Chapter 9

Burque was amenable, as Cecelia found out by calling her while I drove, so we parked in front of her apartment and walked down Western Skies to Central. We crossed Central at the light, and then crossed Burma, where the Blake's sits across from an RV dealer – and across Central from a 7-11. I've known Blake's for years now, as long as I've been in New Mexico, and I've never seen one yet that was dirty or dingy, or which had an Anglo crew. And I very rarely see one busy, yet they clearly make good money, for they've got something like 75 outlets across New Mexico.

I was the only one who didn't want chili – which is what they call hot peppers in New Mexico. I never heard the word in that sense till I moved here, but now it seems that people everywhere use it that way. And I don't have an asbestos lining for my mouth – I like a little spice, but hot chili burns me so much that I can't enjoy the taste.

We sat by the windows looking out onto Central, Cecelia and I facing east and Burque facing west. We ate, and talked of this and that, the unimportant conversation that people carry on when they like each other and don't have anything earth shattering to discuss, or at least aren't ready to get into it yet.

Our burgers were gone and we were finishing up our onion rings – Blake's has fantastic onion rings but I'm not a great fan of their fries – when Cecelia brought up the purpose of our visit. "I know it may be hard for you, Albuquerque, but I need to discuss the case with you for a moment."

"You know you can call me Burque," she said with a smile.

Cecelia's expressions aren't very dramatic, and I'm sure that Burque didn't realize how uncomfortable Cecelia was. I said, "You gotta understand my wife. By calling you Albuquerque she's unbending a great deal – I'd take it as a compliment, was I you. She's so formal there are people she's known for years who she still calls by their last name."

"I ain't stupid – I won't push." She smiled at Cecelia. "But anytime you're ready, honey, you jus' call me Burque." And then she sobered up. "What it is 'bout the case?"

"Nothing much," Cecelia said, "at least not so far. We have a copy here of the police sketch, based on your description, and we'd like you to look at it and see if there are any corrections or improvements you might be able to suggest."

Burque's hand shook slightly as she took the sketch from Cecelia. She looked at it for a long time, and though I didn't know her nearly as well as I know Cecelia I got the feeling that she was spending a lot of time controlling herself, before she could really pay attention to the picture. Finally she said, "No, they ain't anything I can say 'bout it. That ain't exactly the way he looked, but it's as close as I can get."

Cecelia nodded and took back the sketch. "We are going to take your description of the attacker, and have another artist prepare another sketch. It is our view that having two different sketches may enable people to more easily recognize the individual. Would you like to be involved in the preparation of this new sketch?"

I glanced at Cecelia, for that last hadn't been in the plan. It was a good idea, though, and I didn't say anything.

Burque nodded. "Anything I can do to catch this guy, I wanna do. It be scary, but it be more scary knowin' he be out there."

Cecelia smiled. "Please forgive me, Albuquerque, if I seem forward or rude, but you seem like an intelligent woman, and I wonder why you speak as you do."

"Pardon me?"

"What Cecelia means," I said, "is that you mostly talk like a stereotypical black, instead of using standard English, and she's curious about it."

"Oh, shoot, I never knew nothin' else all my life till I was growed. My dad speaks Spanish, a very little bit, an' his English is okay, but my mom talks black, an' all the black kids at school did, an' I just got in a habit. I can talk okay if I put my min' to it, but it just be easier this way. They had fits wif me at college."

"You sound somewhat like my husband," Cecelia said, and smiled at me. "He is capable of speaking English as well as I do, but rarely makes the effort. But I decided when I was not much younger than Darlia that I would be able to converse on equal terms with anyone – rich planters, preachers, teachers and professors, intellectuals, whomever. And by now my speech is as natural to me as yours is to you – and I confess that I have come to find substandard English annoying."

She smiled at me again and took my hand, and then turned the smile on Burque. "But I don't allow it to bother me – I am very much in the minority and I have no desire to create a crusade. I was merely curious, and if you prefer to speak as you do, then you may."

"An' why don't you give me that same privilege?" I asked.

"Because, Darvin, you are my husband, and therefore require me to train you. Have you not yet grasped that essential fact?"

"I done grasped that you got the whip in your hand, an' I got grovelin' down to a fine art."

That got me a finger in the ribs. "You are far from properly trained, then, and I have a great deal of work ahead of me."

Burque had her hands over her mouth, and her eyes were all crinkled. "You guys," she said, "are the firs' really funny thing I seen since ... since it happened. I'm glad I come out to eat wif y'all today."

"I am too," Cecelia said. She nudged me, and I slid out of the booth. "Albuquerque, why don't you and I take a short walk away from my husband?"

"Girl stuff?" Burque asked.

"More or less. It is nothing of consequence, but – while I do not keep secrets from my husband – it is something which is not germane to his affairs."

"You know," I said, "the guy y'all guys are talkin' about is right here."

"Did you hear a mosquito?" Cecelia asked.

Burque laughed out loud, a sound I was glad to hear. "Go 'long with y'all two," I said. "I'll stay here and pretend y'all ain't broke my heart."

Cecelia smiled at me, looking down to where I'd resumed my seat. "I know you, my husband – you're heart is intact."