Page 90 of Rigid

He took a long drag, blew a few smoke rings, and then met my gaze. “Don’t think you’re a cop.”

“He’s a Marine. Or, he was. He fought for this country. For our freedom.”

He shook his head. “Fuck that. He didn’t fight for me.” He stood up. “Cocksucker didn’t fight for me. That fucker don’t know me. I fight my own fights. Fuck that dude.”

I let out a sigh.

He crossed his arms over his chest. “There’s lots of cops that are former soldiers and shit. Tell that kid to kick rocks. Question askin’ prick.”

“All he asked was to meet some of the fellas.”

“That’s one question too many. Remind him he’s a fucking prospect. Or, hell, take him to that Mexican’s house. Cholo. Yeah, introduce him to Cholo.”

“Cholo’s a good motherfucker. Don’t talk shit on him.”

“Who was talking shit?”

“You called him a Mexican.”

He scrunched his nose and stared. “He is a Mexican.”

“He’s Hispanic.”

“He’s a Mexican.”

“Hispanic.”

He tossed his cigarette on the floor and pressed the toe of his boot against it. “If you’re Hispanic, what’s your native language?”

I shrugged. “Spanish.”

He nodded. “Let’s assume a guy down in Tijuana swam over the river, walked to San Diego, and got him a fake Social Security card. Then, let’s say he got a job here in Oceanside at the carwash. Then, after working there for a couple of years, he bought it.” He spread his arms wide and gazed up at the ceiling as if looking up at a marquee. “Called it Pepe’s Car wash.”

I narrowed my eyes and shook my head. “You gonna make a point?”

“I was tryin’,” he said. “Lemme finish.”

“Finish.”

“Would Pepe be white?”

“No.”

“What would he be?’

“Hispanic.”

He nodded. “Hispanic?”

“Yep.”

“Where did he come from?”

“Tijuana, according to you.”

“What country is Tijuana in?”

“Mexico.”