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Next thing you know, we?ll have our first argument. (smile) no chance of that. for one, i could never argue with you. for another, i?ve been told that there are two theories to arguing with a woman. and neither work. (smile) so why try?
A minute passed, and there was no reply.
Harris said, “What happened with your phone? You finally break it? You’re pounding that thing with your thumbs like it needs life support.”
Payne looked at him and shrugged.
He looked back at the phone and thumbed: oh… and nice story in today?s paper! you looked terrific. how is your day going?
609-555-6221
Thanks. That was a difficult press conference. But, it explains why I was out of sorts at the bar later.
And my day is great, thank you.
We still on for that lunch?
Lunch? We never planned lunch.
Oh! “Lunch, dinner, cottage.”
Payne thumbed and sent: yes! that?ll knock lunch off the list. one down, two to go. (grin) let me get back to you in just a bit.
He sent the text just as Harris pulled the rental Ford in behind Chad Nesbitt’s BMW.
Harris, Payne, and Byrth stood at the painted metal door of the row house at 823 Sears Street. Payne knocked loudly with his knuckles three times.
They could hear on the other side of the door the sounds of feet approaching. Then, a moment later, there came the banshee wail of a woman. Followed by the sounds of heavy footfalls pounding away from the door.
On the stoop, the three exchanged glances as they heard a woman’s Latina-accented voice. It cried out, “La Migra! La Migra!”
And then they thought they heard a back door slam shut.
Payne and Harris looked at each other, then at Byrth.
“‘La Migra,’” Byrth explained, “is a Spanish pejorative for immigration enforcement officers.”
They nodded their understanding.
“Can probably thank The Hat for that,” Payne said, and chuckled.
A moment later, they could hear two male voices on the other side of the door, having an animated discussion. Finally, there came the sounds of the three locks on the door being turned.
The door swung open.
Paco Esteban stood there. Chad Nesbitt was behind him.
El Nariz’s eyes fixated on The Hat.
“Thanks for coming, Matt,” Nesbitt said, then looked between Harris and Byrth and added, “Gentlemen.”
Nesbitt saw Payne looking at Paco Esteban.
“Paco,” Nesbitt said, motioning in Payne’s direction, “this is my friend the policeman I told you about.”
Then Byrth spoke up. “I’m not La Migra, Paco.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers. And I’ve come after the man known as El Gato.”
El Nariz looked at the Texas lawman warily. He shook his hand and said, “Mucho gusto” without much gusto at all.
