by Tabatha Kiss
I roll my eyes and drop the crime scene photo in front of him. “Gloria says the blood on his clothes isn’t all blood. Some of it is hot sauce from some taco truck called—”
“Hot Sauce?!”
“Yeah.”
I sit down and glance at the clock, feeling a jolt of guilt when I see it’s already after six.
“Mmm. That place is so good,” he says, rubbing his belly.
“Well, we need to talk to the owner,” I say as I shut down my computer. “Find out if he misplaced some of his sauce recently.”
Trevor sits up fast. “Are we going now?” he asks.
“No. In the morning,” I say, reaching for my coat. “I’m clocking off.”
He grunts in disappointment but perks up quickly. “No, you’re right. Morning is better. That way, we can bring back some of those amazing brunch burritos. Good thinking, Silva.”
I furrow my brow. “Why am I the last to know about this food truck?”
“Because you have no taste.”
“How long has it been around?” I ask.
“A few years.”
“There’s my excuse, then. I’ve been a little busy raising a child.”
He points a finger. “You should take the kid to Hot Sauce. Develop that spice palate early.”
“If I hate spicy food, then she probably will, too.”
“Does her dad like spicy food?”
“No idea,” I answer. “Never met the guy.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He laughs. “You’re a strong, independent woman who don’t need no man… except for that one time when you bought some guy’s spunk off the internet.”
I cringe. “Well, the first half was accurate.”
“I don’t know how you could do that, Silva,” he says, shaking his head. “A child needs a mother and a father.”
“A child needs a stable support system of people who love it unconditionally, which Charlotte has in spades,” I argue. “Also, do me a favor and mind your own business.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters.
Okay, that was a little more than me giving him the usual shit, but when someone questions my parenting, I can go a little mama bear. What can I say? I love my kid. I regret nothing about my daughter and I never will.
“Hey, Silva!”
Dougie waves at me from his desk.
“What’s up?” I ask.
“Got a message from Detective Wells.”
“What’d he say?”
“Too hot.”
I nod. “Well, keep on him. I want to know what he knows as soon as things cool down.”
He gives me a thumbs up and goes back to his call.
I reach beneath my desk for my handbag. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Trev. Bright and early.”
He raises his fists as I make my way toward the stairwell. “Taco truck!”
“Murder investigation!” I say, raising one fist.
He drops his hands. “Killjoy.”
I throw on a smile, letting it linger until I reach the ground floor. It’s not the first time — nor the last — I’ve been labeled the resident killjoy of the 18th Precinct, but I take my job seriously.
“Running late, aren’t you, Anna?”
I pause by the front desk to talk to Sally Gilmore, the best damn cop in Boston if you want my opinion. She rises from her chair as I walk up, favoring one leg as she saunters closer. It’s horrible what just one bullet can do to a promising career but one piece of hot metal couldn’t stop Sally from serving the great city of Boston.
“A little, yeah,” I say. “But it’s all right. Vin will forgive me.”
“In that case, do you have any new pictures to show off?” she asks.
“Actually…” I pull out my phone. “She’s just discovered make-up.”
Sally grins. “Oh, god.”
“I don’t know how. I barely even wear the stuff, but…”
I swipe to a photo of my daughter with far too much blush and clown-red lipstick smeared on her face. My own mouth stretches with an instant smile as I turn the phone toward Sally.
Her jaw drops as she gasps. “Isn’t that precious?”
“The most precious thing that’s ever precious-ed,” I quip.
“She’s got your nose.”
“Yeah, poor kid.”
Sally playfully slaps my hand. “Shut up. You’re both gorgeous.” She pinches the screen and zooms. “I’ll never get used to those eyes. What’s that called again?”
I think for a second as I look at the close-up view of my daughter’s multicolored irises in the photo. Brown irises with spikes of bright blue shooting out from her pupils.
“Segmental heterochromia,” I answer. “Her doctor says it’s really rare but harmless.”
Sally hands the phone back to me. “She’s beautiful.”
“And she knows it,” I mutter, smiling. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Sally.”
“Bye, Anna.”
“I’ll say hi to Vincent for you.”
She sighs. “If you must.”
I grin and snap my hood up before heading toward the stairs marked parking garage.
Two
Milo
Order 42!”
I lay the paper tray down on the window and a man quickly reaches up to grab it. As he walks off, I take a second to breathe as the last of the evening rush wander off. Finally. Daniel will be expecting his payout soon but it’s just after six and I haven’t received a delivery yet.
A woman rushes up to the truck and stops just short of the window. The awning above her head blocks the rain but she’s already soaking with it from head to toe. She drops the hood on her jacket and shakes the water off before she realizes she’s being watched.
I lock eyes with her and nod. I’ve seen her around the park before. And she’s definitely seen me.
“Sorry,” she says. “Do you mind if I chill here for a minute?”
I shrug. “Nope.”
She’s young and petite. Fresh meat on campus if she even bothered to go at all. Her tank top is just a bit too small for her chest size but something about her tells me that was intentional. She wipes the moisture off her cheeks and pushes her blonde hair to the side before glancing up at me again.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask.
“Oh, no thanks,” she says. “I already ate but I do love this place. Best food truck in the park.”
“Thank you.”
She bites her lip and nudges closer. “Can I ask you something weird?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Why are your eyes different colors like that?”
I smirk. “Oh, you noticed that, huh?”
“Hard not to.”
She gives me that look, the one that tells me I might not spend the rest of my night alone if I play my cards right.
“Well...” I wipe my hands on a towel and toss it over my shoulder as I lean out the window of my truck. “I’m not supposed to say.”
Her brow furrows. “Why not?”
“They’re cursed,” I whisper.
“Cursed?” She chuckles.
“What? You don’t believe me?”
She bites her lip. “Cursed how?”
I scan the park behind her to check for incoming customers, but also to show off the eyes from different angles. What can I say? They’re my secret weapons.
“I guess I can tell you, but—” I point a finger at her, “you have to promise to never breathe a word of this to anyone.”
She raises an intrigued brow. “Okay, I promise.”
“You swear?”
“I swear.”
“Okay.” I clear my throat. “A few years ago, I was walking home from a bar late at night when I came across an old woman on the street. She said, ‘hello, young man,’ but I, being drunk and stupid, just stumbled on past without saying a word. The next morning, I woke up with these but it wasn’t the next morning. Two weeks had gone by.” I pause for effect as her mouth sags open a little. “And I knew the old woma
n laid a curse upon me. Now, I always... always...” I reach down and push a strand of wet hair off her forehead, “have to stop and talk to every beautiful woman I pass by or else she might come back for the rest of me.”
Her lip curls, sensing bullshit. “Is that true?”
“Of course.” I stand up. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I?”
She laughs, never looking away.
Someone bangs on the back door. “Delivery!” I hear.
I ignore it. “So, what are you—”
“Delivery!”
I flex my jaw. The girl looks behind me and I sway back into her eye-line.
“How about we—”
The slamming continues and I sigh.
“Hold that thought,” I tell her as I spin away and walk to the back exit of the truck.
I throw open the door to find two men standing there in dark blue jumpsuits with two square boxes under each arm. They’re nameless and faceless, for the most part. Every day is a different pair of them. They come back but never in the same week and rarely the same pair twice.
Paranoid much?
“Delivery,” he spits at me around the tip of his half-smoked cigarette.
I take a step back, begrudgingly welcoming them inside.
They barge in, shoving me to the side as they head for the freezer.
I glance at the girl and she squints at me. I flash an awkward grin. “Meat dealers,” I say. “They, uh... they take it real serious.”
She barely smiles.
“Just give me a minute...”
They toss open my freezer and lay the boxes inside. One casts discreet glances over his shoulder while the other grabs the stacks of cash I had hidden within. He fans them out casually and shoves them in a rubber zip-lock bag from inside his jumpsuit.
As they finish, one of them slaps a white envelope in my hand.
I pocket it. “Pleasure doing business, gentlemen,” I say. “The people really enjoy your meat...”
I look for the girl again but she’s gone. I crane my neck out the window and find she’s wandered away from the truck... and onto the lap of some other guy across the street outside The Smoothie Zone.
I sigh at the two bastards stomping toward the back door. “Hey, buddy, what’s the Irish word for cockblock?” I ask.
He stops and takes a long drag of his cigarette before blowing it out in my face. “Cockblock,” he answers.
I wave to clear the air. “Figures…” I cough.
I flip the open sign over and slam the window closed.
* * *
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I roll into the South End Truck Lot. I don’t bother answering it. I already know who it is and I’ll be face-to-face with him in about thirty seconds anyway.
I pass by the long line of food trucks. Coffee. Sandwiches. Churros. You name it, they house their precious trucks here at night. Most of them are legit and honestly have no idea that their rent money is going into the pockets of the Irish mob family who owns the lot, The Quinns. The rest of us know all about it.
It’s a simple system. The drug kingpins have their product. The mob buys it and distributes it. Tale as old as time, but that’s where things get tricky.
The Boston cops have gotten a little too savvy to the tricks of the trade. The family had to get clever. They needed to move around the city undetected and make deals in plain sight. Dirty backrooms in laundromats and Italian food joints are a thing of the past.
Food trucks are the future.
I park my truck in their lot. The mob fills it with cash overnight. I drive out to a specified location and wait for the pick-up, all the while running my totally legitimate taco truck business. The dealers come in, trade out the money for completely discrete boxes full of whatever is hot in the streets nowadays, and hand me an envelope with tomorrow’s pick-up location written inside. I take home a slice of drug sale profit pie for being such a cool dude about it.
Easy money.
I’m not saying I condone it. But I ain’t snitchin’ either.
I pull into my spot and park the truck. My phone vibrates again and I take the chance to look at it. As expected, it’s just a few simple texts from an unknown number.
Dinner’s getting cold. I miss you.
Translation: Get your ass over here or I’ll kill you.
I hop out and walk across the lot to the main office hub.
A few other drivers hang out inside on the couch in the corner with coffee, enjoying a little evening quiet before heading home. Some I recognize as being “in” on the whole deal, the others are just honest folk making a decent living. It’s hard to tell sometimes. Generally, I keep to myself in here.
I head down the hall to the office in the back, hearing Daniel Quinn’s voice shouting louder and louder with each step I take.
“You tell that punk son-of-a-bitch I said no tattoos!”
I stall in the doorway to listen in, settling in next to Doogan in the frame beside me. I nudge him on the arm and fire a questionable glance at Daniel. He gives me a nod. You’ve seen it all before, it says. No worries.
“I don’t care what he said his mother said, he’s only thirteen!” Daniel shouts into his phone. “Don’t scream at me like that, you little bitch, I’m just trying to be a decent fucking father figure.”
I stifle a chuckle as Doogan’s lips twitch.
Daniel looks up at us and waves me in. “Look, Ma, I gotta run. I’ll see you at church on Sunday.” He drops the phone onto its cradle and leans back to stare at me. “And just where the fuck have you been?”
I step inside with my hands raised. “I came as soon as the pick-up happened. They were late today, not me.”
He holds out his hand. “Gimme it.”
I reach into my pocket for the envelope. “So, I can’t help but notice you’re a little tense today...”
Daniel snatches the envelope from me. “You haven’t heard?” he asks.
“Heard what?”
He gestures at Doogan to step out. Doogan nods and leaves, closing the door behind him.
Daniel rips open the envelope and reads the slip inside. “Aw, shit,” he mutters.
“What is it?” I ask, though I don’t really care.
He holds up the paper with two fingers and I take it back.
“TBD?” I read.
“Canon McGregor was killed last night,” he says. “Six shots to the back. Found face down in an alleyway — on one of my streets.”
I drop the paper onto his desk. I honestly couldn’t give two shits about any of this. It’s got nothing to do with me. “You guys kill him?”
“Fuck, no! Of course not!”
I raise my hands. “Sorry.”
He yanks at his already loose tie. “Everyone thinks we did,” he says. “The dealers have put our business on hiatus. Nine out of fifteen trucks so far tonight. All to be determined for tomorrow’s pick-up.”
I feign concern. “Well, that... sucks.”
“They don’t want to deal with me if I’m starting a mob war — but I didn’t have Canon killed. I can’t believe this day I’m having. First, there’s—”
I tune out for a moment. Mob bullshit. Mob bullshit. Blah blah blah. I have one of those trusting faces. It makes it infinitely easier for me to pick up women but, at the same time, it makes everyone want to just spill all their beans on my shoes.
“Sounds awful,” I say as soon as his voice drops.
“You don’t know the half of it.” He spins around and pops open his safe. “Anyway, here’s your cut from last month.”
I perk up and take the envelope from him. A quick peek inside shows a thick stack of old money. I don’t bother counting it. I stuff it in my jacket. “Thanks, Daniel,” I say.
“See you tomorrow, kid.”
He waves me out and I exit into the hallway.
“Hey, Milo,” Doogan greets.
I close the door behind me. “How’s it going, Doog?”
He sighs. “Busy.”
; I nod but I still don’t care. “Yeah, I don’t envy the big guy tonight. Anyway, take care.”
“You, too, Milo.”
I head back to the main lobby where the same drivers are still working on their coffees. I give them a noncommittal wave and continue on through the front doors. It’s not that I hate them or this place.
It just makes it a hell of a lot easier to leave when you don’t give a shit.
Three
Anna
I navigate through the evening traffic of Boston, feeling more and more impatient with each red light but I don’t let it impact my speed. Arrive alive, as they always say. I’ll get there safe and sound and when I do, I’ll get to hug and kiss the sweetest girl in the whole world.
The bakery comes into view, along with the bar on its left. Muffin Top and Ryan’s House, the best darn joints in town, but I’m more than a little bias. My brother, Vincent, owns the bakery. His wife, Evey, owns the bar with her brother, Tommy. And my daughter has spent about a third of her life running between them with her cousin, Zachary.
Bias schmias. My family is awesome.
I pull into the alleyway between the buildings and park my car in the back next to Tommy’s beat-up, old Chevy.
I step into Muffin Top and inhale a deep breath, filling my nose with enough warm sugar to make me forget every moment of my day until now. It’s the end of the evening rush, leaving only a few folks left to finish off their coffee and pastries.
“Mommy!”
She sees me before I see her. Charlotte sits at the table closest to the register with Zachary, the surface overloaded with paper and crayons. She wears a pink stethoscope around her neck and I make a mental note to ask Vincent about it later.
The employee, Monica, stands behind the register with one eye on them and another open for potential customers. She looks up at me through her red bangs and waves hello. “Yo, Boss!” she calls out behind her. “Anna’s here!”
I give a thumbs up. “Thanks, Mon.”
Charlotte slides off her chair and rushes toward me. I meet her halfway, pulling her up to hold her as soon as she leaps for me.
“Hey, honey.” I kiss her cheeks all over. “Did you have a good day?”