He handed her the napkin that she’d just handed him. “The bastard.”
She pressed it to her eyes. “I, maybe I should. But what I’m afraid of, I go to the police, they pick him up, he gets off. And a week or a month or a year later, I’ll have another accident. During which, Willy Joe will be in church or talking to the Lions Club or something.”
“The devil never forgets a face. People like him eventually get what they deserve.”
“No.” She balled up the napkin and stuck it in her pocket. “This is the real world, remember?”
Pepe poured sugar into his coffee and stirred it slowly. “Nothing people like you or me could do. Shoot the bastard, we wind up choosing the door.”
“Instead of getting a medal.” She wiped the clean counter in front of him. “You want something to eat with that?”
“No, thanks. Just had breakfast.” He’d skipped it, actually, needing to lose a few pounds. He only had one suitcase of clothes, and wanted them to last another couple of months. The kilt and trousers were getting tight around the waist, and suspenders had gone out of fashion last year.
He drank the coffee fast enough to get a little buzz. It would be nice if he could do something about this Willy Joe character. He allowed himself an adolescent fantasy about Sara’s gratitude. But that sort of thing wasn’t really in his job description.
He put a ten under the saucer and waved adios to Sara and her partner. Not for the first time, he wondered whether they had something going. Their mutual affection was obvious.
Her body would be unusual. But that could be an attraction.
In that erotic frame of mind, he stepped out of the café and stopped dead in his tracks, paralyzed by a woman. She was dressed like any other student, jeans and halter and sun hat. But she had a classic chiseled beauty and perfect carriage, and she radiated sex.