The Interview by Eric Weule Page A

had
hoped.
    “Here go. Fifteen.” I looked at Alex. Shrugged. She
reached into her handbag, pulled out a twenty and a ten. Laid them on
the counter. Looked the girl in the eye and said, “Thank you.”
The girl trembled. Fear. Desire. I don’t know. Crazy.
    We took our drinks outside. Sat down at a picnic table. “How do
you do that?”
    “What?”
    “Don’t play stupid. How do you do it?”
    “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
    I sighed. Looked around. Bored. “Let’s go.”
    “Not thirsty.”
    “No.”
    “So why did we stop?”
    “I wanted some big, tough biker guy to start some shit.”
    “Why?”
    “Are you feigning innocence right now?”
    “Why, Kelly, what ever do you mean?”
    “Fine. I wanted someone to get all bent about you being black
and me being white so I could watch you kick his ass.”
    “Really?”
    “Yes, really.”
    “Maybe next time.”
    “Whatever. Let’s go.”
    As we walked to the car one of the bikers said, “Nice car.”
    “Fuck you,” I replied in a last ditch attempt to start a
brawl. He just laughed and said, “Fuck you, too, buddy. Have a
good one.”

    I WOUND MY WAY THROUGH the hills of South County on the way to Ortega
Highway. I was having fun with the Cayenne. It cornered well. I was
loving the turbo. I turned left at Ortega. Punched it.
    Alex asked, “What’s in the case?”
    “Later. Quiet. I’m driving.”
    I followed the twists and turns of Ortega Highway through the
relatively unpopulated hills. The sun was gone in the west. The
Cayenne was a blast. Eventually we hit population near the 15 and
Lake Elsinore. I took the 15 north and caught the 91 and headed back
to the Beach Cities.

    IT WAS TEN O'CLOCK WHEN we pulled onto the Row. All was quiet. No
naked coeds ran down the street to greet us. There were street lights
every other house. Rich neighborhoods are always well lit at night. I
drove to the end of the street and parked at the curb. I didn’t
see my truck anywhere. That was all right. I’d just take the
Cayenne. Alex wouldn’t mind.
    A metallic blue Hummer sat in the driveway. They used to be real
popular in this part of town. Then gas went over four bucks a gallon
and it became cool to drive a hybrid and very un-cool to drive a
truck that got ten miles to the gallon. Course the Cayenne only got
fifteen, but I wasn’t paying for the gas. Didn’t bother
me a bit.
    I got out. Walked around the front and opened the door for Alex. I
grabbed the briefcase out of the back and we strolled up Tristan's
driveway.
    When we reached the door, Alex asked for the keys. I handed them to
her. She picked out a key and slipped it into the lock. She turned
the knob, pushed the door.
    “Thank you for the sightseeing tour. I had a nice time.”
    “Thanks for letting me drive the Porsche. I might have to get
me one now.”
    The house was still. No gorillas. No strippers with stars upon thars.
I followed Alex into the kitchen. Tristan was sitting out back. He
watched us through the glass. I set the briefcase on a table and
pointed at him.
    “Thing sounds heavy,” said Alex.
    “It is.”
    “What's in it?”
    “Later. I’m having a staring contest right now.”
    I was, too. Tristan was staring at me hard. I feared the glass would
break beneath the force of his gaze. Jealous? I thought not.
Something though. He stood up, entered the house. Dressed in shorts
and nothing else. The kid was a surfer. His whole act was a lie. But
why?
    “Mr. Jenks. You keep leaving abruptly, only to return once
more.” He looked at the case. “But with gifts this time.
Curious.”
    “It’s not by choice. Believe me.”
    “Alex, how was your evening?”
    “Very nice. I watched Kelly strike out. Then we went for a
drive. Enjoyable.”
    “You struck out at slow-pitch softball.”
    “I did.” I pointed at Alex. “Her fault.”
    Tristan smiled and said, “She can have that effect.”
    “Can we knock all this off?”
    “What would you like to knock