Page 445 of Devil’s Disciples

“What’s your job?” I cocked my hip and looked him over. “Or, is being a biker your job?”

“I manage car washes.”

“Okay.” I thought for a minute about what a manager of a car wash might encounter in his daily travels. “So, you have to repair pumps, the little handheld wand, and then fill up the soap, wax, and that kind of stuff, right?”

“Damn good guess,” he replied. “That’s pretty much it.”

“If one of the little spray things is leaking or if it’s not cleaning the car off, do you know what to do to fix it?”

He laced his fingers together and looked at me like I’d challenged him to add two plus two. “Replace the nozzle.”

“If the pressure is low what do you do?”

He continued with the same look of annoyance. Knowing I was getting underneath his skin was satisfying. I gave him a look like I had better things to do than wait on his reply.

“Replace the impeller on the pump,” he said. “What are you getting at?”

“How do you know it’s the impeller than needs replaced?”

“Years of experience.”

“That experience comes from practice, right?”

He glanced at my tits. “I suppose.”

My clothes were nowhere near flattering. I wondered if he was looking at a stain, or if there was something about my faded black uniform that bothered him.

“I can memorize your orders because it’s a requirement of my job,” I said, taking a nervous look at my top. “The owner doesn’t want us writing it down. He thinks memorizing it is a nice novelty. From practice, I got good at it.”

He nodded toward my apron. “I think you’ve got a recorder.”

I cocked my hip. “What’s the bet?”

“What?”

“The bet.” I flipped my braid over my shoulder for a little added sass. “What’s the bet?”

“Oh, you’re a gambler, huh?” He leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “You tell me. What’s the bet?”

“If I recite it correctly, you’re going to leave me a twenty-dollar tip. If I can’t, I’ll pay you twenty dollars right now. How’s that?”

“Easiest twenty bucks I’ll ever make.” He leaned forward and offered his hand. “Start with me.”

I shook his hand and then crossed my arms over my chest, mimicking him. “You had the enchilada dinner, add a beef taco, add guacamole, with extra cheese.” I pointed at the bearded man at his side. “You had two burritos, both pork verde, extra verde sauce on top, no beans, double rice.” I nodded to Pee Bee. “A Tecate with your meal, the Cocina Combo, hold the lettuce.” Then, I nodded at Crip. “Seafood Vera Cruz Dinner.” Then, Smokey. “Molcajete Bowl. Chorizo and chicken.” I looked at P-Nut. “Taco plate, no lettuce, no tomatoes, add grilled onions.” I turned to Meathead. “You had a bowl of chile verde with flour tortillas on the side, warm the tortillas, please.” I looked at Cholo and exhaled. “And, you had a double hamburger, hold the bun, no side.”

I looked at Reno and raised my brows. “How’d I do?”

He glanced around the table. After receiving a nod of reassurance from everyone, he grinned. “Damn. Looks like I’ll be leaving you a twenty-dollar tip.”

Seeing the grin on Reno’s face was more satisfying than it should have been. Something told me he didn’t do it often. I relished in the sight for a moment, and then flashed him a smile in return.

“I’ll spend it wisely,” I said. “If you need anything, my name’s Carma.”

He glanced at my tits. Again. “Karma? Like, if you do good, good happens to you? Do bad, bad follows you? That kind of Karma?”

I grew up in an affluent neighborhood in Baja California, a state in northern Mexico that lies just south of San Diego. I was raised by parents who insisted that English was my first language. Because of my Spanish ancestry, education, and ability to speak English well, I was often mistaken for being an American. I went by Carma, but my given name was Carmelita. Once I told someone my birth name, the typical response was, Oh wow. You’re a Mexican?

Having that conversation with him would ruin everything. I liked the way he looked at me and I didn’t want that to change. At the end of the night, he could go back to wherever he came from. I’d live the rest of my life telling myself he didn’t care that I was Hispanic.