The Oldsmobile drove around the corner, nearly clipping the sprouting palm tree for the second time as it lapped the old adobe house for the fourth time that afternoon. Its smooth tires took the curb with a rumble that thudded throughout the vehicle.
The driver cursed, adjusting his rear mirror and brushing the hair out of his eyes.
Another pass, no sign of them. The L.A. sun gave each street he turned down a wispy horizon, shading hints of their endpoints, like a desert leprechaun's line of defense. He'd been at it for three hours, now, he judged by his now-quarter-full gas gauge.
He spat another curse, pulled the car off of its rote course, and found a food truck nearby.
The barbacoa wasn't spicy enough. White guy spicy, he thought. This is why he needed to brush up on his Spanish. You can't ask for spicy and get spicy when you're as pale as he was. Picante gets results.
The glass-bottled coke didn't discriminate. Same clean, sweet taste as ever, language be damned. Sun be damned, too. It was cold as sin in his hand. He'd done too much sweating that day already. Funny how sin would be his reprieve.
A backfiring of an engine around the corner - must have been some ancient relic - brought him back to the moment. They had to be somewhere around here. Had to be.
He resumed his spiral hunt, recognizing For Sale signs and front yard decor more than the street signs, at this point.
At last, the driver saw them. Saw him, rather, but he wasn't alone. "They never are," he sighed. He pulled up in front of the house that two men were exiting, throwing open his door and storming out.
"Special Investigation Unit. You Tomás?"
Tomás swore in full sentences, the agent noted. Tomás's companion curled his fists.
"Sorry, pal. You're on a live line right now, straight to my office. Anything you do to me just gets added to the case."
Tomás waved a hand at his friend, then rolled a wry eye back to the pale man standing before him. "You best to wear more sunscreen out here, bro. Too easy to get burned out here. Maybe better you should do your rounds at night, eh?"
The agent strained a smile, and handed Tomás a sheaf of papers before bidding them farewell. Tomás took them without looking, kept his eye on the Oldsmobile until it turned the corner. He turned to his friend and laughed.
"Man. That was longer than I thought it'd take, to be honest."
"You sure you gonna be okay?"
"Yeah it's fine. Mi primo's a lawyer. Besides, I haven't been cashing them. The dumb fucks just kept sending 'em though. Figured I'd let them fix their own mess, eh?"