Mission Road (Tres Navarre #6)(7)

I reparked his Lincoln Continental so it wasn’t blocking the entire alley. I didn’t realize there was blood on the steering wheel until it was all over my hands. Feeling nauseous, I washed off with the backyard hose.

I thought about Ralph appearing at my door—the first time I’d seen him in five months. I should’ve resented him showing up like this, after he’d become a family man and let our friendship waste away. I should’ve been angry that he was bringing me so much trouble.

But the truth was I was too dazed to be angry. Not because he’d shot somebody. He’d killed men before. But I’d known Ralph Arguello since high school, and I couldn’t recall any time when he’d looked so shaken, or come to me for help. It was always the other way around.

I also understood why Ralph didn’t want his wife, Ana DeLeon, to know anything. Their marriage two years ago had caused a huge scandal in the SAPD, especially since she’d just become the first woman ever to make sergeant in homicide. Officially, there had been no problem with Ana marrying Ralph. He had no criminal record. Unofficially, everybody knew he deserved one.

For years, Ralph had monopolized the pawnshop business in town. It was common knowledge that he moved stolen goods. He wasn’t above violence to protect and expand his territory. In fact, the main reason Johnny Zapata hated Ralph was that Ralph wouldn’t sell his properties, which Zapata wanted to use to front his own smuggling operations. Zapata wasn’t used to having people tell him no, and Ralph had been telling him to go screw himself for years.

Ralph had promised Ana he’d go clean when they got married. He’d dropped out of the street scene, turned over his shops to his managers, become a stay-at-home dad. These days, the most dangerous thing he did was trading on eBay.

Until tonight.

BY THE TIME RALPH CAME OUT of the bathroom, showered and dressed in a spare set of Sam’s clothes, I was sitting in the rocking chair of my upstairs bedroom, Robert Johnson purring like a low-rider engine in my lap.

The cat made a chirping sound and leapt to the floor as soon as he saw Ralph. He padded over and began rubbing against Ralph’s legs.

Ralph is allergic to cats. Cats, of course, know this. They think he’s the best thing since flaked tuna.

“So what happened?” I asked Ralph. “Exactly.”

He faced the mirror, buttoned Sam’s linen shirt. “I needed information.”

“You must’ve needed it pretty bad.”

He rolled the cuffs. His unbraided hair made a wet black fan across the baggy shoulders of the shirt.

I’d always thought of Ralph and Sam as about the same size—both heavyset men, both with a juggernaut aura that came from their reputations. But Sam’s clothes were much too big on Ralph. The gray slacks sagged. The cuffs crumpled around his bare feet, as if Ralph had shrunk in the shower. I realized he would’ve done better in my clothes. It hadn’t even occurred to me that they might fit.

“I’ve been accused of something,” he said finally. “Ana . . . she found out about it. I need to clear myself. Zapata was my best lead.”

“What’s the crime?”

He stared at the mirror. “I told Zapata I’d meet him at Jarrasco’s tonight, down on South Flores—”

“I know where Jarrasco’s is.”

“He wasn’t there. Two guys intercepted me. Big cholo with red hair. I didn’t know him. A thinner guy I recognized, one of Zapata’s enforcers. They lured me out back. I was stupid as shit. The big one pinned me. Thin guy brought out a hunting knife. You know Zapata . . . what he likes his guys to do with knives. I got one arm free, got to my gun. I don’t know—I didn’t have a choice. I shot the thin guy in the gut, point-blank. The big one released me from shock, I guess. I ran.”

His hands were trembling on top of the dresser.

“You sure he’s dead?” I said.

Ralph nodded. “Cops’ll be after me.”

“It was self-defense, like you said.” I tried to sound reassuring. “Shooting one of Zapata’s goons—shit, police’ll probably give you a medal.”

“I’m not talking about for that.”

Without the glasses, Ralph’s eyes were unnerving—hot and raw, like holes in the ozone.

“This crime you’re accused of,” I said, “the one you don’t want to tell me about . . . the police have any evidence?”

“I shouldn’t be here, vato. Shouldn’t get you involved.”

“Don’t worry. Whatever’s wrong—”

The doorbell rang downstairs.

Ralph looked at the bedroom window, but there was nothing to see on this side of the house—just the old fire escape ladder, the backyard, the alley.

“Sam and Mrs. Loomis?” Ralph asked.

I shook my head. “Too soon. I’ll check it out.”

“It’s the police.”

“It isn’t the police. Just sit tight. Watch my cat.”

“That fire escape work?”

“Ralph—”

“I haven’t told you everything, vato. If it’s the police, I can’t surrender.”

The doorbell rang again.

Robert Johnson said, “Murrrp?”

I scooped him off the floor, handed him to Ralph. “You guys make nice. Don’t do anything stupid.”