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Sam
“Is there a place to wash my hands?” I ask the taco truck driver.
“I’m afraid not, sir.”
“No worries.” I nod and flash a plastic smile.
Normally an interaction with a cop, or cops, would be thrilling right after an ‘event’. Sometimes I’d even seek them out to see what they know, going to bars where cops are known to frequent to see what they know about the case, if they’re talking about it. And if they’re not, I’d damn near try and lead them so that they might, especially after a few drinks.
Pulling these things off right under their noses gives you a life-and-death rush like nothing else. Well, nothing other than delivering the justice they can’t because they’re bound by the law.
But that excitement has suddenly changed to anxiety, and with no bathroom to slide into to splash my face with water, give myself a pep talk in the mirror, and try to get right, I’m left with nothing more than rubbing the back of my neck and then crossing my arms across my chest, forming a ‘barrier’ of protection around myself.
“You okay?” Erica asks.
“Yeah. You know…just sometimes you hear about parasites in these street taco trucks,” I ad-lib. “Just trying to play it safe.”
“We can go somewhere else.”
“No way. I invited you here and we should try it. I want to try it, with you. I’m not a germaphobe or anything like that.”
She nods and we slide into a simple plastic table next to the truck. A worker quickly brings us a couple of tropical fruit drinks, one mango-kiwi for her and a pineapple for me. Not a minute later and there is a bevy of tacos in front of us…carne asada, pork, even a vegan one.
Scooping out a huge glob of spicy mango I smear it across a taco mixto, then cover a chicken taco with some green sauce and top a third taco off with red sauce. Any anxiety I was feeling disappears when I take a look at the Mexican culinary perfection in front of me.
“God, Mexican food is the best,” Erica says as she bites into a torta, surprisingly a jalapeño hanging out the side.
“You can eat jalapeños?”
“You’d be surprised what I stomach.”
“So. Seems like some guy got killed at the club last night,” Erica says. When we walked over I didn’t press her for the details on the cop visit, already knowing what they were there for, and glad it was someone else’s door they were banging on and not mine.
But please…not hers. Anyone but her. She doesn’t have an evil bone in her body, which is why I know if…when we have kids…shit I just really hope they take after her and not me.
Kids? Am I nuts? I can’t possibly conceive of conceiving more monsters, polluting the world with more of my own kind…can I?
But who says I’m polluting, contaminating the gene pool, doing a bad thing. I see it as a service that somebody has to do, but nobody has the stones to do it…but me.
“Crazy. Glad we got out of there when we did.”
She looks at me, her eyes narrowing as she takes another bite.
“Jalapeños catching up to you?”
“No, I just wondered why you mentioned the time. Did you…hear some new information about the murder?”
“I don’t know anything, but I’m assuming it went down after we left. If it would have been before the place would have been full of cops, flashing lights, all that kind of stuff.”
She nods.
“So. Sam, huh?” she begins. “You don’t hear that name as much as you used to.”
“Very perceptive. My mom picked it out.”
“Why Sam? Why did she like it?”
My brain scrambles as I reach a crossroads. I’ve had this conversation before. It’s small talk, a means to an end…ending someone’s life that deserves to die. I’ve practiced this response six ways to Sunday and can tell it in my sleep. I can accentuate some words if I want the person to feel sympathy for me. I can highlight others if I want to add excitement, elevate their mood, and get them to do things…and go places, like my place, that they normally wouldn’t.
