Mission Road Page 0,37

tell which was stronger in Frankie's voice - hate or fear.

"Now," Mr. White said calmly.

"Hey, Frankie," Ralph said. "It's cool. We'll catch you later."

Mr. White glanced at Ralph, appraising him. Maybe he recognized that Ralph was letting Frankie save face. Maybe, in a cold way, he even appreciated that.

Frankie's fists clenched. He planted his feet, trying to ignore his father's order. But it was like watching a time-lapse movie - a granite hillside being slowly and mercilessly eroded by the sun and the wind. Finally Mr. White pointed toward the parking lot, and Frankie followed his father off the playing field. We didn't see them or Madeleine again that night. Soon, I was much more interested in my girlfriend and Ralph's tequila, and I stopped thinking about the incident with the Whites.

But looking back on it, I felt sorry for Madeleine.

I tried to imagine what it would be like living with two men like her father and brother, being kid sister to Frankie White, who could bring out the violent side in anyone, even a gentle middle-aged English teacher.

RALPH, MADELEINE AND I FOLLOWED THE redheaded thug into the grounds of Mission San Jose.

It was a cold Saturday evening, too late and overcast for much of a crowd. The convento was empty except for an elderly couple studying a tourist brochure. Ancient huisache trees lay flat against the ground and the foundations of ruined buildings made weird geometry in the grass. Along the fort walls, oak doors were fastened shut, as if the Indians who'd lived there two hundred years before were still inside, cooking dinner or stumbling through vespers prayers in their strange new Spanish language.

Mr. Thug toted his taco bag toward the tiendita - a tiny souvenir shop in one of the Indian apartments. The sign out front promised religious memorabilia and ice-cold bottled water. He went inside.

Ralph stopped. He stared at the shop door, his hand in the pocket of his new leather jacket where a borrowed .38 waited.

Guy White's manservant had taken one look at Ralph, then given him a tough-guy outfit - black jeans, leather jacket, boots. Me, I got a silk suit. Bloody typical.

"Zapata's mom," Ralph said. "I remember now. She runs the souvenir shop."

"Are we going in?" Madeleine asked.

"Chiquita, you ever meet Zapata?"

Madeleine's scowl reminded me of the angry little girl at Howdy Night - a ten-year-old foolishly determined to hold her ground.

"Call me chiquita again," she said, "and I'll cut out your tongue."

Ralph pulled out his .38, opened the door for Madeleine. "Ladies first."

Inside, the souvenir shop was crammed with postcard carousels, shelves bristling with plaster saint figurines, holographic Jesus portraits that smiled and suffered and ascended in 3-D.

Johnny Zapata stood at the jewelry counter with Mr. Thug, both of them getting yelled at by a gray-haired Latina cashier so hideously ugly she could only have been Zapata's mother.

She was waving a taco under Mr. Thug's nose and yelling, "Tripas, Ignacio! I wanted tripas!"

Mr. Thug/Ignacio raised his hands. "Mrs. Z - "

"Ma," Johnny Zapata cut in, "they don't sell tripas no more!"

"Bah!"

"I told you, Ma. It's illegal now."

The old woman made a barking sound. "Since when do you care about illegal? Huh?"

Had I been thinking more clearly, I would've backed out, let the three of them fight, and questioned the survivors later.

Unfortunately, they noticed us.

Zapata stood up straight when he recognized Ralph.

Ignacio started to reach for his coat pocket, but Madeleine stuck her gun in the side of his nose.

Ignacio raised his hands.

"Who are these people?" Mama Zapata yelled at her son. "More of your enemies?"

Zapata studied us.

He was just as huge as I remembered. His fashion sense hadn't improved. He sported a black and gray polyester shirt, white pants and white leather cleats. With his Mongolian features and his small evil eyes, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Genghis Khan out for a night of bowling.

"Old acquaintances," Zapata told his mother softly. He glanced at Madeleine. "You're Guy White's daughter. What you doing with these babosas?"

"We thought she'd get along with your mom," I offered.

"What?" Mama Zapata shrilled. "Did this little punk insult me?"

"Ignore him, Ma." There was nothing human about Zapata's voice. It was free of emotion, calm and ruthless, the way sharks would talk if they could. "This is Tres Navarre, the PI. He thinks he's funny."

"Eh, Johnny," Ralph said. "We're overdue for a chat. You sure you want your mother here for that?"

Zapata's eyes drifted from me to Madeleine to Ralph. He was trying to read the score. He