“They’re the government. They’re police. That’s enough.” Can’t argue with that. I let her call her people. I go back into the bar. Carlos is closing up, putting glasses in the washer, dumping ice in the sink, and wiping down the bar top. “Brigitte is finishing up out back. The bodies will be gone soon.” “I never thought I’d see anything in here scarier than those skinheads that used to come in, but you always manage to surprise me.” “Don’t worry. We’re going to check this out and make sure it doesn’t happen again.” “Esta chido. I’d appreciate that.” “This is probably a bad time to ask, but can I still get a burrito to go?” Carlos looks at me for a second. “I’ll see what I can do.” I go into the men’s room and check myself in the mirror. I don’t look too bad, but there’s more blood spatter than I’d hoped. I slip off my shirt and hang it on a hook on the back of one of the toilet stall doors. I turn on the spigot in one of the sinks and wait for hot water. A minute later, Brigitte comes in, slapping her cell phone closed. “My people are on their way.” “Who are your people?” “Friends.” “Roma?” “Some.” She goes through the same routine I just did. Looks in the mirror. Doesn’t like what she sees and turns on the water in the other sink. “Where did you hang your shirt?” “There’s hooks on the toilet doors.” She takes off her blouse and comes back to the sink in just her bra and skirt. I keep my eyes to myself, scrubbing the last drops of dead guy off my arms and face. I should probably do something about my boots, too, but I’d feel kind of stupid shining my shoes next to a half-naked woman. I can wait until I get home. Brigitte dries her face with a paper towel. “How do I look?” “Like thrill-kill Mona Lisa.” “No, you fool. Look close. Is there any blood? On my neck? My arms? Check my back.” “You’re fine.” “Good,” she says, and pushes her hair back with her wet hands. “Now I’ll do you.” She turns me into the light and inspects my face.
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