Madman on a Drum by David Housewright Page B

“Back when you were kids—everything seemed simple back when you were kids. Scottie was so full of fun and love and…” She was looking up to her right again. “If only…”
    The manager spoke loudly from the front of the bar. “Here we go, ladies and gentlemen. For five pounds of pork-chops-on-a-stick.” He spun the wheel. It completed several revolutions before slowing and eventually settling on number sixteen. The woman who had won the chicken and hash browns gave out a squeal from a table behind us.
    â€œDid she win again?” asked Ruth.
    â€œIt’s so unfair,” said Mrs. Thomforde.
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    I thanked Mrs. Thomforde for her time and said good-bye to the girls and led Karen out of the bar. I stopped her just outside the door and studied my watch, counting the seconds as they ticked by.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Karen asked.
    â€œI think Mrs. Thomforde was lying about knowing where Scottie is,” I said.
    â€œWhat makes you say that?”
    â€œDid you notice that while she was speaking to you she was looking upward to her left, but when she was speaking to me, she was looking upward to the right?”
    â€œNo, I didn’t. What difference does it make?”
    â€œRight brain, left brain. When you glance up to the right, you’re pulling your thoughts from your memory. If you glance up to the left, you’re pulling thoughts from your creative side. Often, that means the person is lying. When Mrs. Thomforde told us she didn’t know where Scottie was, she was looking to her left.”
    â€œThat doesn’t tell me what you’re doing.”
    â€œI’m giving Mrs. Thomforde a ninety-second head start.”
    â€œTo do what?”
    At ninety seconds, I opened the bar door and both Karen and I stepped inside, standing close to the entrance. From where we stood we were able to see Mrs. Thomforde’s back. She was speaking on a cell phone.
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    I asked Karen if she was hungry. She said she was, so I drove to a vacant lot lit up by the streetlights on the corner of Arcade and East Seventh Street. There was a food trailer like the kind you see at state and county fairs anchored against a wooden fence. It was rigged with tiny yellow lightbulbs and covered with hand-painted scenes of a pastoral Mexico.
    â€œYou’re kidding, right?” said Karen.
    â€œIt has authentic Mexican food,” I said. “The best in town. Unless you prefer Taco Bell.”
    I had the impression that she did. Just the same, I parked in the lot next to a Lexus SUV, which was parked next to a Ford minivan, and joined the line. Karen followed reluctantly. The owner, a man named José, stood behind a white folding table loaded with pastel-colored coolers containing soft drinks. He scribbled orders on a pad and handed them through a window into the kitchen inside the trailer. There was a large chalkboard to his right. The trailer served a full menu, yet I recommended the tacos. The tortillas were warmed on a griddle and piled high with chopped onions, fresh cilantro, hot sauce, and your choice of fifteen different kinds of meat, including cow brains. I ordered chicken. Karen requested shrimp. I didn’t say anything at the time, but shrimp tacos? Really? That’s so Southern California.
    There were a few picnic tables with huge umbrellas scattered around the lot, only they were all full, so we ate with the Audi between us, using the hood for a table.
    â€œThis is amazing,” Karen said after her second bite.
    â€œWhat did I tell you?”
    â€œThe sauce, though. It’s so hot.”
    â€œI like it that way.”
    We continued eating in silence until Karen asked, “How do they get away with this, selling food in a vacant lot?”
    â€œThe owners get away with it because no one has complained yet. I mean, look. Their customers love them.” The lot was filled with every ethnic group you can find on the East Side: