Southtown (13 page)

So fucking what? Shoot!

Then he turned and saw her. His eyes got small.

“Put it down,” he told her. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’ve got the gun, Pablo.”

He took a step toward her. “No bullets in it.”

She aimed at the center of his chest.

He took another step and she squeezed the trigger.

Nothing happened.

He grabbed her wrist. She managed to punch him in the nose—a weak effort, but enough to loosen his grip. She made it a few steps toward the stairs before he tackled her and dragged her back into her cell.

She screamed, but there was no one to hear.

He flung her onto the mattress, stood over her, breathing heavy, dabbing his bloody nose. On the radio, Diane Rehm was talking about trusting your spouse.

Erainya felt like crying, but she held on to her anger.

She sat up, touched the back of her head where it had struck the wall.

After a long time, she asked Pablo, “Those were your friends who died in Omaha?”

For a moment, he became that young man in the alley behind Paesano’s again—a contrite, harmless kid. “One of them . . . my cousin . . . if he’s really dead.”

“You’ve been keeping in touch,” she guessed. “You just tried to call him.”

Pablo didn’t answer.

“Stirman wouldn’t approve,” she persisted. “Little harder to trace mobile calls, but they can do it. They find your cousin’s phone, honey, they find out he’s been making calls to San Antonio—”

“Shut up.”

“Time’s running out.”

“Just give Stirman his money, and nobody’s going to hurt you. Do that, we’re gone.”

“I don’t have the money.”

“Cooperate, lady. You could go home. So could I.”

“You believe that, Pablo? Is that what Stirman promised your friends in Omaha?”

Blood trickled from his nostril. Pablo didn’t seem to notice.

If Erainya could just get him on her side . . .

“Honey,” she said, more gently, “what were you in prison for?”

Pablo studied her warily, as if he were afraid she’d make fun of him. “I killed a man.”

“You’re not a natural killer. What did this man do?”

“He was . . . I came home, and he was with my wife.”

Aha,
she thought.
Keep him talking. Be his friend.

“You still want her back?” she asked. “Will she still be waiting?”

Erainya realized she’d made a mistake when she saw the anger in his eyes.

“She didn’t do anything,” he said tightly. “They were talking on the bed, but . . . it wasn’t what I thought.”

“Okay, honey,” Erainya said, trying to placate him. “So what happened?”

Pablo looked at his gun. “Couple of weeks, Angelina had been spending money, going out at weird times. Then a neighbor saw this guy come over to the house twice while I was at work. I came home with a shotgun one night . . . but it wasn’t what I thought. She’d hired a private eye. Somebody like you. Angelina had lost her family coming across the Rio Grande years ago, see. She hired this guy to find them. Didn’t think I’d approve of her spending the money. That’s why she didn’t tell me.”

“You shot the PI.”

“No, see . . . the PI had some luck.” He closed his eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was heavier, chained with guilt. “Angelina had just started meeting this guy he’d located. They were in the bedroom looking at Angelina’s photos. They were talking about old times, trying to figure out what happened to their mother. The man I shot was Angelina’s brother.”

Diane Rehm’s grandmotherly voice filled the room. Sunlight pulsed through the cracks in the boarded-up windows, heating the air like steamed cotton.

Despite the fact that Pablo was holding a gun, Erainya felt so bad for the young man that she had a sudden urge to put a handkerchief to his bleeding nose, the way she would do for Jem.

“Honey,” she said, “does your wife want you back?”

He blinked. “She’ll meet me in Mexico. I wrote her what to do. If she read the letters . . .”

Erainya looked away.

She knew his plans for a happy ending were nothing but smoke. He would never see his wife again. He would be gunned down, or die on Death Row.

“You’ll see her,” she lied. “But don’t wait for Stirman. Even if he gets his money, he won’t let either of us go home. This is the only chance we’re going to get, Pablo. Your wife wants you back.”

She thought she had him, until he pulled a clip of ammo from his pocket and slid it into the gun.

“Shut up,” he told her again, softly. “Just shut up.”

This time, his eyes told her she’d better do it.

She saw the capacity for rage that had put him in jail. She saw he was capable of murder.

The news came back on—unconfirmed reports from a source close to the investigation: The Floresville Five may not have stayed together as previously thought.

Pablo leaned forward to listen. His newly loaded gun cast a long shadow across the cement.

16

After dropping off Sam Barrera, I spent hours rifling through Erainya’s house, looking for seven million dollars.

I opened every locked drawer in Fred Barrow’s office. I wiggled every stone in the fireplace. I poked random holes in the walls and dug around behind the Sheetrock. I was rewarded with a 1963 phone book and a Jax beer bottle.

In desperation, I even went through Erainya’s bedroom closet.

For a guy, even a private eye, there is nothing more disconcerting than looking through the bedroom closet of a woman you respect. You just never know what you’ll find that might ruin her image.

I found nothing incriminating. Not even the dominatrix suit I’d long suspected Erainya might own.

On second thought, perhaps that did ruin my image of her a bit.

I ended the evening with a tequila bottle, doing my thinking and drinking on top of the Olmos Dam—something I hadn’t done in a very long time. The last time I’d been there, the water level hadn’t been nipping the soles of my shoes.

I tried to concentrate on Erainya, but my mind kept coming back to Sam Barrera, the perplexed look he’d given me from his living room window as I’d driven off in his BMW.

The old curmudgeon probably had family somewhere who could look after him. The fact that he lived alone, that he had absolutely no photographs of relatives in his house . . . Forget it. I had other problems.

I chunked a rock into the flooded basin. It made a deep
sploosh
.

My father, Bexar County Sheriff Jackson Navarre, had been a contemporary of Barrera and Barrow. He hadn’t lived as long. One summer when I was home from college, my dad had been gunned down in front of my eyes by a drive-by shooter, an assassin hired by one of his enemies. At the time, I’d gotten a lot of support and sympathy from my friends. Nobody could imagine going through anything so terrible.

But in the last few years, something funny had happened. My older friends’ parents had started aging. Now, many of them were dealing with their parents’ cancer, dementia, Parkinson’s, assisted living nightmares. When my friends talked to me about these problems, I could swear they were giving me wistful looks, suppressing a guilty kind of resentment.

I would never have to go through what they were going through. I wouldn’t have that lingering hell to deal with. My dad had died quickly, still in his prime. My mom—well, she was much younger. She never seemed to age. She had told me many times that she intended to go off a cliff in a red sports car as soon as she began doubting her own faculties, and I had no doubt she was telling the truth.

My friends didn’t have quite so much sympathy for Tres Navarre these days. I’d had it pretty easy when it came to parents. Death in a drive-by? Piece of cake. In fact my last argument with Ralph Arguello—almost two years ago, after the death of his mother—had been along those lines. But the more I saw of what my friends with aging parents went through, the more I tended to agree—I’d had it easy.

Which didn’t explain why I felt so damn empty, or why Sam Barrera’s unraveling bothered me so much.

I took another swig of Herradura Añejo.

I stayed on the dam, watching emergency lights flash all across the city, until a National Guard patrol came by and chased me off.

I probably would’ve slept through the rest of July had the phone not woken me up the next morning.

I opened my eyes. There was a cat on my head. Sunlight was baking my mouth.

Much to Robert Johnson’s displeasure, I crawled off the futon, made it to the ironing board, and yanked down the receiver. “Yeah.”

“Oh . . .” A female voice, on the edge of panic. “Coach Navarre, I didn’t expect you to be home . . .”

Several things went through my head.

First: Where the hell else would I be at—Jesus, did the clock really say ten?

Second: Why was this woman calling me
coach
?

Behind the caller, children were screaming. Then it hit me. I realized why she was close to panic. It was Thursday morning. Jem’s summer school volunteer soccer coach was late to practice again.

“Crap,” I said. “I mean darn. Um . . . Mrs. . . .”

“Toca,” she said. “Carmen’s mother? If you can’t make it today, I suppose I can watch the children . . .” A pregnant pause—letting me imagine torture with soccer cones, mass destruction in the goalie’s box. “But the first game is Saturday. I didn’t know if you had the uniforms . . .”

Uniforms. Damn.

Game. Damn.

In my mind, my commitment to soccer had ceased as soon as Jem wasn’t able to make practice anymore. Apparently, I’d forgotten to share that assessment with the other fifteen players and their families.

I should have taken up Mrs. Toca’s offer to watch the kids. I could make up an emergency excuse. Like I didn’t have an emergency excuse.

Ma’am, there’s an escaped fugitive I have to kill. Just tell the kids to work on their passing.

But I heard the team yelling behind her, and the primal fear closing up her throat as she pleaded, “Coach . . . ?”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

“Oh, okay,” her voice quavered. “Thank God. I mean, we’ll see you in five minutes.”

She either hung up or a child broke the phone.

Seventeen minutes later I was on the field—which again had dried out just enough to avoid canceling practice. It was as if God had declared divine protection over this small patch of ground, and scheduled His Flood around practice times, just so I could get my twice-weekly punishment.

Except for Jem, the whole team was there—fifteen miniature tornadoes who’d been cooped up indoors since the last time I’d seen them, two days ago, and were desperate to unwind every ounce of energy at my expense.

A few mothers waited impatiently on the field. No doubt I’d made them late for their manicures at 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 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.