“In a city the size of Houston, Manny just happens to see a guy from River Oaks on the wrong side of town, a guy we happen to hate and whose car you boosted?”
“That’s what I said.”
“You didn’t think there was anything unusual about that?”
“No.”
“Did Manny tell you to boost the car?”
“I forget who had the idea first. What difference does it make?”
The hoods parked at the end of the aisle. One of them got out and walked to the men’s room. He was wearing drapes, a long comb sticking out of his back pocket, his shirt outside his belt, unbuttoned in front. He looked straight at me as he passed the car. He had a narrow face, a small mouth with crooked teeth, bronze-colored hair glistening with oil, and the thickest ducktails I had ever seen.
“Grady once told me he had connections with some Mexican hoods,” I said.
“So you’re saying Manny and Grady were working a scam to get me to steal Grady’s wheels with his money and gold bars inside?”
“No, I don’t guess that makes much sense. But it’s something similar.”
“You’ve got a worry machine in your head instead of a brain. On top of it, you don’t worry about the things you should.”
“Like what?”
“Vick Atlas, a guy who’s not only a psycho but whose father blowtorches people.”
“I cleaned his clock, and so far he hasn’t done anything about it,” I said foolishly.
“Because the cops put a cruiser in front of your house.”
“My father got rid of it. He said it was dishonorable.”
“After y’all went to the cops?”
“He said he didn’t ask for protection. He wanted the cops to do their job and put the Atlas family in jail.”
“I bet they got right on it,” Saber said.
The waitress brought us our chicken dinners and french fries and milkshakes on a tray. The hood came out of the men’s room combing and shaping his hair. Then he abruptly changed directions and walked to my window, sticking his comb in his back pocket. He leaned down, his breath sweet with chewing gum. “What’s happenin’, man?”
“No haps,” I said. “I know you?”
“I used to go to Reagan. I saw you at a couple of football games and a dance or two,” he said. “Loren find you?”
“Loren who?”
“Nichols, man. Loren Nichols. You’re Aaron Broussard, aren’t you?”
“Loren is looking for me?” I said.
“Yeah, he was here earlier. I thought I’d tell you.” He propped his elbow on the roof of the car, the wind riffling his shirt. “He was going to Herman Park with a couple of girls from Bellaire.”
“Loren is going out with girls from Bellaire?”
“I’m just passing the word, man. You guys want to smoke some tea?”
“No, thanks.”
He leaned down farther so he could look into Saber’s face. “Is your name Bledsoe?”