Just after three, César hopped in his pickup and drove down to the Lucky Mart for a case of cervezas. It was a hot day, and that was enough to work up a thirst, but the temperature inside the repair bay, close to the platillo, the air seemed to crackle and warm everything, even in the shade. César began to wonder if it was putting off microondas to fly perhaps, and it was slowly cooking them.

  Easing back through town he was amazed at the number of black SUVs scattered throughout, handfuls of the paramilitary police types collected around each one. Each truck came with two or three gringos, and most of them did look alike. Either the Esmeets and Jonesons were avid hunters, or this was not a family reunion at all, César decided. Plenty of them had guns. It was just as his wife had said, the Esmeets and Jonesons were everywhere downtown.

  He pulled back into the Desert Sands front lot to find another big black SUV, with two enormous gringos standing beside the front door. Both wore black cargo pants and black T-shirts. One wore a gun in a shoulder holster. Whatever they were selling, he wanted none of it. He patted his pocket unconsciously, checking for his wallet and papers. Swinging his case of beer and a bag of chicharrones from the passenger seat, he nodded at the pair as he walked up.

  “Do you work here?” the one with the gun asked.

  “?Como?” César responded.

  “?Trabajo aquí?” the big guy said with a thick whiteboy accent.

  “Espérate,” César said, avoiding eye contact. “?Frijolito!” he called back to the yard, hustling away from the cop.

  Jeremiah climbed out of the Lazy Boy with a lanky grace. He ambled forward looking only mildly annoyed. Manny and César generally ran the shop for the last few hours of the day, giving Jeremiah a break before the evening. Jeremiah kept the gas pumps open as late as he wanted. But both Manny and César had the unfortunate habit of faking that they could not speak English if there was a customer that they didn’t like. “Que pasa?” he asked, pretending to be a translator.

  César glanced back at the man out front, sure that Jeremiah would follow his gaze and make sure that they were far enough out of earshot that no one could hear them. He hooked his thumb over his shoulder toward the beefy customer. “Tienes que esconderlo.” He said through his grinning teeth as he passed a beer to Jeremiah.

  Jeremiah nodded, smiling jovially. “Hechelo.”

  César slapped him on the shoulder, faking a chuckle.

  Jeremiah popped the cap and took a few slugs off the beer. He stabbed his cigarette out on the workbench as he sidled up and took a seat at the service desk. “Sorry about that,” Jeremiah smiled. “They’re great mechanics, but shit for English,” he watched César pass a beer to Manny and mumble through his clenched teeth. “What can I get you?”

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  The big guy waved back towards his rig. “Just figured I might top the radiator off.”

  That he was law enforcement of some sort was obvious, but the fact that they were all built like brick walls meant that they might be something more. Both of them stood with a certain rigidity that looked military. Dressed all in black, standing out in the afternoon sun without breaking a sweat, meant that they had spent some time in the desert.

  “Yeah, sure.” Jeremiah swiveled around. In the convex security mirror in the corner, he watched Manny stand up from his lawn chair and pull an old canvas tarp from one of the back shelves. “I generally cut mine with a little distilled water,” Jeremiah casually recommended, stalling as he reached for the gallon of antifreeze. “You got a leak of some sort?”

  “Just low,” the cop shook his head, perusing the candy bar rack. “Hey, Smith, you want a candy bar or something?”

  “Nah.” The other guy called. “Get me a water, though.”

  The cop nodded and glanced around, spotting the soda cooler. If they were here to look for the saucer, they weren’t looking very hard. The other guy was out there staring at the screen of his phone. Jeremiah rang up the antifreeze and scanned in a couple of bottles of water and a couple of energy bars. The officer pulled out his wallet with a badge and pulled out a company credit card.

  “What the hell is ‘IETOSI?” Jeremiah asked, without thinking about it.

  The cop raised his eyebrows, cracking the cap on one of the bottles. “Investigations,” he said, casually. “Insurance fraud, that sort of thing.”

  Jeremiah nodded, pretending that he didn’t care. These guys weren't in town to check out a fraudulent L&I complaint. “You guys got some sort of convention?” Jeremiah queried.

  The other guy stepped in the front door, glancing around the service area. “More like a family reunion,” he chuckled, taking his bottle of water and poking through the display rack of random roadside necessities, oil funnels, and plastic gas cans. “Boss lets you drink, huh?” The guy with the gun nodded at Jeremiah’s beer, gone sweaty in just a few minutes.

  “I’m off the clock,” he shrugged and took a long gulp from his slightly neglected bottle. “But like I said, those guys back there don’t understand a damn thing,” he chuckled as Manny casually took a seat next to César and nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Say, uh,” he glanced at the name on the coveralls, “Jack, you look like the sort of guy who might know a little bit about this town.” He glanced back at his associate. “What do you guys do for fun around here?”

  The sort of information it took to “know a little bit about this town” didn't even fill the tourist pamphlet and the only activity not directly advertised was methamphetamines. Jeremiah, er, Jack was sure that these guys hadn't come to town to dabble in a decent drug habit. He wasn't about to invite the lot of them down to the Starlight Lounge for another round of sloppy drunken lawmen. “Well, bud,” he raised his sweaty beer and winked. “I'm afraid you're looking at it.”

  The guy by the SUV laughed. They weren't at the Desert Sands on business, that was certain. “What time does it start to cool down around here?” He glanced up at the sun. Maybe the super cops felt the heat after all.

  Jack drained the rest of his beer in a few gulps. It was already going warm. “October,” he smirked. “Thank you, come again!” He called, tossing his beer into the trash can as he strolled back to his Lazy Boy and Alex Trebek.