Free Triple Crossing by Sebastian Rotella

thinking like an adult about resolving your problems. For the moment you are under
     investigation. We will be in touch.”
    She got up and went out, leaving an invisible trail of cinnamon behind her.
    That evening, Garrison had visited him at home. Pescatore lived in a one-bedroom apartment on the second floor of a stucco
     house in Pacific Beach, an area populated by students, surfers and aging Anglos. Pescatore lay on the couch with an ice pack
     on his head listening to an old George Benson disc. His gun was on a chair nearby. There wasn’t much in the apartment beyond
     the couch, the stereo, the television and a bed. He had four posters: the Chicago Bulls, the Chicago Bears, Bruce Springsteen
     and Oscar De La Hoya. The Chicago wall calendar in the kitchenette was open to a photo of the lakefront frosted over into
     an ice field.
    Pescatore lay in the dark when the music ended. He could not see the Pacific from his apartment, but he could hear the soothing
     mumble of surf. He was thinking about how his arrest in Chicago had triggered a chain of events that culminated in his arrival
     at the Border Patrol academy in New Mexico. The Patrol was hungry for Spanish-speakers, and his uncle’s recommendation helped.
     You just ran out of favors, his uncle had declared.Disgrace me again and I’ll break your head. The best thing about the Border Patrol is that it will get you the hell out of
     town.
    Garrison’s heavy footsteps drummed up the outdoor staircase to his apartment. The supervisor came in loud and hearty, carrying
     an open beer can. He said he was only going to stay a minute. Somebody was waiting in the car, they were going to the fights.
     But he made himself at home. He turned on lights. He wandered around, biceps and triceps bulging in a cutoff football jersey,
     his high forehead furrowed. He grilled Pescatore about the visit to the Federal Building.
    Pescatore stayed on the couch. He did not mention the signs of an ominously in-depth investigation.
    “So they asked about me?” Garrison said.
    “Yeah,” Pescatore improvised. “They wanted to know if I ever saw you thump on somebody.”
    “And?”
    “I said I’ve never seen any PA thump on anybody.”
    “Good. What else?”
    “Mainly they kept browbeating me about did I cross The Line, you know.”
    After another round of questions, Garrison seemed satisfied. Pescatore tried to nudge along his departure. “Goin’ to the fights
     in TJ, huh?”
    “Affirmative. Multiglobo Arena. Next time come down with us. Great seats, buddy. You did some boxing back home, right?”
    “Little bit.”
    Garrison started laughing.
    “What’s so funny?” Pescatore demanded.
    “I was thinking about you whaling on Pulpo. Relax, Valentine. You’re not the first PA ever stepped over The Line and got away
     with it.”
    “I’m not?”
    “Hell no. But you probably did set a record for distance, I’lltell ya that, buddy. Pulpo got a little shock when you dropped in, didn’t he?”
    Pescatore sat up, grinning lopsidedly through his dread.
    “Oh man. I put the fear a God in him forever.”
    Garrison whooped and swigged beer. “Crazy fucking Valentine. You got potential.”
    All kinds of potential, Pescatore thought now as he paid for his lunch in Little Italy. Potential to end up fired, in the
     joint, maybe dead if Garrison gets the idea in his head that I might rat him out.
    Pescatore walked down India Street, head down, hands in pockets. He rounded a corner. A Mazda sports car pulled alongside
     him, low and black. Isabel Puente was at the wheel.
    “Mr. Pescatore,” she said through the half-open window. “Got a minute for me?”
    He peered at her. She wore a gray sweater-and-skirt ensemble and her hair was down, rippling black, shoulder length.
    “Are you guys surveilling me?” he demanded, glancing around.
    “I thought we might go someplace quiet. Continue our conversation.”
    “Am I under any obligation to get in this vehicle?”
    She hit him with a