used to do business, running fresh meat up from the border.”
“Ralph…”
“Falcone would know Stirman’s hiding places. Little persuasion, he might be willing to tell you. I got the number.”
“Ralph, Beto Falcone got whacked six months ago.”
Ralph stared at me.
“Couple of gang-bangers,” I said. “Killed him for thirty bucks in cash. Beto’s dead.”
Something shifted between us, like the fulcrum of a seesaw.
Ralph turned to his computer. He stared at his items on eBay-the new heart of his pawn shop business. “Nobody told me.”
It was a statement I’d never thought to hear Ralph Arguello say, right up there with I’m sorry and Let’s let him live.
“You’ve been on paternity leave,” I offered halfheartedly. “You’ve been out of it.”
The lenses of his glasses flashed.
He turned to his daughter. He held out his little finger for her to grab.
Other than the fact she had no teeth, she looked a lot like her dad when she smiled. Her glee was so complete it could’ve been innocent or diabolic.
“I’ll make some calls,” Ralph said. “Give me a couple of hours.”
“Be faster if we hit the streets.”
Phones were unreliable for the kind of information we needed. We both knew that. Hell, Ralph hated phones.
But I sensed his hesitation-his completely un-Ralph-like reluctance to move.
The baby was pulling at his hand, trying to get the spoon.
“Haven’t set foot in the shops for months,” Ralph said. “Nowadays, I run my business from right here, you know? Some of the stuff I was into… I let it slide, vato.”
I didn’t respond.
“Ana and me-if we were going to stay together, something had to give. You understand?”
“And that something was you.”
He acted like he hadn’t heard.
He crushed an Apple Jack on the baby’s tray, made a line of brown dust. “From what you’re telling me, Barrow and Barrera stepped way over the line. They stole Stirman’s money. Now you’re telling me they killed his wife and kid, too.”
“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 all gang activity within a five-block radius. Nobody wanted to mess with Arguello 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 hell 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 hell.”
“That’s what I’d do.”
The baby had gotten hold of her spoon now. She was trying to pull 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 fucking sociopaths can do something good once in a while. You know that? Nobody wants to live in hell, vato. Nobody.”
“You’ve been reading too many picture books.”
“Maybe you need to look at Barrow from a different angle, man. All I’m saying. And maybe Stirman can be dealt with short of killing.”
“A minute ago-”
“I said if you went after him yourself, you’d have to kill him. But you could listen to Ana instead. You could let her help.”
Ralph Arguello, lecturing me on trusting the police.
“I’ll 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.”
“Call me in a while. I’ll let you know what I find out.”
I promised, though I knew I wasn’t going to call.
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’ll 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.
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.
Hell 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 calling 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 still 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 pulled out
