Storiesonline.net ------- Light Duty by Al Steiner ------- Synopsis: John, a cop injured in the line of duty, is not terribly thrilled with the light duty assignment he is given while recuperating - until he meets Trista, the young Mexican woman who works in the taco stand where he is sent to collect a judgment for health violations. Codes: MF interr The main building for the Heritage County Sheriff's Department was in downtown Heritage, just three blocks from the county jail. I had worked in the jail for two years as a rookie deputy and I had hauled prisoners there a thousand times in my five years on patrol, but I had only been in the admin building two or three times since my hiring. Regular patrol services were not deployed from there. It was the home of the administration and a few specialty divisions such as internal affairs and courthouse security. There had never been any reason for me to go there until that day, my first day of light duty after sustaining an injury while on patrol. My left shoulder had suffered torn ligaments during a foot pursuit of a suspect and, as such, I could not function as a patrol officer until it healed. And so I found myself on temporary assignment to one of those specialty services that the department ran. It did not promise to be a good time. The building was six stories tall, complete with a large underground parking garage. Using my identification card I entered through a side door and followed the signs to a bank of elevators near the center. I rode up to the third floor and exited, following more signs until I came to a simple door that read: CIVIL DIVISION. I opened it up and found myself in a small, windowless office. There were three desks, each with a computer terminal sitting upon it, and a few filing cabinets. The only person present in the room at the moment was a uniformed sergeant who looked like he couldn't be more than a month or two away from mandatory retirement age. He stood up as I entered, his eyes looking me over. He was wearing the old leather equipment belt around his waist instead of the more modern nylon ones we wore on patrol. Everything had been removed from it except the gun and a single pair of handcuffs. He had five hash marks on his right sleeve, each one of which represented five years of service with the department. His badge was tarnished and dull, looking like it had last been polished when Reagan was in office. "You must be Mallet," he told me, holding out his right hand for a shake. "That's right," I told him. "I'm your light duty guy for the next couple of weeks." "Sergeant Nichols," he introduced himself. "I'm in charge of the operations portion of the civil division. Welcome to my world. I hope we don't bore you too much here." "Me too, sarge," I said sincerely. He had a chuckle at that and then took in my attire. "I see they got hold of you last night. Good. Perfect outfit for where you'll be going today. Absolutely perfect." As per instruction from a phone call I'd received the night before, I was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a long, short-sleeved shirt. My duty weapon — a .40 caliber semi-auto — was strapped into a holster in my waistband. My badge and a pair of handcuffs were clipped into their own holders next to it. The tail of my shirt had then been pulled down to conceal all of this. "What exactly am I going to be doing, sarge?" I asked him, more than a little nervous at the thought of going out in the streets without my uniform on. I had never received any detective or undercover training, nor had I ever had any desire to pretend that I wasn't a cop while at work. "Nothing fancy," he told me, waving me to a seat before his desk. "And nothing dangerous either. You're going to be what we call a keeper." "A keeper?" I said, taking the offered seat. "Correct," he said. "As you know, the civil division is in charge of carrying out and enforcing civil judgments that have been handed down by the court system here in Heritage County. We do evictions, serve papers, and, in a smaller capacity, enforce collections of judgments. It is this last thing that you're going to be concerned with for the next few days: enforcing a collection order." "I see," I said, although I really didn't. "This particular collection did not actually come from the court system though, it came from the County Department of Health. They fined this joint called 'Gonzales Tacos' three grand for cleanliness violations. It's their second offense. They haven't paid, so it's our job to go and get the money from them by any means necessary. That's where you come in. You are going to go to their establishment and station yourself there all day. They're open from 10:00 AM to 6:00 PM. During that time period you will collect all of their revenue." "All of their revenue?" I asked, raising my eyebrows a tad. "That's correct. They have been served notice that they are only allowed to do cash business until the fine has been collected. You will collect everything that goes into their cash register through the course of the day. When they close, you are to count it all, have the owner sign for the amount, and then you bring it back here to me. We'll do that every day until the three grand is collected." "Wow," I said, already bored in advance with my assignment. "And just how long will this take?" "Depends on how much business they do," he replied. "If all goes well, should be less than a week or so." "Great," I said, suppressing a groan. I was going to have to hang out in some sleazy taco joint for a week? That was torture. "So where is this place anyway?" I asked. "I never heard of it." "It's on 33rd Avenue, just west of 40th Street." "In Elm Park?" I asked incredulously. That was about the absolute worse neighborhood that the Heritage metropolitan area had to offer. "But that's the city. Why are we handling something there? Shouldn't Heritage PD be doing this?" "Elm Park may be in the city of Heritage," he told me, "but it's also in the County of Heritage, is it not? The Sheriff's department is in charge of all civil functions in the county, regardless of whether they take place in an incorporated city or not. Heritage PD doesn't have a civil division." "I guess they don't know what they're missing," I said sarcastically. Nichols chuckled again. "Wait until you have twenty-nine years on the job like I do," he told me. "Then you'll be begging for a civil division to go work in." I looked at him doubtfully, thinking that if I ever got to the point that I wanted to do work like this, it was time to retire. ------- Nichols gave me a detailed briefing on how to go about doing the intense job of keeper. This took about twenty minutes. I was warned of the various scams that the business owners would try to pull in order to slide some of the money out of the register when I wasn't paying attention. I was warned to either find a lunch to take with me or to eat at the establishment I was watching. I was warned to make a register count both before and after leaving to go to the restroom. I was warned not to let anyone distract me from my job and warned that they would try almost anything to do this. Finally I was sent on my way. I went back downstairs and signed out a portable radio and an unmarked car from the garage. I then headed for the freeway and the Elm Park exit. The neighborhood surrounding my destination was — as you might have guessed — a primarily Hispanic portion of the ghetto. Lowriders cruised up and down the streets. Low rent apartment complexes abounded, as did liquor stores and pawn shops. All of the buildings had bars on the windows and all of the walls were liberally covered with the colorful graffiti the Hispanic gangs favored. Dangerous looking young men hung out on every corner, smoking cigarettes and drinking forty ounce beers even though it was not even 10:00. Gonzales Tacos was a small building nestled between a liquor store and a tire shop. It had a small, potholed parking lot out front. A cheap, faded sign proclaimed the name of the establishment. Below that a hand-written sign proclaimed that menudo was available on Sundays. The gang graffiti, while present on all of the exterior walls, did not seem as thick as it was on most of the other buildings. I parked the Ford Escort I'd been assigned within easy view of the windows and then told the dispatcher that I would be out of the vehicle for the rest of the day. I picked up the bag that contained the sandwich I'd bought at a downtown deli (it just hadn't seemed a good idea to plan on eating lunch from an establishment that had been twice fined by the Health Department) and headed for the front door. The "Closed" sign was showing and the door was locked. A knock quickly produced a Mexican man of about forty-five or so. He was short but tough looking, with faded tattoos on his arms. "You the cop?" he asked me. "I'm Deputy Mallet from the Sheriff's department," I confirmed. "I'll be spending the day here." He didn't look terribly happy, of course, but he was not hostile as he invited me in. The smell of cooking meat and spices filled the air, an aroma that, despite the uncleanliness charges, instantly set my mouth to watering. The dining area was small, consisting of only six tables. A salsa bar — complete with seven different varieties and a huge bowl of tortilla chips — had been set up near the front counter. The counter itself contained a single cash register. Behind it a Mexican woman of about forty or so was busy tending to some pots and pans that were on the large stove. Next to her was a young man of about eighteen. He had gang tattoos on both arms and even one on his neck. He was cleaning the grill with a scrub brush. "I am Jose Gonzales," the man told me, leading me towards the small door that led behind the counter. His accent was very heavy. "This place belongs to my wife and me." We went through the door. "This is Maria," he introduced, pointing towards the woman. "And this," he said, pointing to the man, "is Hector, my son. He and my daughter work here during the day." I nodded, feeling that telling them I was pleased to meet them would be taken the wrong way. "I'm John," I said instead. "And I'm not any happier about being here than you are with me having to be here. I'll just park myself over there by the register and lay low. You don't play any games with me today and things will go smooth as silk, okay?" "We're not here to play games," Jose told me. "We just want to get this thing over with." "Good enough for me," I said, heading over to my position. I passed Hector as I went. He made a point of bumping his shoulder against mine as I went by, his eyes a glare of blatant hostility. "Sorry, officer," he nearly spat. "Hector!" Maria hissed at him, delivering a glare of her own. I returned his gaze, staring into his brown eyes. I'd dealt with a million punks like him during my patrol time and I was far from intimidated. "No problem, Hector," I told him. "Let's just not let it happen again, shall we? Things like that could be taken the wrong way." He continued to stare for a moment and then dropped his gaze, going back to his task without saying another word. On the other side of the kitchen was a door that led to the alley behind the store. It opened a moment later and a young Mexican woman of about nineteen came through it. Her form instantly attracted my attention. Dressed in a pair of jeans and a sleeveless shirt, she had the kind of curves that are only given to the young and childless. Her backside was particularly nice to behold and the tightness of her pants did nothing but accentuate it. Her black hair was long, nearly to her mid-back, and was fastened in a simple ponytail. Her breasts were not overly large but neither were they overly small. They bulged from beneath her shirt in a way that made the libido soar to look at them. Her skin was dark and looked very strokable. Her lips were very thick and prominent, the type that men liked to make lewd allusions about. She saw me looking at her as she came in and she stopped, slowly setting the garbage can that she'd been carrying down in its accustomed place. Her face remained expressionless but her eyes remained on me. Jose stepped over to her and led her over to me. "This is officer Mallet," he told her and then turned to me. "Officer, this is Trista, my daughter. She helps out with the cleaning and at the register." "How do you do, Trista?" I told her, trying to keep my eyes from dropping to her chest again. "I'm fine," she said softly, her accent there but not nearly as thick as that of her parents. "You'll be taking all of our money today?" "I'm afraid so," I said with a shrug. "I'll be standing over by the register there." She said nothing else at the moment. I took the opportunity to explain the rules of the game to them, basically repeating what Sergeant Nichols had explained to me an hour before. They all listened attentively to me with the exception of Hector, who stood off to the side and practiced throwing dirty looks my way. By the time I was done speaking it was time for them to open up. Jose went and opened the doors where two people were already waiting for admission. The day went on. I stood my post at the register, keeping as far into the background as I could, watching while each transaction was completed. There were a lot of transactions. A steady stream of customers came into the establishment, most of them Mexicans of varying age. By far the most popular choice of food was the chicken tacos, which Maria and Jose prepared on a large grill. $3.99 would entitle a customer to two of them, which were put on a plate with generous helpings of Spanish rice and refried beans. The plates always came back empty. While their parents did the cooking Hector and Trista switched off between working the cash register and cleaning. I watched them with one eye as they went about these tasks, especially Trista who was much more pleasing to gaze upon. They seemed to do a better than average job of keeping the place tidy. The dishes were rinsed and put through an industrial dishwasher that was run whenever it got full. The tables were cleaned with a disinfectant soaked rag between customers. I saw no signs of the unsanitary conditions that had prompted the fines by the health department, but that was probably, I figured, because they had changed their ways. Neither Hector nor Trista tried any scams with the money as far as I could see. They conducted a cash only business, which seemed pretty much the norm for the neighborhood anyway, and they never tried skimming any off the top as Nichols had warned me they would. I was pretty much ignored as I watched them go about their business although Hector continued to toss the odd hostile look at me and more than once I saw Trista looking at me as well, although not with the same sort of expression. She seemed curious about me more than unhappy. It was just after the busy lunch period wound down, returning the establishment to a pace that was almost sane, when she came over to me. She had a glass of soda in her hand that she took a sip from. Her chocolate brown eyes looked up at my face. "Do you want something to eat?" she asked me. "We could make you one of the taco plates if you want." "No, thank you," I told her, although the smell of the tacos was making me crave them like a drug. "I brought my lunch." "You sure?" she said, just a hint of teasing in her tone. "Mama makes the best chicken tacos in the world, and it'll be on the house." "I'm sure," I said. She shrugged, as if to say "your loss" and took another sip from her soda. "You're kind of young," she said. "The last guy they sent out here was about fifty years old and could barely walk. Isn't this shit detail for you guys?" "You could call it that," I said sourly. "Did you piss someone off or something?" "No," I told her. "I got hurt. I normally work patrol in Lemon Hill. This is a light duty assignment." She looked me up and down. "You don't look hurt." "I have some torn ligaments in my shoulder. I can't move my left arm up above my body." "How'd you do that?" she asked. "It just kind of happened," I said vaguely, having no desire to get into a discussion of the how of my injury with her. "Just kind of happened huh?" she said with a cynical smile. "That's the truth," I assured her, giving a smile of my own. I ate my sandwich about an hour later. It was a tasteless concoction from a downtown deli. I threw half of it in the garbage can and continued to smell the appetizing aroma of the chicken tacos and the beans. Trista came over again and offered me a drink from the soda fountain. This offer I took her up on. "Here you go," she said, handing me an icy glass of soda. "Thanks," I told her, taking the glass. She smiled at me, showing her glistening white teeth for an instant. "I never talked to no cop before," she said. "At least not when he wasn't harassing me for something." "Yes, we do love to do that, don't we?" "Damn right," she assured me. "You seem nice. Are you guys always nice when you're not busting someone, or is it just you?" "It's just me," I said. "I was sick the day they had the hard-ass lessons in the academy." That produced a laugh from her. She looked down at my hand for a moment. "No wedding ring," she noted. "Did you lose it somewhere?" "Divorced," I said simply. "Cops made terrible husbands. Our wives always leave us after a few years." "How come?" I chuckled. "Where should I start? Let's see ... we drink too much, we're mistrustful of everyone, we work bizarre hours, we have difficulty communicating with those that are close to us, we cheat. I think that about covers the major malfunctions." "Which one was it with you?" she wanted to know. "All of the above," I told her truthfully. "All of the above." "You cheated on her?" she asked, latching onto that particular reason. I shrugged. "There are women out there that really love cops," I said. "Sometimes it was hard to resist the temptation." "I knew you were scum," she said, although she had a grin on her face as she said it. "Guilty as charged," I told her. It was at this point that Hector, who had been hovering near the cash register, an unhappy expression on his face as he listened to his sister converse with me, was able to take it no more. "Trista," he said sharply, getting her attention. When she looked at him he began to speak in rapid fire Spanish. It would seem he was unaware that I was fluent in that particular language since what he said was: "Get your ass away from that fucking pig you slutty bitch!" "Hector!" Maria barked at him from her position near the grill. In Spanish she told him to watch his language or she was going to beat him like he was a ten year old. He was about to reply back to her when I spoke up. "Yes, Hector," I said in English, "we wouldn't want mama to have to whip your ass now, would we? And is that anyway to talk to your sister?" All four of them stopped and stared at me in shock and amazement, particularly Hector, who actually blushed. "You habla Espanol?" Trista said slowly. "Si," I told her and then continued on in my accented but perfectly understandable version of their language. "The department pays us five percent extra for being bilingual so I taught myself Spanish five years ago with those computer disks that they sell. Not bad for a gringo, huh?" Jose and Maria continued to look shocked but went back to what they were doing. Hector, still blushing with anger and shame, stomped off and disappeared out the back door. Trista smirked at him as he left, making little effort to hide her expression. She turned to me once the door slammed behind him. "Not bad at all," she said in English. ------- Things got a little slow in the taco joint around 3:30 that afternoon. Hector, still sullen and uncommunicative, grabbed a mop and a bucket and began swabbing down the dining area. Jose and Maria went about the task of cleaning their grill and their pots. Maria stood vigil at the cash register, sipping from her soda glass. I watched her as she worked, admiring her firm body more and more with each move she made. "Do you like your job?" she asked me suddenly, breaking a silence that had been in place for the last twenty minutes. "Being a cop?" I said contemplatively. "Yeah, I like it a lot. It fits my personality pretty well." "You like to beat people up and haul them to jail?" she asked. "Is that what you think cops spend their days doing?" I asked. She shrugged, a hint of a smile touching those puffy lips. "I live in the barrio," she said. "I've seen what you guys do." I returned her shrug with one of my own. "Sometimes we have to put our hands on people," I told her. "I don't enjoy that particular part of the job. I'd rather talk someone down than fight with them. What I do like about it is that every day is different. I don't know what's going to happen when I go to work each day. I don't know what I'm going to be dealing with. That's appealing to me. I get bored real easy." "Do you get hurt fighting with someone?" she asked next. "Yes," I said. "He didn't want to be talked down." "What happened?" I looked at her, wondering if she was baiting me or if she was genuinely interested. I couldn't quite tell but I leaned towards the latter. "He was a guy that had just assaulted a gas station clerk during a dispute. He'd left the scene before any of our units got there but we had a good description and I spotted him a few blocks away while I was heading to the call. I pulled over next to him and told him to come talk to me for a minute. He took off running like a bat out of hell." "And you chased him," she said. "I chased him. He ran through a grocery store parking lot and around the back of the store. He tried to jump a wooden fence there into an apartment complex. I got my hand on the back of his pants just as he went over. His weight going down the other side pulled my arm up and out of its socket." "So he got away?" I shook my head. "I hung onto him anyway. The section of fence fell down and he crashed down with it. I managed to get my pepper spray out with my good arm and give him a blast in the face. He got away from me and I wasn't able to chase him any farther because of the pain in my shoulder, but that slowed him down enough that the other units were able to get him." "Did they beat him?" she asked plainly. I gave a shrewd smile. "He went to jail by way of Valley Medical Center," I confirmed. "But you don't like beating people up?" "There are rules out on the street," I told her, explaining nothing that she didn't already know. "One of them is that if you injure a cop, you're gonna get your ass kicked when we catch you. We have to discourage that kind of behavior you know." She shrugged again. "I suppose," she told me. Soon the early dinner rush began and our conversation came to an end. Throngs of hungry people began walking through the doors, most of them ordering the chicken taco plate. The Gonzales family moved frantically at the grills and the register to keep up. Trista and I had time for no further interaction although I watched her as she worked, impressed with the efficiency and grace she portrayed. At day's end the register contained $1232 dollars and some change. I had Jose and Maria count it with me and sign the paperwork. I then put it in a zippered bag for transport back to the admin building. Hector had already made himself scarce. Jose and Maria went into the kitchen and began cleaning their grills and pots once more. Only Trista accompanied me to the door. "You'll be back tomorrow?" she asked. "Afraid so," I said with a sigh. She nodded, giving me a small smile. "If we have to have a fucking pig in here," she said softly, "at least we get a cute one." I returned her smile, enjoying the flirtatious look in her eyes. A moment later I went out into the parking lot and climbed into my unmarked car. Half a block down the street was another taco establishment, a place called Santo's Tacos. It was a local chain that had risen to popularity in the last three or four years in Heritage. They now had six or seven stores scattered throughout the metropolitan area. I had eaten at the South Heritage Santos many times as a patrol officer since they gave uniformed cops half price food. On impulse I pulled in now, utilizing the drive-through lane. It was completely empty despite the fact that it was still early in the evening and it only took me two minutes to get an order of chicken tacos to go. They smelled good but not nearly as good as those prepared at Gonzales Tacos. ------- The next day I gave in. When Trista offered me a plate of chicken tacos after the lunch rush I jumped at the offer. Maria prepared them for me, throwing in considerably more of the chicken than the regular customers received. She put heaping mounds of rice and beans on the side. They were, hands down, the best tacos — chicken or otherwise — that I have ever had in my life. They made the ones that I'd had the night before at Santos taste like dogshit. "I told you mama makes the best tacos in the world," Trista said proudly after I'd exclaimed about them for the tenth or eleventh time. "You weren't exaggerating," I said, cleaning up the last two pieces of chicken that had spilled out. She took my plate from me when I was done and handed it to her brother, who was still giving me evil glares whenever the opportunity presented itself. She came back over and stood by me companionably. Much to her brother's chagrin, she had been friendly with me ever since my arrival at opening time, discussing everything from books (which I was surprised to learn she had an interest in) to politics. "So how much money does a cop make anyway?" she asked now. "What do they pay you for going around and beating people up?" I laughed a little at her reference. Beating people up had become something of a joke between us. "I made sixty-four thousand last year," I told her. "That's with the odd overtime shift thrown in of course." She whistled appreciatively. "Being a pig pays pretty good," she said. "We only made twenty thousand last year with this place, and that's working six days a week." "Well, it may sound like a lot, but between my alimony and child support and retirement contributions and house payment and car payment and my second mortgage, and of course, good old Uncle Sam, I end up with about a hundred bucks to make it between paydays." She soured a little. "At least you got a house and a car and all that other shit," she told me. "We have to rent a little house and walk to work. We had to sell our car after the first fine. That just about killed us. We don't know what this fine is going to do. I mean, Hector and I can go without our paycheck for the week but our suppliers don't give a shit what our money problems are. We have to pay for all that chicken and all those tortillas and the fucking gas for the grill and the fucking lease on the building." She shook her head angrily. "Oh never mind. Let's talk about something else." This was a subject that I had been happy to leave alone to that point but the bitterness in her tone compelled me to probe a little. "What's up with those fines anyway?" I asked her. "I've been here for two days now and it doesn't look like you're doing anything that the health department would give a shit about. What were the fines for?" She used an extended stream of Spanish profanity at the mention of the health department. "That fucking place down the street is behind it," she said. "What fucking place?" "Santos," she said, spitting out the word like it was some sort of disease. "Oh, never mind this shit. You wouldn't believe me anyway." "I think you'd be surprised at what I would believe," I told her. "So what's the deal?" She looked at me, trying to see if I was placating her or not. Apparently she concluded that I wasn't. "We were never bothered by the health department or anyone else until they built that place there," she said. "We used to get the inspections every year and we'd always pass without no problem. And then Santos came along and thought they were gonna take all of our customers away. They got real pissed when that didn't happen. They undercut our prices but that didn't work. People around here want real tacos, not that gringo shit that slime pit makes. So when they couldn't steal our customers away they tried to buy us out. Offered us forty thousand dollars." "Real generous of them," I said sarcastically. Just from what I'd observed in my two days there, Gonzales Tacos was worth at least three times that on a strictly buy-out basis. "Yeah," Trista said. "Can you believe that shit? When we told them to go fuck themselves is when the health department started showing up. Not just them either. The fucking fire department inspectors have been here twice a month since then, always nitpicking about something in the building and threatening us with fines. Those cleanliness violations were for improper grease storage and improper refrigeration temperature. Both of them violations were a bunch of shit." "It sounds like Santos Tacos has the ear of the county administration," I said sadly. "They probably got a supervisor or two in their pocket. Who owns it?" "Some fuckin' rich white pricks," she said. "They don't know shit about making real tacos. All they know how to do is use their money to fuck over other people." I nodded in sympathy. "It's the American way unfortunately," I told her. "For what it's worth, I believe you. I've been around county politics long enough to know how things work." And this was true. I remembered an incident a few years before in which I'd arrested the golfing buddy of one of the county supervisors for possession of cocaine. I'd caught him dead to rights, with more than two grams of the drug in his possession. But since this real estate developer had the right connections the case was mysteriously dismissed by the DA two days later and a high-ranking member of the department told me that I should just forget it ever happened. "Sometimes I think you can just shove America up someone's ass," she said. "Sometimes I agree with that sentiment," I replied. As the day rolled onward we continued our sporadic conversations during the slow periods. Hector, of course, continued to glare at me, especially when he saw his sister smiling and laughing at something I said, or when he saw me doing the same in response to something that she said. He kept his words to himself however, seemingly intimidated by the thought that I could understand him no matter what language he spoke in. Maria and Jose didn't seem to be terribly thrilled by the attention their daughter was shedding upon me either. Neither of them said anything in front of me but I believe that there were a few private conversations that took place out of my earshot. None of this seemed to bother Trista however. She talked of many things with me during these slow periods. She seemed particularly fascinated by where and how I lived. She asked me about my house, my car, my neighborhood, what I liked to do on my days off. I responded to most of her questions honestly enough. I did not give her my actual address since cops live in fear of people finding out where they live, and I did not tell her that I spent a great deal of my off-time downloading and masturbating to Internet porn, since it didn't seem relevant to the discussion. But just about anything else was okay with me. She was an easy person to talk to despite the difference in our ages, upbringing, ethnicity, and socio-economic status. I asked her many questions as well, learning of her home life, which was of a strict Catholic upbringing, and her education, which had stopped at eleventh grade so she could work in the family business. We even talked about her brother, whom she assured me was not nearly as tough as he liked to pretend he was. "He ran with Norte del Rio for a while," she told me, referring to an infamous Hispanic street gang that ruled in this part of the city, "but mama made him stop hanging out with them assholes the first time the cops hauled his ass to juvie for sellin' weed. He been working every day here since." "How about you?" I asked her. "You looking for a Norte guy to hook up with?" "Shit," she scoffed. "I'd rather fuck a white dude. All them assholes join the gang cause they don't know how to use their fuckin dicks." I laughed, both surprised and delighted by her risqué words. I also didn't fail to notice her ethnic reference. Nor was I about to let it go. "So white dudes are better than Nortes huh?" I asked. She actually blushed a little, her dark skin turning a shade darker. An embarrassed smile appeared on her face. "Wouldn't know," she finally said. "I ain't never done no white dude before." "But you've done some Nortes?" I asked. "A few," she reluctantly admitted. "I went through my teenaged rebellion too. Can't say that I ever got any fun out of it." She looked around and lowered her voice a bit. "However when I did Mr. Delgado who works over at the meat market..." she smiled sensuously. "Let's just say that older men are where it's at, you know what I mean?" I felt a little stirring within me as she said these words. "Actually I don't," I said with a grin. "But I'll take your word for it." "You ever done a Mexican before?" she asked me next. "Just Julie Martinez," I told her. "And she don't really count. She's a cop groupie that hangs out at the bar I drink at. She grew up in Lemon Hill and went to Kennedy High School. It's probably been about three generations since her family has been south of the border." "She's a white girl then," Trista said. "You gotta try a real wetback sometime. You'll never go back to the white chicks again." "Maybe I'll do that," I told her. "Maybe you will," she returned. The end of the day came around quickly that day. A count of the register proceeds revealed $1406. When added to the previous day's proceeds the amount was $2638 that had been collected so far. "You're still short $362 Mr. Gonzales," I told him as he signed my form. "Looks like I'll be back tomorrow." In truth I wasn't really too unhappy about this. I was becoming quite infatuated with his daughter and the chance to see her for one more day was something I was looking forward to. But it seemed that Mr. Gonzales was picking up on this as well and was not as thrilled about it. And he seemed determined to avoid having her exposed to me if he could. "I have about four hundred dollars in the business account," he told me. "I'll write a check for the balance." "Papa," Trista said, alarmed, "that's the money that we have to use to buy our supplies for the rest of the week!" "We'll get by somehow," he told her firmly. "We always do." He looked back at me. "Is that acceptable, officer?" In truth, I didn't really know. I was new to this civil division stuff. A quick phone call to Sergeant Nichols however assured me that it was perfectly fine, although I was instructed to tell Jose that he would be arrested for fraud if his check were to bounce. "It'll clear," he assured me impatiently as he scratched out the amount. He ripped the check off and handed it to me. "There you go," he said. "All paid off. Now you don't have to come back tomorrow or any other time, right?" "I suppose not," I said with a sigh. I had him sign one more receipt for me and then I packed up the money and headed for the door. Jose, Maria, and Hector were already off in the kitchen, performing the final clean-up for the night. Trista followed me to the door. "Well, it was nice talking to you, Trista," I told her in the doorway. "I hope everything works out for you and your family." "Me too," she said, giving me her smile. She hesitated for a second. "So what are you gonna do now?" she finally asked. "Now, I'm going to go back to the office and turn all this money in. Then I'm going to go home, open a beer, and climb into the hot tub for a nice long soak." "A hot tub huh?" she said whimsically. "You know, I've never been in a hot tub before." "Never?" She shook her head. "Ain't no fuckin hot tubs in the barrio, man. Are they nice? Nicer than taking a hot bath?" "A thousand times nicer," I said, looking at her brown eyes. "Maybe you'd like to join me tonight?" "In your hot tub?" "In my hot tub," I confirmed. "If you don't mind hanging out with a gringo that is." She smiled. "How long will it take you go to your office and come back here?" "About forty-five minutes or so." "I'll be waiting out in front of the store," she said. With that she turned and headed for the kitchen to help clean. ------- She was there, just as promised, when I pulled my four-year-old Honda Accord in front of the taco place fifty minutes later. She held a red bikini in her hands. Her hair was slightly damp looking, as if she'd just taken a shower. She had changed into a pair of denim shorts and a half shirt. I admired the smooth skin that was revealed on her stomach as I parked at the curb. "Nice car," she said as she hopped in the passenger side, more than a little sarcasm in her tone. "It gets me around," I told her with a shrug. "And I can't afford any higher payments than I've already got." I pulled away and started heading for the freeway. "I had to hide this from mama and papa," she said, holding up the bikini. "They would've killed me if they'd known I was going out with the gringo cop." "Where'd you tell them you were going?" I asked. "I didn't tell them nothing," she said. "I go out a lot after work. There's nothing unusual about it." "Good," I said. "The last thing I need is your papa and your brother chasing me down." We chatted about neutral subjects as I drove us out of the ghetto and into the northern suburbs. I lived in Whispering Oaks, which was one of the nicer parts of the county, the place where many of the yuppies and other professionals lived. Trista looked in wonder at the neat, geometric rows of tract houses as we entered my neighborhood. Finally we pulled into the driveway of my three-bedroom home. It was located on a corner lot near the main road, which was why I had been able to afford it in the first place. The sprinklers were running through their automatic timed cycle, leaking a stream of water down into the gutter. I opened the garage door with the remote clipped to my visor and pulled into the neat garage. We entered the house through the garage door, which brought us into the kitchen. Luckily my marriage had left me with somewhat of a cleanliness compulsion and the house was neat. I gave her a quick tour, showing her the highlights. "Nice place," she told me appreciatively when we were finished. "It's a lot bigger than our house." I gave her another shrug and then changed the subject. "So how about that hot tub?" I asked her. "You can go change in the bathroom there and then we'll go check it out." "Sounds good," she said with a flirtatious smile. "I'll be right back." She disappeared behind the door. While she was doing that I went to my bedroom and pulled out my own bathing suit although I usually didn't bother with it when in the hot tub since the backyard was completely enclosed and private. I took off my gun, my badge, my handcuffs, and all of my clothes, stowing everything in the accustomed places, and then slipped on the trunks. I took a moment to glance at myself in the mirror. I was in pretty good shape for my age, a result of the regular jogging and workouts that I did to keep fit for the job. I had no beer belly to speak of and my muscles were reasonably well developed. I knew that women found my physique attractive. I came back into the living room just as Trista emerged from the bathroom. Her bikini was somewhat conservative by today's standards, but she still looked absolutely stunning in it. Her full breasts pushed at the top and filled it out very well. Her long, lean legs were lusciously dark and well toned. I couldn't help but look her up and down appreciatively. She blushed a little as she saw my gaze, pulling the bundle of clothing in her hands tight against her chest. "I haven't worn this since last year," she told me. "I probably look like a fat cow in it." "I think it's quite becoming on you," I responded. "You have a beautiful figure." Her blush deepened at my words but she looked very pleased by them anyway. She set her clothes down on the couch. "How about those beers?" I said, heading for the refrigerator. I opened it and pulled out two icy bottles. "I'm only nineteen," she said teasingly as she took the one I handed her. "Aren't you afraid you'll get in trouble?" "Trouble I can handle," I said. "I hate drinking alone though." She opened the cap. "Thanks," she said, taking a quick drink. "Shall we go see your hot tub now?" I led her out into the back yard. I was particularly proud of this portion of the property. Though it wasn't very big I'd managed to attractively landscape it. A row of rosebushes, which were in bloom at the present time, lined the back fence. Hedges guarded all of the other fences, giving an almost tropical feel. The lawn, which I mowed no less than once a week, was a rich variety of Kentucky bluegrass. The shining jewel of the back yard was the redwood deck that stretched from the back door a third of the way to the fence. A patio roof from which I'd hung potted plants, hummingbird feeders, and a set of wind chimes covered it. The hot tub was one designed for six people. It sat on the outside edge of the deck surrounded by patio furniture. Trista was visibly impressed with my set up. She whistled appreciatively. "Do you bring women here a lot?" she asked me, walking over to the tub. "Every once in a while," I said. In truth, I brought all my girlfriends here as soon as I could entice them. I had found that the hot tub, with it's warm, caressing water and the necessity of being scantily dressed to enjoy it, tended to shave a full three dates off of the usual time it took to get initially laid. I pulled back the lid and dipped my hand in the water to test it. It was a perfect 102 degrees. Trista, who was standing behind me, did the same. She winced a little at the heat. "That's pretty hot," she said. "It's supposed to be," I replied. "That's why they call it a hot tub." I flipped the switch that turned on the jets. The water began roiling and bubbling, quickly foaming up on the top. I flipped on the lights inside the tub and turned off the light that illuminated the patio itself. I turned to my companion. "Shall we?" She looked at the bubbling water for a moment and then nodded. I climbed up on the step and put my legs in, feeling the heat stinging my flesh. I held out a hand to Trista and she took it, bringing herself up onto the edge. Gingerly she put her feet into the water, followed by her lower legs. "You just go in a little at a time," I told her, easing down further, so that my thighs and then my lower body were submerged. I took the opportunity to get a good look at her legs, which were pulled up against her stomach to keep most of them dry. They really were a good set. Little by little she eased herself into the tub, following my moves. Soon we were both submerged to the neck, sitting on opposite sides, our bottoms resting on the seats. She sighed in contentment as she got used to the heat. "You're right," she told me. "This is really nice. Do you do this every night?" "Most nights," I told her, looking at a drop of sweat that was tracking down the side of her face. "It's really been helpful since my shoulder got hurt. With any luck I'll be back to regular duty pretty soon." We sipped from our beers and enjoyed the approach of evening. We talked of little things, avoiding anything that had to do with my job or her family's taco business. To our west the sun disappeared below the horizon, imparting a pleasant darkness upon us. I stretched out my legs a little and my foot contacted hers. She didn't pull it away from me. The touch of her feminine flesh against mine sent a little stirring to my groin. I figured that since we both knew what she was here for, it was time to up the ante a little. I ran my foot slowly up the back of her leg, caressing the soft, smooth skin of her calf with my toes. She smiled at me and sank down in the water a little further. Her legs parted just a bit, allowing me to continue my pedal exploration up to the back of her knee. "You have very nice legs," I told her. "I like the way they feel." "And you have a nice butt," she countered with a small giggle. "Mama caught me staring at it a few times while you were at our place." "What did she do?" "She told me that I should stay away from gringo cops, that you were nothing but trouble for us." "Really?" I said, taking another sip and letting my toes slide up just a bit further, onto the back of her thigh. "Really," Trista said, her hand dropping down onto my ankle. She began to caress me with her fingers. "And then she said that you really did have a nice butt though." "For a gringo," I said. "Of course," she giggled, and both of us laughed. As the laughter died away we stared into each other eyes, our expressions turning serious as we felt the magnetism that existed between us flowing back and forth. Slowly she stood up, rivulets of water cascading off of her body and back into the tub. I could see how her bikini top was now clinging wetly to her full breasts, could see the protrusions of her nipples poking out from beneath them. She stepped forward across the bottom of the tub and put her hands on my shoulders. Her fingers stroked the side of my neck. I pulled my feet together and she moved forward, straddling them and sitting down on my lap, facing me. Her inner thighs slid up my outer thighs. Her pubic area rested softly against my growing erection. I put my hands around her waist, relishing the feel of the flesh there. Her head angled downward and our lips met in a kiss. Her large lips were like soft, warm pillows against mine, just made to be kissed. I slid my tongue out and just touched them with the tip, licking at the inside of them while sucking a little and making them swell further. Her tongue shot out to meet mine. She licked the underside of it and drew it into her mouth where we began to slide the two organs together. She hummed a little in contentment as we kissed, her hands going to the back of my neck and up into my hair. My own hands ran up and down her bare back, moving in a slow circuit between the top of her bikini bottoms and her shoulders. She really seemed to like this and moved closer against me, pushing her wet breasts into my chest, pushing her groin tighter against mine. My cock filled completely with blood and pushed out insistently against her. We kissed for the better part of ten minutes, just tasting each other and rubbing our bodies together in the heat of the tub. Her hands dipped down across my back and felt my ass through the material of my suit, squeezing and releasing a few times. I in turn ran my fingers up her flanks, just touching the sides of her firm breasts as they bulged out of her top. Finally I let my mouth leave hers and trail kisses down the side of her face to her neck. I licked at the sweat that had formed there, tasting the saltiness of it, sucking the flesh into my mouth and nibbling on it. Her breathing picked up and she emitted a soft moan at the sensation. Slowly I let my hands work their way over her back until my fingers were touching the knot that held her top in place. I played with it for a moment, sliding my fingertips beneath the string, running them over the top of it, tugging and pulling on it. When she offered no protest to this action I grasped the loose end between my thumb and index and gently pulled on it. The knot came loose and the strings fell away. I pulled back away from her just far enough to allow the top to fall off and into the water. Her breasts were as gorgeous as I'd imagined they'd be. Perfect orbs, the size and shape of grapefruits, capped with cherry red nipples that were swollen in arousal. I ran my hand over them, my palm scraping across the nipples just enough to entice a little more blood flow into them. Another moaned squeaked from her lips. I pulled her tighter still against my body, bringing her higher out of the water and elevating those beautiful mammaries to neck level. I kissed my way across her shoulder, tasting the bite of chlorine from the spa water now, and then began to work my way down onto her chest. Using the back of my tongue I licked at the top swelling of her left breast, moving downward and circling around the nipple without touching it. She grabbed the back of my head with one hand and forcibly pulled me to her, driving the nipple between my lips. "Mmmm," she cooed as I began to lick and suckle at her. I swirled my tongue in circles around the erect flesh and then drew it completely into my mouth. I put my hand on the other breast, fondling it and squeezing it gently. My free hand slid down her smooth back, under the water, and beneath the back of her bikini bottoms, so my fingers were just touching the top of her ass. Her pelvis began to slowly grind against me, putting pressure on my hard-on, causing me to grind back at her. I switched my mouth to the other tit and began to suckle that nipple as well. Her hands meanwhile were running up and down my back, twirling through my hair, stroking me everywhere that could be reached. I took my mouth from her breasts and then spent a moment licking and sucking between them, feeling the warm globes pushing on my face from either side. Finally I kissed my way back upward, until my lips were against hers once again. She attacked my mouth hungrily, sucking my tongue deep within her, nipping at my lips with her teeth. I moved both of my hands downward now and into the back of her bikini bottoms, shoving them down until I had a firm, warm cheek in each of my palms. I pulled her harder against me, driving the bulge of my cock into her crotch. She pushed back at me eagerly as I did this, making lustful grunts and moans into my mouth. I broke the kiss at last and looked at her, seeing a face that was a mask of arousal. "Sit up on the edge of the tub," I told her, sliding my hands from her suit. She looked at me for a moment, just panting in desire, and then did as I asked, her feet and lower legs still dangling in the water. I twisted around so that I was facing her and then took her legs in my hands. I ran my hands up and down the outside of her thighs a few times and then reached upward, until I was able to grasp the waistband of her bottoms. She rose up and I pulled at them, drawing them down her legs and off. I set them on the deck and then looked at her as I used my hands to push her legs apart and rest them on my shoulders. She had a thick bush of jet black hair on the top of her pubis but the area around her pussy lips had been shaved clean. Her lips were swollen and ruby red, the most appetizing thing I'd seen all day. I leaned forward and sucked on her inner thigh, giving a soft nip at the baby soft skin. She shivered a little at the contact, putting her hands back to my head and pulling. I allowed myself to be pulled into her wet crotch. I slid my nose between those swollen lips and then followed it up with my tongue, giving a wet, long slurp into her chasm. The taste was primarily of chlorinated water with just a hint of sexual musk mixed in. She moaned again and tugged at my hair as she felt me begin my work. I then dove into her in earnest, licking up and down her slit, running my tongue from top to bottom while my hands continued to stroke her thighs. She began to juice up more, the taste of the chlorine fading away and the sharp tang of her natural juices replacing it. I plunged my tongue inside of her, moving it in and out like a small penis. "Oh god, yess, yess," she moaned, her words coming out in Spanish. I licked her up and down for the better part of ten minutes, concentrating mostly on her lips and the area surrounding her bulging clitoris. Her moans became louder, less coherent, and her fingers pulled harder and harder at my hair. Finally I began to stimulate her clit directly, lapping at it with my tongue, infrequently at first and then with deliberate aggressiveness. She began bucking back and forth, pulling me harder against her crotch. When I took it into my mouth and sucked on it the first time she actually screamed aloud, releasing a long stream of the sexiest sounding Spanish profanity I've ever heard. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a light began to blink on and off from next door. That was my neighbor, Tim Eastman, a church-going mid-level manager at a nearby computer software company. He lived with his church-going wife and his three church-going children. I knew he couldn't see what was going on but the blinking of his patio light meant that he could hear it. He had never actually talked to me about the activities that took place in my hot tub from time to time — we in fact didn't talk much at all — but somehow this signal had evolved as a way of telling me that things were getting a little loud. Trista had just broken the record for the amount of time it took to reach that particular point in the game. Knowing that it was time to wrap up the outside portion of the festivities I attacked her clit with vigor. I attached my lips to it and began to suck, drawing it into my mouth where my tongue began to lash at it savagely. The effect on Trista was immediate and impressive. She wrapped her legs around my back and screamed out to the deity while her hands dislodged several strands of hair from my head. I brought one of my hands upward and slid first one and then two fingers into her pussy. She was very tight and I could feel the muscles inside of her spasming wildly. I plunged them in and out while continuing my assault on her clit. Her moans and cries picked up in intensity as her pelvis began to gyrate back and forth. "Ohhhhh Godddddd," she cried in Spanish. "Ohhhh fucckkkkk, ohhhhh shitttttt!" The spasms and cries went on for what seemed forever. Out of the corner of my eye I saw that Tim's patio light was now blinking furiously, at a rate of at least four blinks per second. Another new record. Finally she reached her peak and began to come back down. Her legs loosened around my back. Her fingers let go of my hair. Her moans and cries trailed off and disappeared. I raised my face out of her crotch and looked up at her. She immediately grabbed my face in her hands and pulled me to her, lowering her own face until our lips were once again locked. She kissed me furiously, her tongue probing into my mouth, little growls coming from her throat. "Fuck me now," she told me in Spanish. "Fuck me hard!" "Let's uh ... go inside," I suggested in English. "It's a little more comfortable for that in there." "All right," she said, though reluctantly. "But can we do it on the stairs? I ain't never done it on no stairs before." "Sure," I told her, standing up and swinging my legs out. The front of my bathing suit was pushed out impressively. She followed me, allowing me to lead her by the hand. She paused at the doorway for a moment and looked next door in confusion. "Why's that light blinking over there?" she asked me. "My neighbor has a short in his wiring," I told her. "Come on, let's go find the stairs." "Right." We entered the house. As I closed the patio door behind me I discretely reached over and flicked my own patio light on and off three times. This was the return signal that told Tim things would be quiet from there on out. Trista didn't even notice me doing it. She walked naked towards the staircase and I took a moment to break away from her and duck into the downstairs bathroom. In the back of the drawer there was a supply of condoms. I pulled one out and then quickly found Trista. She was lying halfway up the staircase, her butt resting on a riser, her legs spread wide. Her swollen pussy gaped open at me, just begging to have something put in it. "Come on," she panted at me. "Do it to me! Fuck me on your stairs." I dropped my shorts at the bottom, releasing my straining member to the air. She looked at it appreciatively and made no comment when I opened the condom wrapper and put the rubber on. She simply opened her legs a little wider and held her hands out to me. I climbed up to her, taking the steps deliberately slow. When I reached her level I took her hands in mine and lowered myself downward. I had never done it on a staircase before either so it took a minute to find the right position. I placed my knees on a riser and then had to adjust to the next one down because the angle was wrong. Finally however the alignment was made. Our chests came together, her wet breasts pushing into my skin, cushioning me. Her legs slid sensuously up and down the outside of my thighs. My cock slid through the wet hairs of her thick bush and settled between those gaping lips. I slid it up and down a few times, wetting the condom. "Do it!" she said, raising her hips up, trying to draw me in. I pushed forward, sliding inch by inch into her tight snatch. We both moaned at the entry, as her membranes squeezed at me, pulled me in, caressed every square millimeter. She was very tight, the tightest I'd had in years, and the sensation was incredible. "Come on, gringo," she told me, her hands going to my ass. "Fuck me! Fuck me hard. Make me come on your stairs!" I began to slide in and out of that tightness, pushing and pulling, grinding my pubis against her with each stroke. The going was a little rough at first until the condom became completely lubed by her juices, but once that happened I began to piston in and out with ease. "Oh yesss," she moaned, switching to Spanish once again. "Do it to me. Fucking do it to me!" Her nails bit into my ass as I pounded in and out of her. I found that doing it on the stairs was actually able to increase the natural friction. My feet came down on one of the risers and I was able to use my legs to push myself harder into her. Her ass began to slam backwards with each thrust, a wet squish and a drool of juices accompanying each stroke. Her membranes tightened up even more as she slid her legs up around my back. And all the while she kept whispering filthy, guttural Spanish phrases in my ear. She came once and then twice as I fucked her there, her legs pulling me into her body, her nails digging into my back or my ass. Her screams of ecstasy were probably loud enough for Tim to hear even through the insulated walls and the double-paned windows. Between her screams and outpourings of profanity she kissed at my neck, my ears, my lips, sometimes biting me, sometimes sucking on my skin. When sweat droplets formed on my face and dripped onto her she lapped at them obscenely. Just as she was heading for another orgasm the sensation of her tightness coupled with the enthusiasm of her fucking got the better of me. Waves of pleasure burst forth in my groin, quickly taking over my whole body, driving me into a frantic, uncontrolled pace. I cried out as I came, pouring what seemed like gallons of sperm into the condom. We hugged and kissed and basked in the afterglow for a few minutes, our tongues making wet contact with each other, our hands stroking affectionately. Finally I pulled myself out of her and utilized a discreet, practiced maneuver to remove the condom and secure it. "Not bad for a gringo," she told me with a smile as I stood up. "No?" I said, returning it. "No," she confirmed, pulling herself to her feet. She stood next to me, one step higher so that our heads were about even with each other. "Do you have a computer room?" she asked me next. "A computer room? Uh ... sure." "Let's go there," she said. "I want to suck you off while you sit in your computer chair and then I want to fuck you in it." And so we moved upstairs to my office. I sat down in my cheap computer store adjustable chair and she took my wilted cock between those puffy lips and began to work on it. She used her mouth like an instrument, bobbing up and down, twirling her tongue, sucking gently and then firmly. Her hands got in on the action as well, jacking me up and down as she blew, applying just the right amount of teasing pressure. Soon I was as rigid as a flagpole once again, my pelvis moving up and down. Just as I was about to come in her mouth, she stopped. She opened the second condom herself and expertly slid it onto my cock. A moment later she was straddling me, her hands positioning me at the entrance of her wet pussy. She sank down slowly, pulling me into her. She then began to rise up and down. She only managed to squeak out one orgasm before I came inside her clutching body once again. I made up for it a few minutes later however when we moved to my bedroom. I laid her down upon my bed and ate her for nearly a half hour, until my mouth was cramping and I was hardly able to talk. She came no less than three times. I was quite sure that Tim had been able to hear her piercing screams on the last two. She stayed all night with me, sleeping next to me in my double bed, her naked, sweaty body curled up against mine. Sometime around 3:00 AM we woke up and fucked again. We did it once more in the shower the next morning. I dropped her off in front of Gonzales Taco's at 8:00 AM. The ghetto was quiet at that time of the morning and we shared one last luxuriant kiss before she stepped out of my car. I would never see her again. I returned to normal duties a week later, my shoulder healed and at 100 percent efficiency, or so the doctor said anyway. Two weeks after that I ran into Sergeant Nichols at the Heritage County Superior Court building. He was there completing paperwork on another civil case that his division was handling. I was there to testify against some dirtball I'd arrested for possession of methamphetamine a few months earlier. He told me that Gonzales Tacos had received a double fine the week before, one from the health department for unsanitary conditions, one from the fire department for repeated safety violations. "Looks like that grease pit is finally going to be shut down," he told me. "The total of the fines is ten grand this time. There's no way those beaners are gonna be able to pay this one off and stay in business." I walked away from him in disgust. He gave me a funny look as I went, as if to wonder what was upsetting me. Just the other day I drove by Gonzales Tacos on my way to yet another court appearance. It was boarded up and closed down, a FOR LEASE sign hanging in the window. I passed Santos Tacos as well. There were still no customers to be seen patronizing their establishment. Al Steiner April 1, 2002 ------- The End ------- Posted: 2003-01-09 Last Modified: 2007-12-20 / 11:49:43 pm Version: 1.10 ------- http://storiesonline.net/ -------