A Nasty Piece of Work by Robert Littell Page A

San Miguel, an Italian restaurant up the road in Deming.”
    “That doesn’t give us much to go on,” I remarked.
    “What you need to do, Gunn, is stop by the station house. By happenstance I have someone in my office who, like the Brits like to say, may be able to help you with your inquiries.”
    Twenty-five minutes later I made my way down the tunnel-like corridor to Awlson’s door, which was ajar. I walked in to find Awlson grilling a rail-thin Chicano with sickle-shaped sideburns and a three-inch knife burn on one cheek. “Je-sus, Jesus, you got to come up with a better story than that if you want to save yourself grief,” Awlson was saying.
    Awlson noticed me at the door. “Well, look what the breeze blew in—if it ain’t Santa Fe All-State Indemnity in the flesh. You two know each other? Didn’t think so. The jerk with the handcuffs on his wrists is Jesus Oropesa, the pusher who was arrested with that Gava fella at the Blue Grass. He was picked up this morning peddling crack outside a Las Cruces high school. Say, remember when I told you he was five foot seven and a half, a hundred thirty-three? Turns out he’s three-quarters of an inch shorter but I hit his weight on the nose.”
    “Ever see a picture called The Incredible Shrinking Man ?” I asked. “Maybe Jesus here was five foot seven and a half. Maybe he’s shorter because he got zapped by nuclear fallout like that guy in the movie,” I said with a straight face.
    “May be,” Awlson agreed.
    “Which of you’s the good cop?” Jesus asked with a smirk. “I been through this wringer before.”
    “He thinks we’re gonna play good cop, bad cop.” Awlson said. He seemed amused—how else would you explain the little wrinkles that fanned out from the corners of his eyes? “I ought to try it out one of these days. I know cops who swear by the good cop, bad cop routine.”
    “Which role you see yourself playing?” I asked.
    “S’pose I’d have to cast myself as the bad cop. No two-bit pusher would fall for me being the good cop.”
    Jesus swallowed a yawn. “How’s about you go ahead and book me,” he said. “The sooner you book me, the sooner I get to see the judge. The sooner I get to see the judge, the sooner I waltz outa here on bail. I got a mouthpiece with a big mouth, he’ll plea bargain me into a two-to-five. Prisons being overcrowded like they is, I’ll be walking in three, four months. The way I see it, it’s a paid vacation.”
    Awlson shook his head in disgust. “The syndicate that employs these jerks pays them monthly salaries while they’re doin’ time as long as they don’t name names.”
    “Mind if I ask him a few questions?”
    “Why would I mind?” Awlson said. “I need to relieve myself.” I grinned. He grinned back and left the room, closing the door behind him.
    I settled onto the edge of Awlson’s desk. “I need to clear up some details about the arrest at the Blue Grass.”
    “I do not know nothing ’bout nothing,” Jesus said.
    “Did you ever do business with Emilio Gava before the Blue Grass?”
    Jesus only smirked.
    “Who set up the buy that night? Emilio Gava himself?”
    The smirk was pasted on his face. I could feel the anger that resided permanently in my fingertips rising through my arm and on up to my throat.
    “Was there a go-between? A woman maybe?”
    “You know what you can do with your fucking questions,” Jesus said with a smirk. “You can shove them up your fucking ass.”
    I lost it. It being my cool. It being my dignity. I ducked behind him and jerked the handcuffs and his wrists upward. Jesus shrieked “Police brutality” but I only laughed under my breath and pulled his wrists higher. “I’m not a cop,” I told him, “so this can’t be construed as police brutality.” I experienced a surge of pure pleasure as I elevated the cuffs another increment. I could feel the arm sockets in his shoulder reaching their limit before I reached my limit. Tears were streaming from