Page 64 of Ransom
Winston shifted his grip on his hat.
"Anybody comes for him, they come through me. You've got my word on that."
My throat closed up so fast I couldn't breathe.
I sat there with my hands pressed flat against my thighs and stared at his hand on the rail.
He stayed there a long moment. Then he lifted his hand off the rail and stepped back.
"We should go," I said.
Winston nodded and replaced his hat. "Whenever you're ready."
I stood up, crossed to the bed, and put my hand on Chance's shoulder. The blanket was warm.
"I'll be back next month," I said. "Same as always."
The elevator took us down into the too-bright lobby. I walked through it without seeing anything. Then we were in the parking garage, in the passenger seat of the truck, and my hands were shaking and I was hard.Why the fuck was I hard right now?It felt wrong, and it felt right, and all I wanted in that moment was to feel alive.
I dug my fingers into my jeans.
Winston slid behind the wheel. "Where to?"
I stared at the concrete wall. "Buy me a beer," I said and finally looked over at him. "I know a place."
Ransom gave me directionswithout looking at me and kept his hand on my thigh, climbing higher every time I had to brake. I didn't ask what the place was. I figured if he was taking me there, it mattered.
The bar was called La Rosa, and it sat between the tire shop and the laundromat. The neon sign in the window flickered, but the L never lit up right. The window had been painted over on the inside, and more neon advertised a variety of standard American beers.
"Trust me," Ransom said.
"Do I have a choice?"
"You could sit out here in this truck and be miserable, or you can come with me and get shit faced and eat good Mexican food. Your choice."
I followed him out of the truck.
Ransom shouldered the door open, and the smell rolled out: cigarette smoke soaked into the walls, spilled beer, carne asada from the kitchen. A telenovela played on the TV, two womenscreaming at each other over some man who wasn't worth the trouble. Cumbia music drifted from the speaker in the corner, tinny and warm.
An older man with a gray mustache looked up from behind the bar. "Ransom."
"Eduardo."
Eduardo gave me a quick once over. "You a cop?"
"Not tonight," I replied.
Eduardo jerked his chin toward the back. "Your normal booth's open. Food out soon."
Ransom led me to the corner where the vinyl was cracked and the table was sticky, and the pink light from the neon sign made everything look like a memory. He slid in on one side and I slid in across from him. Our knees bumped under the table and stayed together.
Eduardo came over and set two Modelos on the table. "Food soon," he repeated and left.
I picked up my beer. "You must come here often to have a regular booth."
"Often enough."
The food came fast: carne asada, rice, beans, fresh tortillas, salsa verde. Ransom built a taco without looking at it: meat first, then beans, then enough salsa to make his eyes water when he bit down.
