Mission Road Page 0,35

and down he didn't know anybody named Zapata. Finally Ralph realized we'd screwed up.

We left the poor dude sixty bucks for a new shirt, called an ambulance and scrammed.

Now, after three more conversations with my street friends and several twenty-dollar bribes, we were parked across Roosevelt Avenue from Mission San Jose, watching another burly redheaded Latino order a burrito at Taco Shack #3. The dilapidated look of the place made me wonder what had happened to Taco Shacks #1 and #2. I imagined they were turning into fossil fuel in the sedimentary layers below.

I squirmed in my new black suit.

A hot shower with scented soap and designer shampoo hadn't changed the feeling that I'd washed myself in grease, using a mobster's bathroom. My borrowed silk slacks were too tight in the crotch. The shirt collar was stiff with starch. Sitting in the back of the limo with Madeleine White, I felt like I was on my way to the mafia prom.

"Too many people around," Madeleine said, scoping out the scene. "I don't want more blood on the car."

"Sensitive type, aren't you?" I asked.

She glared at me like she was about to kick me in the face again.

Screw it.

Now that I realized who she was, I couldn't take her seriously.

I remembered her, all right. Frankie's little sister.

When I'd known her before, she'd been a ten-year-old kid with a dirty blond ponytail, a shrill voice and painter's pants decorated with Magic Markers. She always had bruises on her arms from getting into fights with her classmates. She used to sit in the bleachers during football practice and throw tennis balls at me. The coach never had the nerve to run her off because of her dad's reputation. Frankie called her the Brat.

Now, she must've been pushing thirty, but she looked closer to twenty. Proof positive she had Guy White's genes.

She didn't stick out her tongue anymore, but her I-hate-you expression hadn't changed.

"Listen," she told me, "I don't care if we draw attention. I'm not the one running from the police."

I wished I had a good comeback, or maybe just a better way of tracking down Johnny Shoes.

Unfortunately, Madeleine's plan was the best one we had. She'd said looking for Zapata's men would be easier than looking for the man himself, and she was right. When it came to moving around and avoiding detection, Zapata was slightly more paranoid than your average Third World dictator.

"What was that martial arts style you used on me earlier, anyway?" I asked her.

"Shen Chuan."

Ralph and I exchanged looks.

"Hell," I said.

As far as I knew, Shen Chuan was the only native Texas martial arts system. It was also a hard damn style to defend against. It was taught in the East Texas piney woods by one extremely good, extremely unconventional sensei.

"You study with Lansdale?" I asked.

"Did," Madeleine corrected. "He kicked me out of the dojo. Said I was over-the-top."

I tried to imagine what Joe Lansdale would consider over-the-top. Chain saws and atom bombs, maybe.

It seemed strange to me that a girl like Madeleine White would've taken up martial arts so intensely. Then I remembered something Ralph had told me. Mr. White had come to him for help when Frankie's problems got so bad they affected the family. I wondered what exactly that meant.

At the Taco Shack counter, the redheaded thug was getting his order.

"Come on," I said. "Let's interrupt this poor man's lunch."

"Hold up," Ralph said. "He's moving."

Sure enough, Mr. Thug had cradled his taco bag like an offensive lineman and was jogging across Roosevelt Avenue.

He didn't seem to have seen us, but he was moving at a good clip. He cut through the parking lot of San Jose and headed for the mission gates.

"Pull the car around," Madeleine ordered the driver.

"Why is he going to San Jose?" I wondered.

"Damn," Ralph said.

"What?"

"Zapata's mother."

"What are you talking about?"

The limo did a tight one-eighty.

I held the door handle to avoid slamming into Madeleine.

"Zapata's mom is a parishioner," Ralph said. "Ana told me once. I forgot. Zapata's family's been at the mission for, like, centuries."

Madeleine snorted. "You think Zapata is in there with his mother? What, praying?"

I tried to imagine Johnny Zapata as a good Catholic boy. Or even a good boy. Or even having a mother. I failed.

"I don't want this to go down in a church," Ralph muttered.

The limo stopped in front of the visitors' center.

Madeleine slipped a new clip into her nine. "Alex was right, Arguello. You are getting soft."

She kicked open the car door, looked at me