median?”
“I think it’s called the mode. Mode is what there’s most of.”
Spike smiled. “Mr. Salazar will be thrilled to know ninth grade math stuck.” He took a sip of his Coke. “It’s like Charlie came up with the mode, and then said, ‘That’s the guy.’ ”
“You have a theory?”
“I think he didn’t want us to catch him.”
“And do it himself after he got better?”
“Except he didn’t get better. When I called Socorro last week, the doctor had just told him he’d recovered as much as he ever would. Might not get worse, but wouldn’t get better. He was never gonna work again, that’s for sure. Maybe never even get out of bed.”
“That must be why he called me.”
Spike shook his head. “I don’t think so. He knew you’re not a vigilante. He had to have guessed you’d be doing exactly what you’re doing, not roaming the streets with a six-shooter.”
“Then why didn’t he reach out to you if he changed his mind and wanted to get the guy?”
Spike shrugged. “Maybe it has to do with one of his cases. Attorney-client privilege and all that.” He aimed his fork at the file. “You know what he was working on the day he was shot? He wouldn’t tell me.”
“A tax evasion case. Yachts. He was interviewing marine appraisers.”
“Like those car donation scams?”
“But in the multimillion-dollar range. And knowing Charlie, he was probably trying to get one of them to commit perjury by testifying the appraisals were accurate.”
Gage caught Spike’s eye, then glanced toward the glass entrance doors. Two silver-adorned Jalisco cowboys entered, dressed in the style of their home state in Mexico. Silver belt buckles, silver toe tips on rattlesnake-skin boots, silver bands on their hats, and silver buttons and lapel points on their shirts. The men paused just inside the door and scanned the restaurant, then took a small table near the front window. One slid a black briefcase underneath, while the other pulled out a cell phone, punched in a number, spoke a few words, and disconnected.
“Must be door-to-door encyclopedia salesmen,” Gage said, as a waiter delivered the men a basket of tortilla chips and salsa.
Spike slipped in a Bluetooth earpiece, punched in a number on his cell phone, and turned slightly away and passed on his location and a description of the Jaliscos. He rested his phone on the table, waited until the men were both looking down and reaching for chips, and then snapped a photo of them and sent it.
“It’s just like riding a bike, isn’t it?” Spike said.
“Don’t you ever just want to get off it at least long enough to enjoy a meal?”
“Can’t. It’s like having the television on all the time in the back of your head.”
“I used to think of it as white noise,” Gage said, poking around in his birra. “Charlie used to alert to guys like that from a mile away.”
“But that was more about like attracting like.”
Spike reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a wallet-sized Mexican prayer card encased in plastic.
“My brother bought this for Faith at a shrine in Culiacan. He’s still playing amateur anthropologist. He wanted to give it to her at your father’s funeral, but it didn’t seem appropriate.”
He handed it to Gage.
“She still interested in Catholic animas?” Spike asked.
Gage nodded as he examined the image of folk saint Jesus Malverde, protector of drug dealers, overlaid on a painting of the Virgin of Guadalupe. He dipped his head toward the Jaliscos. “Those guys may need this thing a lot more than Faith.”
“I’m sure they never leave home without one.”
“They also don’t leave home unarmed,” Gage said. “Check out the front pocket of the guy on the right.”
Spike’s cell phone vibrated a couple of minutes later as the Mexicans ate shrimp cocktails from bulbous sundae glasses.
“ Hola, Mama. ” Spike spoke loudly, smiling at Gage. “ Estoy en la Fiesta Brava.” He listened for fifteen seconds, then in a lower voice passed on the warning about weapons and disconnected.
“You know what else Charlie was working on?” Spike asked.
“Off the record?”
“I don’t know. Tell me a little more.”
“He was trying to recover the wallet of somebody who got robbed.”
“Why off the record?”
“It was a government official.”
“There’s no law saying people have to report crimes against themselves,” Spike said. “Off the record is okay.”
“Brandon Meyer was mugged a week or two before Charlie got shot.”
“No shit?”
“He wanted Charlie to get his wallet back.”
“Why didn’t Meyer report it?”
“I think he was afraid it would slop back on his brother.”
“I don’t get it. A mugging is a mugging. Happens all the time.”
“But this one happened at night in the Tenderloin.”
“The Tenderloin?” Even Spike wouldn’t walk through the Tenderloin after sunset, and he carried two handguns and Mace. “What was the brother of a presidential candidate doing in there? That has National Enquirer written all over it.”
“Meyer claimed he cut through on his way to a meeting, but I don’t believe him.”
Spike clucked. “You not believing an exalted federal judge like him. I’m shocked, simply shocked.”
They watched the waiter deliver two Dos XXs to the Jaliscos.
“How’d you find out about the mugging?” Spike asked.
“From Socorro. Then Meyer called me to drop by, but only to make sure I didn’t pursue it.”
“Why didn’t he just cancel the credit cards and forget the whole thing?”
“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me. Could be there was something in the wallet.”
Spike grinned. “Like maybe a Viagra tablet and the cell number of a Tenderloin prostitute?”
Gage shook his head. “Unlikely. I’m not sure sex is his thing anymore. He gets off screwing over whoever shows up in his court.”
Spike laughed. “Talk about a helluva photo op. That pale-butted pipsqueak bouncing up and down between the legs of some methed-up hooker in a skid-row hotel.”
Gage cast him a sour expression. “I’m glad I already finished my lunch,” Gage said, pushing away his plate. Spike was still grinning, now red-faced. “You better finish the thought before you explode.”
“And Meyer working his little pene, yelling, ‘Motion denied! Motion denied!’ ”
Spike laughed, stomach bouncing, until tears formed at the corners of his eyes. He wiped them with his napkin. “Man, what an image.”
“Are you done ruining my meal?”
“I hope so.” Spike rubbed his side. “I think I pulled a muscle.”
One of the Jaliscos walked over to the jukebox, dropped in fifty cents, then punched a button. He returned to his table as an accordion blast began “El Corrido Contrabando,” a ballad celebrating Amado Carrillo Fuentes, Lord of the Skies, a Mexican who smuggled hundreds of tons of cocaine in 727s, then faked dying during plastic surgery and retired to Colombia.
“Is that song for your benefit?” Gage asked.
“No. They think I’m an insurance salesman. Just a guy selling term life.” Spike grinned again. “When I’m really pushing life terms.”
Gage shook his head. “You still get a kick out of this.”
“That’s why I can’t bring myself to retire. It’s even hard to think about it.”
Spike’s grin faded as his sentence trailed off. He paused, his face turned somber.
“Middle age is weird. You think about things you never thought about before. It hit me the other night that
