Joseph Wambaugh - Finnegan's week

“That order’s safe enough for everyone,” Nell said.

“Don’t worry about me,” Bobbie said. “I haven’t had much Mexican food, but what I’ve had I really like. I’m experimental in everything.”

“You must be,” Nell said.

“Whaddaya mean by that?”

“Fin,” Nell said.

“Look, this is only the second time I’ve been with him!” Bobbie said.

“Me too,” said Nell.

“Really? I don’t believe it.”

“Now whadda you mean by that?”

“It’s easy to see you got feelings for him, big-time.”

“What?”

“One woman to another,” Bobbie said. “It’s easy to see.”

“Me? Fin?”

“I don’t blame you,” Bobbie said. “He’s cute, and he’s so nice. A real gentleman, in a way. I can see how you might feel. But honest, we’re just friends, is all.”

Nell wanted to deny it, but the words wouldn’t come out. This child was in-furiating! Calmly, she said, “Bobbie, I don’t know what to say about that except that I would rather spend my life arranging flowers and pouring tea in a geisha house than be hooked up with that neurotic cop!”

“I know,” Bobbie said, sympathetically, “but we can’t really follow our heads, can we? Not when our hearts’re pulling us in another direction. Toing-and-froing, right? I know how it is, Nell.”

Nell didn’t get a chance to respond in that Fin returned to the table just as the waitress brought the beer and margaritas. They were hand-shaken margaritas, not gringo slush.

“ Salud , as they say in these parts,” Fin said, raising his beer bottle to each woman, with a lingering look at Bobbie.

The strolling guitar players came closer to their table, singing “Guadalajara.” When Bobbie turned to look at the musicians, Nell whispered to Fin, “Did you tell her about your very low sperm count?”

“Nell!” Fin said, shooting a quick glance at Bobbie, but she wasn’t paying attention to them.

“And that you give blood regularly?”

“Nell, what’s wrong with you?” Fin whispered. “She’s a sweet kid!”

“They all are,” Nell said. “Sweet. When they’re kids .”

Fin whispered, “Do you have some sort of … problem with her?”

Nell smiled, but only with her mouth, and said, “Not at all. It’s very predictable.”

“What is?”

“Life is,” she said.

“My whole life’s been a failed effort to please women!” Fin blurted to a strolling guitar player, who didn’t understand a word. “Is this a smoke-free zone or can I just set fire to myself?”

They’d already had two drinks, yet nothing had been said about the money they were owed. Before they’d entered, Abel had tried to warn the ox not to be pushy by telling him that Mexicans were patient, and that Soltero had chosen an elegant restaurant, so he might be playing the gentleman. And that Soltero would talk about money only when he was good and ready.

But after his second double tequila, Shelby wanted action. He only had one more bindle of meth and was needing it. He slipped it out of his boot and put it in the pocket of his Grateful Dead T-shirt, then watched the guitar players and twitched.

One of Soltero’s companions was the man who’d approached them in the Bongo Room. The other was short but very burly, with a mustache so long he could’ve used it for a chin strap. He had a deep scar on the side of his neck, and a piece of his left earlobe was missing. From time to time, Shelby glared at this scarred mustachioed Mexican, but the man kept his eyes on Soltero or on his drink.

Soltero wore a double-breasted suit of gray silk and a charcoal shirt buttoned at the throat, with no necktie. In fact, Abel thought he dressed a lot like their boss, Jules Temple, but he was several years older. Soltero’s ponytail was pulled back more severely than Shelby’s, and was gray-flecked.

Soltero asked dozens of questions, both in Spanish and English, about the business climate in San Diego, and the politics of the presidential election, and if Abel would be interested in hauling other loads from San Diego to Tijuana and sometimes in the other direction. His English was only slightly accented, and his hands gestured gracefully.

Just when Shelby thought Soltero was going to talk about money, he said, “And now it is time to eat.”

He had preordered two kilos of carnitas-marinated pork roasted on a spit. The waiter brought another large plate that held homemade flour tortillas wrapped inside a red tasseled napkin, a bowl heaped with cilantro and onion, and yet another brimming with guacamole. Finally, a bowl of homemade salsa arrived.

“I believe our American guest will not be disappointed,” Soltero said, smiling at Shelby. “The salsa is made special for me.”

The food looked, smelled, and tasted delicious. Abel bolted it down, but when Shelby was on a methamphetamine rampage like this, he didn’t want to wreck his edge. Shelby picked at his food, but drank two more tequilas. Then he got up and lurched toward the rest room to snort the last of his meth.

Fin said to the women, “Oh oh, Pate’s heading for the John. The men’s room’s about as wide as a Cuban cigar, and he’s listing to starboard. It’ll be like docking the U.S.S. Ranger in a car wash. Listen for a collision.”

Bobbie said, “My twenty-fifteen eyesight tells me that if that guy with the slick suit and the ponytail doesn’t like you, instant emigration is in order. What’re we gonna do if they all leave together?”

Nell looked at Fin and said, “You’re of the hunter-gatherer gender. Whadda we do?”

“I think we try to get their license number and call the Mexican state judicial police on Monday. That’s all.”

“For what?” Nell asked.

“To ask if they’ll search his house for shoes,” Fin said.

“Fat chance,” said Nell. “He probably has a brother or a nephew or a cousin running the state police. Or else he owns a few of them.”

“No matter what happens, I’ve really enjoyed this day,” Bobbie said. “It’s the most fun I’ve ever had as a detective.” When she said it she put her hand on Fin’s forearm, as was her habit by now.

“I’ve had a great time too,” Fin said softly. “You’re as good a partner as I’ve ever had. You’re a smart little detective.”

Nell mumbled, “Me, I’m so dumb I better run home and memorize the encyclopedia. Well, maybe just A through G tonight.”

When Nell turned toward the singers, Bobbie whispered to Fin, “She has an attitude .”

Fin whispered back, “It’s her age . They’re all about as easy to understand as black holes in the galaxy, light-years away.”

When Shelby got back from the rest room, he was barely able to sit in his chair. He’d done the last of the meth and was turbocharged and getting paranoid. He kept looking from one to the other. The little Mexican glanced at him with amused detachment. The burly one with the Zapata mustache continued to watch Soltero as though Abel and Shelby weren’t even there. He’d nursed a beer for an hour, but had eaten more than his share of carnitas.

Abel peeked at his watch more than once, but Soltero was in no hurry at all. The tequila and salsa heated them up and Soltero unbuttoned the first two buttons of his shirt.

Shelby’s body temperature had shot up like a Patriot missile, but he didn’t seem to notice the flow of sweat. He was too busy fiddling with the fork, folding and unfolding the napkin, looking from one man to the other, checking inside his boot for meth that wasn’t there anymore. If there’d been a television in the place, he’d have taken it apart and put it back together by now.