Patricia’s.
I circumvented their disapproving looks by brandishing the soccer shirts.
“Sorry,” I mumbled. “Trouble getting these.”
In fact, the plastic bag full of neon-orange clothes had been sitting in my truck for a week, but the distraction worked.
The kids yelled, “Uniforms!” and mobbed the bag like Somali refugees. The mothers had to retreat or get trampled.
“First game Saturday against Saint Mark’s!” I called to the mothers as they left.
My grumpy inner voice: And I hope you have fun without me.
The kids were running down the field holding bright orange tube socks from their ears like streamers. The Garcia twins were tackling each other. Laura and Jack were playing leap-frog.
I blew my whistle. “On the line!”
Nobody got on the line, but the chaos moved into a tighter orbit around me. I was making progress.
“I’ve been practicing my kicks, Coach!” Paul told me. “My dad said you were teaching us wrong!”
“That’s great, Paul.”
Kathleen pointed at me and giggled. “You look like a cat’s been sleeping on your head!”
“Scrimmage!” the Garcia twins screamed.
“We’ve got to do some drills first, guys,” I said.
“Scrimmage!”
Pretty soon the whole tribe had taken up the call.
I relented.
We went eight on seven. Jack took Jem’s place as keeper.
Two scrimmages and twenty-seven water breaks later, the rain started coming down-just in time for the end of practice.
I blew my whistle. “Circle up!”
To my surprise, the whole team responded. They sat in a circle around me on the wet grass.
“The game is at ten on Saturday,” I said. “What time is it, Laura?”
“Ten on Saturday!”
“Who are we playing, Paul?”
“Saint Mark’s!”
Two right answers in a row temporarily stunned me.
One of the Garcia twins tugged at my sock. “Where’s Jem? Is he sick?”
“He’s… out of town.”
“He’ll be here, right? He’s our best goalie!”
I blinked, and wondered if they’d been practicing in some alternate universe last time.
“I don’t know,” I said. I didn’t add that I probably wouldn’t be there, either. “Listen, just play your best. Practice your kicks. Saint Mark’s is supposed to be a good team, so don’t be discouraged. ..”
“We’re gonna win!” Paul yelled, and bounced the ball off Maria’s head. She didn’t notice.
“Yeah!” said Kathleen. “Best coach ever!”
Jack gave me his best loyal dog bark.
“Okay,” I said. “Well… your parents will be here soon. So.. . let’s clean up the equipment.”
The team spirit was too good to last. They gave a cheer and went screaming en masse toward the playground.
I watched them go. Then I stared down at the extra uniform in my plastic bag. I’d saved Jem his favorite number: 13. I’d saved him the yellow goalie vest.
Somewhere during the night, I’d decided not to call Maia’s. Despite the time crunch, I had to go in person. I had to talk to Jem, face-to-face, find a way to tell him what was going on. He deserved to know.
It would be better not to bring the uniform. The kid wouldn’t be playing in Saturday’s game. Even best-case scenario-no way.
I shouldn’t waste another minute on soccer. I’d lost half the morning and done nothing to help Erainya. I needed to get Ralph Arguello working on my problem. Now. Immediately. Then I needed to get to Austin.
But I took the time to walk the rainy field. I collected the balls the kids had kicked to the far corners of creation. I locked up the supply shed. And I stayed at the playground until my last player got put safely in her parent’s car.
“Vato.”
Ralph Arguello held out his arms. His gold-ringed fingers and white guayabera shirt and fan of black hair across his shoulders made him look like the Brownsville version of Jesus.
He pulled me into a bear hug, which disconcerted me. I wasn’t sure I’d ever touched Ralph before, except maybe for the time I’d pulled him back from killing our high school football coach.
“We were about to eat lunch,” he told me, leading me down the hallway. “You like Gerber’s tapioca?”
“Tempting, but I’m okay.”
Ralph grinned. His thick round glasses made his eyes float like dangerous little fish. “Change your mind, I can fix you up.”
“ Ralphas, I need help.”
A few more steps into their home-past the tintype of Ralph’s great-grandfather who rode with Pancho Villa; the tiny altar to Ralph’s deceased mother; Ana DeLeon’s framed Police Academy graduation picture.
“Ana told me,” he said, his voice even. “Come on. Meet my main chica.”
His den windows overlooked Rosedale Park, so close to the bandstand that in the spring the whole house must have vibrated with conjunto music from the annual festival. Marmalade walls were hung with Frida Kahlo prints. Patchouli incense coiled up the blades of a potted yucca. eBay flickered on the computer screen. The bookshelves were crammed with Spanish poetry, homicide manuals and children’s stories.
In the center of the carpet, a baby sat suspended in a plastic saucer seat, her tray sprinkled with Apple Jacks.
She had a drool stalactite on her chin, tufts of black hair, and little wrinkled fists. I could tell she was a girl because her ears were pierced and fitted with gold studs. Then again, so were her dad’s.
She looked up at Ralph and grinned in a way I’m sure must’ve been very cute-though her expression struck me as not too different from an I’m-pooping-now look.
“There she is- mi bambina!” Ralph stuck his face down toward the baby, who squealed happily.
She kicked her feet. The saucer went whumpity-whump.
I decided I needed to sit down.
I pulled a teething ring out of the crack in Ralph’s brown leather recliner and settled in, outside what I hoped was drool-flinging range.
“So-Erainya.” Ralph turned toward me, trying to suppress his parental euphoria long enough to focus on my problem. “Tell me about it.”
I filled him in on what his wife the police sergeant didn’t know-the fourteen million dollars, Stirman’s ransom deadline, my feeling that Stirman would kill Erainya whether I found the money or not.
Ralph picked up a jar of processed yellow goop. He stabbed it a few times with a spoon. “You willing to kill, vato? ’Cause you go after Stirman yourself, that’s what you’ll have to do.”
I didn’t answer. The baby was trying to pick up an Apple Jack with tiny, clumsy fingers.
“Don’t tell me,” Ralph decided. “I see it in your eyes, man. I don’t want to know. I’d have to tell Ana, entiendes?”
“Can you help me or not?”
He spooned some goop into the baby’s mouth. Most of it dribbled down her chin. “I got a name.”
I nodded, relieved but not surprised.
Ralph had spent years on the streets. He’d built a million-dollar pawn shop empire, occasionally branching out into less legally correct businesses. Until he’d stunned the town by marrying a police officer, Ralph had known the disreputable side of San Antonio as well as he knew the resale value of gold or used guitars.
“Guy’s name is Beto Falcone,” he said. “Pimps whores out of the Brazos Inn over on Crockett. He and Stirman
