Southtown (Tres Navarre #5)(51)

“What’s your point?”

“Stirman’s got a legitimate gripe.”

“Stirman’s a sociopath. Doesn’t mean Erainya and Jem should suffer.”

Ralph stared out the windows toward Rosedale Park, the way he had always stared at the landscape of San Antonio—as if it was his private domain, as if he could feel everything happening out there. In a way, it was his domain. When he and Ana had moved into this house, their combined reputations had been enough to permanently halt al gang activity within a five-block radius. Nobody wanted to mess with Arguel o and DeLeon’s domestic bliss.

Ralph said, “You think Erainya kept the money?”

“No . . . I don’t know. It just feels wrong.”

“And if Barrow hid it from her—what would he have done with it?”

I shook my head. “Something self-destructive—something pathetic. Gambled it away. Maybe a whore stole it. Maybe it mildewed in a bus station locker until some lucky attendant busted the lock. Who the hel knows? I’ve gone through Barrow’s case files. I’ve run every angle in my mind.”

“Maybe he had better plans. Maybe if he’d lived, he would’ve tried to use it for a fresh start.”

“Like hel .”

“That’s what I’d do.”

The baby had gotten hold of her spoon now. She was trying to pul it away from her father, but Ralph kept his finger hooked around the handle.

“Good people do bad things,” he said. “No surprise. Funny thing, though—you never think about it going the other way. Even f**king sociopaths can do something good once in a while. You know that? Nobody wants to live in hel , vato. Nobody.”

“You’ve been reading too many picture books.”

“Maybe you need to look at Barrow from a different angle, man. Al I’m saying. And maybe Stirman can be dealt with short of kil ing.”

“A minute ago—”

“I said if you went after him yourself, you’d have to kil him. But you could listen to Ana instead. You could let her help.”

Ralph Arguel o, lecturing me on trusting the police.

“I’l let you eat your lunch,” I said. “Good seeing you, Ralph.”

“Streets ain’t mine no more, vato. You ain’t gonna hold that against me, right?”

I listened for regret in his voice, heard none—just protectiveness of his new family, his new self. I tried to be happy for him. I tried not to feel unwelcome in his den.

“Sure,” I said. “Hey, I understand.”

“Cal me in a while. I’l let you know what I find out.”

I promised, though I knew I wasn’t going to cal .

Ralph walked me out. We shook hands at the door.

“What’s the baby’s name, anyway?” I asked.

“Lucia.”

“Lucia.”

“It was Ana’s mom’s name,” he said.

“I remember.”

“I’l be here, man, if you need me.”

He meant it. But he was offering support, not backup, and there was a big difference.

I walked down his front steps. I felt like I’d just been fitted with someone else’s Kevlar vest, and it was way too big for me.

When I turned at the curb, Ralph’s expression was a mix of concern and relief, as if he was glad to watch me walk away, his violent past entrusted to the keeping of another man.

He turned inside and closed the door, leaving a thumbprint of tapioca on the doorjamb.

Chapter 17

The note on Sam’s refrigerator read: I’ve got your car.

I’ll come by this morning to check on you.

Stay put until then—Tres. 821-6643.

Hel of a thing. Somebody steals your car and leaves a signed note with his phone number. Tres was apparently the guy’s name.

And this morning? It was already ten-thirty. No sign of the guy.

Sam thought about cal ing the field office, having this joker picked up and sweated in a locked room.

He paced around the kitchen in his three-piece suit. He ate a bowl of dry Frosted Flakes, took his medicine with a glass of orange juice and had to visit the restroom. When he came back, the WOAI radio news was talking about two fugitives shot dead in Omaha. Police were stil looking for the leader of the group.

The leader’s name made Sam anxious.

Will Stirman.

Sam went to his bedroom closet. He moved the shoeboxes aside. The rifle case. The suitcases. He pul ed out a large black duffel bag and looked inside.

The bag used to be ful er. And a lot heavier. He was pretty sure of that. He was also pretty sure he’d been waiting to do this for years.

He took his old service revolver and buried it in the bottom of the bag. Then he zipped it up.

He toted the bag to the kitchen and read the refrigerator note again.

He ripped it off and stuffed it in his vest pocket. The hel with staying put. He checked his regular sidearm, a Glock 9. He locked up his house, strol ed across the street and hotwired his neighbor’s Chevy Impala.

By the time the owner stumbled into his front yard, yel ing obscenities, incredulous that the friendly neighborhood private eye was heisting his wheels, Sam was halfway down the block.

Should’ve left him a note, Sam thought.

It felt good to smile.