crazy, Tres. Don’t get sucked into it.”
“White’s enemies, maybe?”
“Just talk.” He checked his watch again. “Zapata—you probably already know that. Or the Zacagni family out of Houston. There was something about a hit man, Titus Roe, maybe hired by the family of one of Frankie’s victims.”
“What do you mean—Frankie’s victims?”
Larry glanced uneasily at Ralph, then back at me. “Hell, Tres . . . You don’t know? Forget it. Nobody on the right side of the law is going to help you with this. You’ve got to surrender.”
Something about the way he said it—the way he kept glancing at the parking lot.
I pushed my chair out. “It’s time we left,” I told Ralph.
“Eat first,” Larry said. “I paid for that and you haven’t touched it.”
“Since when have you worn a hearing aid, Larry?”
Ralph put his hands in his lap. “It’s a trap.”
There was a glint of movement on the roof of Mi Tierra, just at the corner of the building.
“I’m sorry, Tres,” Larry said. “I don’t have a choice. Mr. Arguello, put your hands on top of your head, please, very slowly.”
“A cross fire,” I grumbled. “Damn you, Larry.”
“Why don’t you use that little two-way radio in your ear,” Ralph said evenly. “Tell your friends I got a pistol under my napkin, aimed straight at your dick.”
“Shoot,” Larry dared him. “Sniper on the parking garage roof will take off your head. Otherwise, put your hands up and we’ll wait for the SWAT team to join—”
Ralph overturned the table into Larry’s lap.
I rolled to the ground and got up running.
Ralph was way ahead of me. He dove behind the only other occupied table—the family of startled tourists—and burst into the restaurant where the crowd was thicker.
There was no snap of gunfire. No clear shot.
We wove through the dining room, knocking down waiters and kicking over breakfast platters. Larry Drapiewski was yelling and cursing behind us.
I glanced back long enough to see two SWAT guys in full combat gear jump the patio railing. Both were carrying assault rifles.
Nice to feel wanted.
“Not the front,” Ralph warned.
He was right. Two uniformed deputies were pushing through the hostess’s line, knocking over baskets of pralines.
Fortunately, Ralph and I knew Mi Tierra better than most places on earth. I’d been coming here since age fifteen. I’d retched my first pitcher of margaritas into their men’s room toilet.
We burst into the kitchen, ran for the delivery ramp. Cops behind us yelled at the dishwashers: “Get
down
!”
Finally one of the smarter cops yelled it in Spanish, but by the time he got off a shot we were through the service exit.
I didn’t notice the uniformed officer outside the door until it was too late.
“Vato!”
Ralph yelled.
The deputy was waiting to the side of the kitchen entrance, his gun drawn, ready to fire at whoever came through first. That happened to be me.
In a heartbeat, I registered his cocky smile, the gleam in his eyes that told me he intended to shoot first and make up a good story later. I watched him level the gun, then
wham.
I went flying sideways, the air slammed out of me. The pistol cracked.
When I looked up, the deputy was crumpled on the curb. Ralph’s knuckles were bleeding. I could hear the other cops still pushing and cursing their way through the kitchen, trying to shove through the mob of upset dishwashers.
“Come on!” Ralph ordered. He yanked me to my feet and ran.
I shook off my daze and followed. When I caught up, Ralph had already stopped a cab and pulled out the driver. I had just enough time to jump in the back before Ralph peeled out, the cabbie screaming and running after us, providing beautiful cover from the cops who were trying to take aim at us.
We heard a lot of sirens, saw a lot of lights, but they were too slow bringing around the helicopter. A critical mistake. We shot under Interstate 10 and into the labyrinth of the West Side,
“White’s enemies, maybe?”
“Just talk.” He checked his watch again. “Zapata—you probably already know that. Or the Zacagni family out of Houston. There was something about a hit man, Titus Roe, maybe hired by the family of one of Frankie’s victims.”
“What do you mean—Frankie’s victims?”
Larry glanced uneasily at Ralph, then back at me. “Hell, Tres . . . You don’t know? Forget it. Nobody on the right side of the law is going to help you with this. You’ve got to surrender.”
Something about the way he said it—the way he kept glancing at the parking lot.
I pushed my chair out. “It’s time we left,” I told Ralph.
“Eat first,” Larry said. “I paid for that and you haven’t touched it.”
“Since when have you worn a hearing aid, Larry?”
Ralph put his hands in his lap. “It’s a trap.”
There was a glint of movement on the roof of Mi Tierra, just at the corner of the building.
“I’m sorry, Tres,” Larry said. “I don’t have a choice. Mr. Arguello, put your hands on top of your head, please, very slowly.”
“A cross fire,” I grumbled. “Damn you, Larry.”
“Why don’t you use that little two-way radio in your ear,” Ralph said evenly. “Tell your friends I got a pistol under my napkin, aimed straight at your dick.”
“Shoot,” Larry dared him. “Sniper on the parking garage roof will take off your head. Otherwise, put your hands up and we’ll wait for the SWAT team to join—”
Ralph overturned the table into Larry’s lap.
I rolled to the ground and got up running.
Ralph was way ahead of me. He dove behind the only other occupied table—the family of startled tourists—and burst into the restaurant where the crowd was thicker.
There was no snap of gunfire. No clear shot.
We wove through the dining room, knocking down waiters and kicking over breakfast platters. Larry Drapiewski was yelling and cursing behind us.
I glanced back long enough to see two SWAT guys in full combat gear jump the patio railing. Both were carrying assault rifles.
Nice to feel wanted.
“Not the front,” Ralph warned.
He was right. Two uniformed deputies were pushing through the hostess’s line, knocking over baskets of pralines.
Fortunately, Ralph and I knew Mi Tierra better than most places on earth. I’d been coming here since age fifteen. I’d retched my first pitcher of margaritas into their men’s room toilet.
We burst into the kitchen, ran for the delivery ramp. Cops behind us yelled at the dishwashers: “Get
down
!”
Finally one of the smarter cops yelled it in Spanish, but by the time he got off a shot we were through the service exit.
I didn’t notice the uniformed officer outside the door until it was too late.
“Vato!”
Ralph yelled.
The deputy was waiting to the side of the kitchen entrance, his gun drawn, ready to fire at whoever came through first. That happened to be me.
In a heartbeat, I registered his cocky smile, the gleam in his eyes that told me he intended to shoot first and make up a good story later. I watched him level the gun, then
wham.
I went flying sideways, the air slammed out of me. The pistol cracked.
When I looked up, the deputy was crumpled on the curb. Ralph’s knuckles were bleeding. I could hear the other cops still pushing and cursing their way through the kitchen, trying to shove through the mob of upset dishwashers.
“Come on!” Ralph ordered. He yanked me to my feet and ran.
I shook off my daze and followed. When I caught up, Ralph had already stopped a cab and pulled out the driver. I had just enough time to jump in the back before Ralph peeled out, the cabbie screaming and running after us, providing beautiful cover from the cops who were trying to take aim at us.
We heard a lot of sirens, saw a lot of lights, but they were too slow bringing around the helicopter. A critical mistake. We shot under Interstate 10 and into the labyrinth of the West Side,
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