Page 26 of Mister Prick

“Are you a police officer?”

“Not exactly.”

I coughed out a laugh. “What does that mean?”

“I work for a faction of the CIA.”

“Is your name Black?”

“Kind of.”

“Is your name Vince?”

“Yes.”

As my mind reeled to process what had happened, what was happening, and just who Vince might be, one of the men stood.

“One of them’s getting up,” I shouted.

He pushed the door open, pointed the pistol toward the man, and fired a shot into the door of the Cadillac between the two men.

“Siéntate, o te pondré una bala en la cabeza, pendejo,” Vince shouted.

The man sat down.

As if it was just another day in the life of Vince ‘Black’ Devoe, he hopped in the car and gave me a charming smile. “I’ll explain everything over dinner. How’s that?”

The man in the blue shirt stood. Before I could say anything, he took off running.

I wagged my finger toward the window. “One of them’s running away,” I screeched.

“Son of a fucking bitch.” He opened the console, grabbed one of the pistols, and tossed the other into my lap. “If Diego moves, shoot him.”

He jumped out the door and took off running.

I’d never held a gun, much less fired one. Nevertheless, I picked up the pistol. Surprised by its weight, I hoisted it to arm’s length and scrambled to climb over the passenger seat and outside the car.

I took Spanish in college, but my ability to speak it was limited. The only words that came to mind were do and nothing, so that’s what I said. Do nothing.

I pointed the pistol at him. “Hacer nada.”

I had no idea who the men were, but it was obvious Vince did. He even knew their names. Convinced they were drug lords, and that Vince was on a super-secret CIA mission in the war against drugs, I held the pistol as steady as I could while Vince tackled the runaway in a 7-Eleven parking lot a ways down the block.

I felt powerful. Like I was making a difference. The sense of sexual euphoria escaped me and was replaced with a rush of adrenaline that all but made me high. I’d found my calling in life, and it wasn’t selling BMWs.

As Vince lifted his would-be escapee to his feet, two black Chevy Suburbans careened into the parking lot. One came to a screeching stop behind the Cadillac, and the other parked beside it.

Men dressed in military-type clothing jumped out. Armed with machineguns, and wearing bullet-proof vests, they surrounded the Cadillac.

“She’s my CI,” Vince shouted.

They acted like they didn’t even care. While several of them searched the Cadillac, two others dragged Diego to the SUV.

In seconds, the two men were tossed into to the back seat of the Suburban. There were no handshakes nor were niceties exchanged. There was no paperwork filled out, no arrest reports, no pats on the back, and no cigar smoking captain who scolded Vince for putting the general public in jeopardy for firing a shot in a coffee shop’s parking lot.

I stared in awe as the SUVs sped away. Vince shoved the pistol into the waist of his jeans and then reached for mine.

“What’s a CI?” I asked as I handed the pistol over. “You said I was your CI.”