The Lost (Celestial Blues, Book 2) - By Vicki Pettersson Page 0,41
just have a few questions.”
The man disappeared around the corner. “Like?”
“Like what’s that smell?” Kit asked suddenly. She almost looked as shocked as he did that she’d found her voice. But her eyes were alive now and she was leaning forward, genuinely interested. Grif almost smiled. “It’s fantastic.”
“My abuela,” the man said, gesturing to an old woman at the stove. “She’s making ropa vieja con arroz. Our family’s recipe. It has made Little Havana famous.”
The two exchanged words in Spanish and the old woman looked up at Kit and smiled. There were holes where most of her teeth should have been, and enough wrinkles to fashion a map of the world across her face, but her gray hair was thick and neat, and there was the hint that she’d once been beautiful. “Let me guess, she’s always been the best cook in the neighborhood?”
“I think so,” the man said proudly; not any more friendly, but not any less.
Grif nodded thoughtfully, then said, “Maybe you should put the word out.”
“We’re a family business. We ain’t planning a franchise,” the man retorted, flopping back in a vinyl chair, again suspicious.
“Someone else is trying to drum up business on your turf, though,” Kit said, crossing her arms. “And I don’t think your abuela would approve of what they’re cooking.”
This time, when the man stared at Kit, it was with raw hatred, not surprise. Even Grif was taken aback at the hard look, while Kit swallowed audibly beside him. This time her discomfort failed to appease the man. Echoing her body language, he folded his arms over his wife-beater, and continued to use his gaze as a weapon. Kit took a step forward beneath that hot stare. “Mr. Baptista, do you know a young man by the name of J. P. Yang? He goes by Jeap?”
Grif startled, and immediately tensed. The old woman stopped smiling, the holes in her mouth disappearing as she, too, fell still.
“How you know my name?” Baptista said lowly.
Kit flashed her phone, which contained his image, and gave them both a distant, professional smile. “Public record, Marco. Your family has owned Little Havana for a long time.”
Almost snarling, Baptista tilted his head at Grif. “You let your woman talk out of turn, cabron?”
The way he said it made Grif want to check the gun at his ankle, and back carefully away. But Grif had only four bullets in his .38 snub-nose, and that was strapped down tight. Baptista’s friends were outside, and so was the dog, while Dennis and company were too far away.
“She’s her own woman,” he said instead, slowly tucking his hands in his pockets. “And she speaks when she wants to.”
“I’m also a reporter. Kit Craig.” And she stepped forward and held out a hand. Grif held back a groan. Baptista stared, then slapped her hand away, rising to his feet as she reeled back. Grif slid a hand around her waist, but otherwise didn’t move.
“You come in here pretending to be with the police, asking me questions, and upsetting my grandmother?” He pounded his chest, the sound somehow reverberating, both hollow and loud. Grif cut his eyes sideways. The old woman remained by the stove, as alarmed by the outburst as Kit and Grif, but she didn’t look upset. She looked resigned. Baptista jerked his chin at Grif. “You a reporter, too?”
“I look like a reporter?” Grif asked calmly.
The calculation had long disappeared from Baptista’s gaze, and the anger faded now, too. Without blinking, he jerked his chin. It was acknowledgment. Respect. He saw enough of himself in Grif that he managed to settle again. “Come with me.”
Baptista rose, and crossed the room, too close to Kit. He paused next to her, looking down. “You stay in the kitchen.”
After a graduated moment, Kit merely nodded, and Grif blew out a relieved sigh. He’d make it up to her later.
So?”
“We,” Grif started, letting Baptista know that Kit was still very much a part of this, even if she wasn’t in the room, “need to know about a new drug in this neighborhood. It’s made from things that shouldn’t even be in a landfill. It’s both cheap and highly addictive.”
“You got nerve coming into my home and asking me about drugs, cabron.”
“We think it’s Russian,” Grif added.
Baptista’s gaze flickered, then he pursed his lips and sank into the sofa. He didn’t offer Grif a seat. “Yeah, those maricons are dangerous. They’re huevones compared to La Nuestra or Las Emes, of course, but dangerous enough.”