Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78364 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 392(@200wpm)___ 313(@250wpm)___ 261(@300wpm)
“He’s the guy on the Food Channel,” Ian explained. “The one who travels around the country, trying all the hottest stuff. He went on that show Hot Ones and was good until almost the very end. When he was here in Chicago, he hit Fuego and had this very burrito and said it was certified Jameson Reyes perfection.”
I shook my head. “Don’t do it, man.”
“No, do it,” Washington encouraged him. “I wanna see.”
The door opened, and Jack Dorsey, another investigator, came in and took the seat across from Washington.
“You’re already done eating?” Miro asked him, looking stunned.
“If you grew up with five brothers, you’d eat fast too.”
“That must’ve been more inhaling than—did you even chew?” Miro wanted to know.
Dorsey grunted and looked at Washington. “You’re gonna need to talk to me while you eat so we can get this done. I need information and—the fuck are you eating?” he asked Ian.
“The Diablo from Fuego. It’s my burrito. I always eat this burrito.”
“Yeah, but what’s with the fumes?”
“Small room,” Miro told him.
“You’re gonna fuckin’ die eating like that,” Dorsey assured him.
“I’ll die happy, then,” Ian replied, taking another bite.
“Shit,” Dorsey grumbled, then looked back at Washington. “Okay, so anyway, we’re gonna start the intake paperwork, but you won’t actually be considered enrolled in witness protection until your status has been verified.”
“What does that mean?”
“Because you have yet to name names and tell your story to the appropriate people,” I explained, “you don’t qualify. We know you will, but dates and times need to be precise, and until you have your meeting, you’re not in WITSEC.”
Washington nodded. “I get it.”
As Dorsey began asking questions and Washington answered, other people filed in. Crouse, grinning, took a seat on my right as Washington was on my left. Jago Mabe, a detective from Narcotics we dealt with a lot, was there along with his partner, Roberto Salazar, Berto to all of us. They both seemed tired, as CPD detectives constantly did, but without exception, Salazar always looked better than Mabe. It could have been his sartorial flair—the man always appeared impeccable in his suits—or that his hair, shaved close to his head, never looked like his partner’s, a mane in wild disarray. He’d told me that with his mother being Black and his father Cuban, he was genetically gifted to look good all the time. And while I couldn’t argue the fact that the man was handsome, in comparison to Mabe, he never had to put in much effort.
If you thought about a narcotics detective, someone from TV or movies, that was what Mabe looked like. On all the cop shows, the guy in jeans with a leather jacket, unshaven, with hair that was far too long, who smelled like cigarette smoke, and who, when he didn’t have his Aviators on, had them on top of his head—that was Mabe. He was a walking, talking gritty stereotype of a character in a seventies cop procedural come to life. I had liked him right away.
“You’re eating without us?” Mabe groused at the room.
“Fuck off,” Ian told him.
“The hell are you eating?” Salazar asked, his face scrunched up.
“Ghost peppers.”
“You’re gonna die,” he assured Ian.
“Not today,” Ian replied with a grin.
We all talked about nothing while Dorsey finished getting the basics from Washington and we all scarfed down our food. I offered Salazar and Mabe some of mine, but neither took me up on it.
“You already have lunch?”
“Yeah, it’s almost three,” Salazar told me. “The rest of us eat on schedule.”
“Boring,” I commented.
“Unless you don’t actually go to bed,” Salazar said, shooting Mabe a look that was utterly steeped in judgment. “Some of us just screw around and alternate between booze and coffee.”
“Nothing wrong with coffee,” I said defensively.
“But not as its own food group,” Salazar assured me.
“I—” Mabe began, like perhaps he was going to argue, but then just threw his hands up. “Yeah, fine,” he agreed instead.
I shook my head. “Speaking from experience, man, you gotta sleep and drink water.”
“Coffee is just better water,” he grumbled.
I really couldn’t argue with that.
“Hydration, brother,” Miro apprised him.
“I drink plenty.”
“Vodka doesn’t count,” Ian told him.
“Says you.”
“You’ll be dead by forty,” I declared.
“Oh God, I hope so,” Mabe groaned.
Salazar did a slow turn to him.
“I mean, no. I’ll drink water,” he promised.
I saw the clench of Salazar’s jaw as he faced me. “Don’t be a prick, all right?”
“Yessir,” I agreed with a grin. Clearly, Salazar was not about to let Mabe go quietly into that good night. He’d make sure the man stuck around.
Once we were all done eating, Miro collected the trash, put another bottle of water down in front of Ian, and then left with Dorsey.
“Okay,” Ian said with a sigh, his focus on Washington. “Tell us who your supplier is that you’re supposed to introduce to Burian Petrov.”