6
When they walked into Tres Olivos, Shea remembered eating there once as a kid. Ralph had brought her along to a meeting with the president of the Jaguars—a guy by the name of Victor Ganado, or Uncle Victor as he liked her to call him. He had a kind face, a ponytail, and a gentle voice like a grandfather—not the kind of man she’d expected to lead a Latino street g**g. But then, people weren’t always what they seemed.
The smell of carne asada and salsa filled her nose, causing her stomach to rumble. She hadn’t eaten all day. Too many other things to worry about.
“May I help you?” asked the plump woman behind the counter. The crow’s-feet around her eyes crinkled as she smiled. Her accent was heavy, but understandable.
Shea looked at the hand-printed menu on the wall. “Chicken burro.”
“
