even known about. Now it was boiling over. Too many hours on adrenaline. Too many frayed nerves.

“Been a pretty shitty reunion. Longest we’ve spent together since you got married. Look what we’re doing.”

“You saying it’s my fault we haven’t been hanging out?”

“You got a family,” I said. “I understand that.”

“I wonder if you do.”

“Christ, Ralph, you pushed me away when you got married. You amputated your whole goddamn past. Watching you today with Zapata—I don’t know. Maybe you weren’t meant for a regular family life.”

Ralph blinked. “I wasn’t meant . . . Vato, if you were anybody else telling me this shit—”

“You’d what?” I demanded. “Prove my point? Shoot me?”

“You don’t want to be here, vato, that’s cool. I didn’t ask you. But don’t start jacking with me about who cut off who.”

“Aw, come on—”

“We invited you over a dozen times, man. Whenever Ana saw you she’d ask you. I left messages on your machine. Don’t tell me you didn’t get them.”

Ralph finished his beer, crumpled the cup. “Anybody’s afraid, vato, it’s you. I think it scares the hell out of you that I got a wife and kid.”

“Bullshit.”

“You hate it that you’re the last person you know who hasn’t settled down.”

I wanted to yell at him how wrong he was, but my anger balloon had burst. I felt empty inside.

Mary and Joseph kept moving through the park. Their donkey must’ve made a deposit somewhere along the path. I caught a scent on the night air that was definitely not fajitas.

“We brought Lucia Jr. here last year,” Ralph told me. “She was a newborn.”

The Blessed Couple moved toward the cathedral doors across the street.

Ralph studied his wallet photo, then slipped it back into his pocket. “I got a bad feeling, vato.”

“You’re going to see them again soon,” I managed.

“You’d watch out for Ana—”

“Stop it, Ralph. Besides, Ana doesn’t need watching. She’d kick my ass if I tried.”

“But you would, right?”

I sighed. “Yeah.”

“Promise?”

“Yes, already.”

I drank my beer, tried not to feel uneasy. Ralph was just scared for his family. He was entitled to sound a little despondent. We would get through this together. We’d been in scrapes this bad before. Almost.

The crowd shifted. I caught a glimpse of Madeleine giving Alex a deadly serious lecture. He was smirking at her. I wondered if his insolence was bravado, or if he actually had enough pull in the organization to stand up to Guy White’s own daughter. I wondered what his plans were once the old man passed away.

“We could leave right now,” Ralph said. “Forget the White family.”

“We could.”

“But the answer’s back at the White house . . . isn’t it?”

I felt as reluctant as Ralph sounded, but I had the same gut feeling.

I kept coming back to what Sam had said. Even if Guy White didn’t want to admit it, the old gangster knew the truth about his son’s death.

I wondered again about the intruder who’d broken into my house. I wanted to think it was the same person who’d shot Ana DeLeon, but I had a hard time believing it.

A guy who could set up a meeting with a homicide detective, calmly pull the trigger and walk away didn’t fit the image of the man who’d broken into my place. Ana’s shooter wouldn’t have been vanquished by a meat cleaver and a water gun.

I poured out my beer, crumpled the cup in aggravation.

A tattooed man had broken into my house looking for a woman. He assumed she would be there. A woman other than Mrs. Loomis. A woman he wanted to silence.

A cold, slimy feeling poured over me.

I dug my cell phone out of my pocket.