Detective Sergeant Avery D. Asher was thirty-six when his body began to slide. He paid no attention at the time, having muscle to spare from his semipro years. He compared himself to men his own age, and came off looking fine. He was twice divorced now, and not even tempted to ever try again.
Asher lived and ate alone. For lunch he liked Juan's Fiesta Special Plate. Two beef tacos, cheese and sour cream enchiladas, refried beans, soft flour tortillas with butter and hot sauce on the side, a dark bottle of Dos Equis beer. Monday through Friday, in the evening after work, he ate at Mama Lucy's Vishnu Jesus Barbecue. Tuesday and Thursday, Karma Ribs. Monday, Wednesday and Friday, the St. Thomas Aquinas Sausage Plate. No one knew where he spent his Saturday nights, and his Sundays till noon. No one except Dreamer, who made it his business to get a little edge on life, when and where he could.
At forty-four, Asher puffed into second base and made it safe. At fifty-two they tagged him out. Asher didn't care. He'd miss the ninth inning, and possibly the seventh and the eighth. And who'd give a shit if he did? A few old hands on the force. The friend he saw Saturday nights. Mama Lucy, and Juan Cordova, who ran Juan's Authentic Mexican & Chinese All-Night Restaurant. These were the people who would mourn for him twenty, thirty minutes after they lowered him in the ground. Fine. As soon as he was dead, he'd forget about them, too.
Asher didn't stand or look up when Dreamer walked into his glass-walled office late that afternoon.
"So what's going on in Houston," he said, "let's hear about that." Dreamer sat. Asher never said hello or goodbye.
"I don't know, you tell me."
"Hey, come on, I got stuff to do."
"I hit the gay bars. Took in the ballet and the tractor pull. Ate some lemon pie."
Asher looked up. "That's a nice suit. I don't guess I ever saw you wear a suit."
"I don't ever wear it."
"You're wearing it now."
"You want to talk about the suit?"
"Friend of yours is on the road to getting her pretty ass in a sling. She ought to think some on the people she runs around with. She ought to give some thought to maybe doing something else."
"And who is this we're talking about?"
"What she's doing is she's hanging out with folks she shouldn't ought to. Maybe you know this, I don't think you do. These people are new in town and they're clean as Ivory Soap. Except if you look real close, they're connected to some really bad dudes. I'm just saying how it is."
"What friend are we discussing here, is this maybe Eileen?"
"Did I say a name? I didn't say a name."
"Okay, you didn't say a name."
"None of this leaves my office, I didn't tell you anything at all. You remember that. These people I'm referring to are talking to Mako Binder himself Binder doesn't come here often, and anytime's too much for me."
"Asher, let's not do this," Dreamer said, "it's all the same to you. I sell Binder fish. You want a fish, I'll sell a fish to you. You ought to get a tank. A little ten gallon, we'll work you up from there."
"I don't give a fuck you sell the mother fish. What I give a fuck is other things you and him do."
"I don't do anything with him. You know I don't, if you thought that I did, you wouldn't be telling me this, whatever the hell it is."
"Yeah, I would, too." With a great deal of effort, Asher slid his barbecue-enchilada-egg roll butt a little deeper in his chair.
"Under certain circumstances, I would. If certain conditions prevailed, which they happen to do, I would tell you what I'm telling you now. You might be fucking with Binder somehow, but you wouldn't do something that'd get this friend of yours severely hurt or dead. Whatever is going on here is not healthy for your friend. That's why I know you're not involved in this. That, and I think these dudes who are mixed up with Binder, I think they're way out of your league."
"Everything's out of my league," Dreamer said, "I haven't got a league, I haven't even got a team."
"If you did, though, if you did have a league, I just did you a big favor, you and this friend. You tell your friend these assholes are serious people. Tell this friend to find some other clients somewhere. This friend is good at what she does, she can easy find something else to do."
"When I see her I'll tell her."
"You see her soon. I'm not talking later soon, I'm talking now is the soon I'm talking about. Anybody tell you you look like a fag in those shades?"
"These shades are Italian design. They cost over two hundred bucks."
"Fine. You look like a fag from overseas."
Dreamer knew their talk was over. You could always tell because Asher was suddenly gone, even if his very large body was definitely there.
Dreamer walked out of the building and back into the sun. He hurried to the rental car, shedding coat and tie on the run. The tie had a spot from Brenham, Texas. Dreamer wondered if Asher had noticed that. Asher had an uncanny knack with spicy food, and especially barbecue sauce.
He was sort of like Holmes, who could tell you where an ash came from, what the smoker had on. He could sniff a spot of sauce and say, "Yeah, that's from that place east of Waco, the old boy from Corsicana runs. That one, now, that's commercial stuff, that's your grocery brand, I wouldn't be caught dead eatin' that."
Which, Dreamer thought, with a pang of slight regret, is exactly what Asher would be caught doing just before he got caught, just before he got dead. Eating something he should have quit eating twenty years back...