Page 91 of Rigid

“Who lives in Mexico?”

“Mexicans.”

“Pepe’s a Mexican, then.”

“Once he crosses the border, he’s Hispanic.”

“Whatever,” he said. “Take that question askin’ prospect over to your Hispanic buddy’s house. They can eat tamales together.”

“Stop being a prick.”

“Oh, now you gonna tell me that Cholo don’t eat tamales? Hell, I eat tamales, so I know he eats em. They’re good as fuck.”

“Just forget it.”

“Forgotten.”

I tossed my rag on the toolbox. “You ready?”

He looked up. “Ready to what?”

“Ride?”

“Just you and me?”

I nodded. “Yep.”

He picked up his cigarette but, twisted it between his fingers, and sprinkled loose tobacco all over my spotless bike. “Sure,” he said. “Let’s roll. Where we headed?”

“What the fuck are you doing?” I snarled.

“Looks funny bein’ all clean. I was just doin’ you a solid,” he said.

I shook my head. “Figured we’d eat lunch. I was thinking Mexican food.”

“Where we going?” he asked with a laugh. “Hispanico?”

TWENTY-SEVEN

Sandy

I was comfortable in my new home when Smokey was present, but when he was gone, I felt out of place. As if I was invading space that I didn’t have the right to, I reluctantly opened each of the drawers, looking for the silverware while Eddie took a shower.

I realized as I pulled open drawer after drawer, that although I’d been in the house for two weeks, I didn’t know where the silverware was.

On the next to the last drawer, I hit the jackpot.

Thank God.

I grabbed a butter knife, and closed the drawer.

Did I just see what I thought I saw?

I opened it again.

I gazed at the silverware, which was situated in a wooden cutlery organizer. Beside the organizer were three pairs of chopsticks. I smiled and shut the drawer.

I got the bread from the pantry, some ham, the cheese, and then looked for the mayonnaise. While scanning the compartments on the refrigerator doors, I saw another surprise.