Chapter 4

Halfway to the car I remembered something. "I'll be right with y'all, C," I said. As I hurried toward the Blazer I heard her voice behind me.

"Witch yawl, Darvin, is a phrase which employs perfectly valid words, to no comprehensible purpose. I suggest you translate your meaning into Tagalog, which I would understand just as well."

I ignored that while I opened the passenger door and retrieved the accordion file from the floor. I didn't think someone would come along, bash in the window, unlock the door, and kipe the stuff. On the other hand the one time I don't take precautions is the one time I'll need to take 'em. No one ever got ripped off by deciding not to lead thieves into temptation.

I used my key and put the file in Cecelia's trunk, and then went around and got into the passenger seat. "As for Tagalog," I told her as she started the engine, "you know I don't speak that."

"Nor do you speak English," she replied. "Whatever you speak utilizes English words, but in such odd ways that it clearly is some sort of patois."

I grinned at her. "You think you'll ever give up on that?"

"Trying to tame your English? I shall fight in the car, I shall fight in the living room, I shall fight in Leanna and Lanfair Valley, I shall never surrender."

I laughed – she'd gotten me good with that one. "I bet you don't get nothin' outta me, though, but blood, toil, tears, and sweat."

She grinned now, as she drove north on Wisconsin. She takes different routes than I do – but then I don't dart out in front of oncoming traffic the way Albuquerque drivers do. In that one respect she might have grown up in this city, for she's as fearless in the face of traffic as any of these characters who thinks that it's our duty to let him creep across the road without getting hit. Cecelia, though, doesn't creep when she crosses traffic, and has uttered some harsh words on occasion when someone did it in front of her.

"The toil and sweat I shall expend," she told me. "The blood and tears shall be yours; they shall indeed be copious, for I shall spare no torture which may serve to correct your faults."

"Shoot, C, if you're gonna correct my faults you better get started now, and not expect to rest for a good while. I got a slew of 'em."

"You do," she agreed, "as do I. I have yet to meet someone who lacked them. But your English, however faulty it may be, is merely a thing with which to tease you. It doesn't bother me anymore, as you well know."

"Yeah, I do know." She'd turned right onto Apache Avenue while we were talking, and now I was watching traffic to the right. There wasn't a gap there, but Cecelia must have seen one on the left, for the car suddenly darted out onto Wyoming, crossed the southbound lanes, and did a quit flirt into the space between center islands. That car is quick and agile. I now had to turn my head back over my shoulder, but it paid off, for it wasn't much of a wait before I said "Clear this lane."

Cecelia hit the gas – what I've heard some Texans call the foot feed when I lived in Dallas – and she accelerated smoothly into the nearest lane. The car was now in the right position for her to use her mirrors, but that wasn't necessary – we'd be turning left at Menaul. I'd have gone south to Indian School, over to Louisiana, up past Menaul, and then through the Sheraton parking lot to Chili's, but Cecelia does things differently. That little red car's given her notions.

It didn't take long for us to get to the restaurant, and there was the undeniable fact that her route was easier in one respect – she took the right turn off of Menaul as easy as a greased hog sliding on ice. She found a parking spot in the back of the lot, and we piled out and headed inside. I'd been thinking about what I might want, and I thought I knew. Either of the two choices in my mind would be good.

I decided on the burger with the guacamole on it, one of my Chili's favorites, while Cecelia ordered a steak with a baked potato. You'd think the way she eats she'd weigh 500 pounds, but the only reason she's not bony is that she's muscular. And Darlia decided on fajitas, which was the alternative I hadn't had. I knew that she might not finish the whole deal, for she's just a kid, but she'd make a good try at it. She's definitely not bony, nor like thereunto – she's a muscular chunk, taller than most girls her age but looking shorter because of her broad solidness. And she can pack the food away as well as Cecelia and I can.

Once we had our food and were well underway, Cecelia did what I'd known she would. She looked at me across the table, a forkful of baked potato – with all sorts of fixings – awaiting her, and said, "What was in the file which you stowed away in my trunk?"

"Stuff for a new case. I gotta listen to some of it, and read some of it, and consider all of it."

She nodded her head, and put the fork of potato in her mouth. I doubted she'd ask anything else – her interest in my work extends only to my safety, and the occasional curiosity over what I'm doing at the moment.

After a few minutes, when she'd proved me right, I said – as though out of the blue – "The client's an abortion mill."

Now that got a reaction. Cecelia put her fork on her plate, folded her hands, leaned her chin on them, and regarded me with a sober expression. "You are more than capable of making such a joke, just to see my reaction, but I know your expressions well enough to know that in this instance you are not joking. I would not have thought you would take such money."

"Blood money? Yeah, my fee'll come from the murder of babies, but I don't plan to keep a dime of it. I'm gonna put it into anti-abortion ministry." I grinned at her – a grin that to me felt more like that of a wolf when it sees prey than that of a man looking at his wife. "By hiring me they've done themselves an interesting turn."

"So why, pray tell, did you take the case? I know that you did not undertake to shore up their business."