Mission Road by Rick Riordan Page B

delivery van was the only thing that got us past police surveillance—a black Chevrolet sitting across the street from Guy White’s mansion. It had tinted windows and a slapdash stenciling job that read
Lou’s Electronics.
    “SAPD?” I murmured to Ralph.
    “Nah, they’d blend in better. I’d say federal. Not for us.”
    He tried to sound confident about it—or as confident as you can be, crammed in between forty-pound canisters of hot tamales.
    “FBI,” I speculated. “That execution White ordered in Louisiana.”
    “I’m guessing Secret Service. The counterfeit twenties.”
    “Ten bucks says FBI.”
    “You’re on.”
    From the front seat, Ralph’s second cousin said nervously, “I’m telling you guys, if you cost me this job—”
    “No worries,” I told him. “If we get caught, you can say we’re tamale-jackers.”
    I’m not sure that made him feel any better, but he pulled up to the gates of the mansion.
    In one of San Antonio’s weirder architectural fantasies, the house had been built to resemble a miniature White House. I’d never been clear whether Guy White constructed the place to reflect his name, or bought it that way because it did. Either way, it was a pathetic attempt at grandeur—like a Taj Mahal model on a putt-putt course.
    As we waited to be buzzed in, I tried to figure out why the grounds looked so gloomy. Maybe it was the winter fog, or the bare pecan trees. Even the Christmas tree in the windows seemed to glitter halfheartedly.
    Then I realized the gardens were dying.
    The few times I’d been here before, whatever the season, Guy White had taken meticulous personal pride in his gardens. Now there were no plants to speak of. No winter blooms. Just weeds and yellow grass.
    A woman’s curt voice came over the intercom. Ralph’s cousin nervously announced himself.
    The iron gates rolled open.
    The back of the van was like a grease sauna. On either side of me, metal canisters cooked their way through my coat sleeves.
    “You got a plan what to say,
vato
?” Ralph dabbed the sweat off his forehead.
    “Let’s play it organic,” I said.
    “Organic.”
    “Yeah. You know. ‘How ’bout them Spurs? Nice weather. Wanna help us find Frankie’s killer?’ ”
    “We’re so-o dead.”
    •                           •                           •
    THE VAN BUMPED UP THE DRIVEWAY.
    I looked at Ralph and tried to gauge how he was doing.
    Before we hooked up with his cousin, Ralph had called his sister and asked about the baby. His sister was worried out of her mind, frantic about Ana, furious with Ralph for running, but the baby was fine. She told Ralph all this, then demanded to speak to me.
    “Stop him,” she told me. “He’s gonna get himself killed. You gotta stop him, bring him back to his daughter.”
    I could hear Lucia Jr. in the background, banging on a pot and saying,
Ab, ab, ab.
I said, “I’ll do my best.”
    “You’ll
do
it,” the sister insisted. “No accident Ralph came to you. You’re the one he respects the most. He’s told me that a million times. You gotta keep him from going over the edge.”
    I didn’t bother protesting that we’d grown pretty far apart. I just promised again to do everything I could.
    “You know why he got involved with the Whites, don’t you? You understand why he
had
to help Frankie?”
    Before I could ask what she meant, the police came on the line and tried to negotiate with me. I hung up.
    The call energized Ralph. He didn’t seem as depressed. He talked more. But there was also a new restlessness in his manner—a three-espresso buzz. I recognized it, unfortunately. It was the way Ralph acted when he was anticipating a fight.
    He looked at me like he was following my thoughts. “My sister wanted you to hold my leash?”
    “I guess.”
    “She never figured I’d be the one with the wife and kid. She always figured I’d live that shit through you. You know?”
    I