Redhanded by Michael Cadnum Page A

plainclothes detectives, or guys who have just dropped by after seeing their brothers and sisters in jail.
    Chad gave the place a good look, eyeing the booths under the far wall painted with pictures of Mayans working on their cities, and he picked out a place in the corner, a view of who came and went.
    â€œSteven coldcocked that security guard,” Chad said, picking out the largest tortilla chip and popping it into his mouth. He had laughed when Raymond told him that Stacy was a guard for American Security. “One punch, and that night watchman was a cripple.”
    â€œThe man got a leg cramp,” said Raymond. “Steven fought well, but what happened was his opponent got a muscle spasm and had to throw a dirty punch to survive.”
    â€œI was there,” said Chad.
    â€œYou were there, but maybe you don’t have that much—” Raymond stopped himself before he said knowledge about boxing .
    Chad let Raymond know he could hear the words that were said, and the ones Raymond kept to himself. “I don’t think I have a high opinion of the sport,” said Chad. “But I understand someone who can knock out a rent-a-cop.”
    Chad offered me a sly look of sympathy—almost pity—and Raymond held a tortilla chip in his fingers, not eating. The painkiller was wearing off and I could move my mouth. It hurt, but not very much.
    â€œLoquesto maybe did one thing right in his life,” Chad continued, “teaching Steven how to box. It’s a shame about Loquesto, maybe the man had some ability. He turned out to be one of these guys running away from his past.”
    There was, in fact, a touch of the fugitive in the way Loquesto kept stacks of fresh dress shirts, starched and waiting, next to his collection of sports magazines in the office, as though he might have to don a new disguise any minute. Maybe feinting and dodging in the ring makes you believe in a fluid sneakiness you can’t shake off when you retire. But I didn’t want to hear any criticism of the coach, and maybe Raymond didn’t either.
    Raymond said, “Loquesto’s not such a jerk.”
    Chad let this affront pass like it hadn’t been uttered. “I used to shoot baskets, play one-on-one with my brother until it was too dark to see.”
    For a moment I could see the boy Chad sitting there, although I wondered if he might suggest a game between the three of us, a chance to use his height and experience.
    â€œDid you play basketball in school?” I asked, expecting him to make some dismissive remark about education.
    â€œI wasn’t good enough at the game,” he said.
    â€œIt takes practice,” I said, a little surprised.
    He happily admitted that this was so. “But even with practice I was only going to be pretty good, not serious-good.”
    Chad talked about how he had gone fishing with his brother once, and how his brother caught a perch right out of the bay. I was very hungry, eagerly awaiting the arrival of my flautas con guacamole . When an unshaven, convict-type customer looked my way, I gave him a stare until he found something else to do with his eyes.
    I felt the stitches with the tip of my tongue, like a huge sailor’s knot. Our food arrived, gigantic Syracuse china platters, with food baked onto the surface so thoroughly I had to imagine the hydraulic power in the dishwashing arena, real pros gunning frijoles off the dishware.
    â€œThis is a wonderful sight,” said Chad, and he delivered up a smile aimed right at the waitress, beaming up at her like a man who had never seen such a beauty in his life. She was good-looking, pretty eyes and plenty of chest. Her arrival broke Chad’s mood.
    â€œHot plates,” said the waitress. “Don’t burn your fingers.”
    Chad waited for her to leave, and rolled his eyes at us, letting us imagine what slurs he was silently casting in the waitress’s direction, pussy, slut .
    There