Free Total Victim Theory by Ian Ballard Page B

second that motion,” Silva says.
    “Fair enough.” Luna wipes his face with a napkin, wads it up, and sets in the middle of his empty plate. “So what do you think of this little hole in the wall, Radley?”
    “It seems . . . authentic,” I say.
    “It's one of our regular haunts,” Montalvo says. “If you're goingto be down here a while, helping us out, you'll probably become a regular.”
    “That's habanero sauce you were dousing your tacos with. I'm surprised an FBI guy from way up in DC can cope,” Luna says.
    “I may be genetically predisposed,” I say. “Got a little Mexican heritage.”
    Montalvo studies me. “I was telling myself, that guy doesn't look a hundred percent
guero
.”
    “If that Mexican blood makes your stomach as tough as your taste buds,” Luna says, “you'll be well served.”
    I crack a smile.
    Silva flags down the waitress and orders us a round of mezcal, which I've never had before.
    Little by little, the banter and the effect of the alcohol loosens the stranglehold the day's events have had on my mind. Despite the late hour, traffic still bustles on the four-lane thoroughfare in front of the restaurant. Through the window, I see cars, mopeds, bicycles, and pedestrians. Somewhere in the distance, beneath the din of honking traffic and the murmur of customers, a mariachi band is playing.
    Just across the street, next to a Catholic church, there's a public park with a huge dilapidated fountain. The stonework is cracked and snaky vines grow all over it. Statuary rises up from a deep, dry basin that resembles an empty swimming pool. Around the fountain's edge, there's a low stone wall, maybe three or four feet high. It looks like it might have been erected to keep people from jumping in the water back in the fountain's wetter days. In the intersection in front of the park, a green street sign hangs below the traffic light. It says “
Avenida Los Lagartos”
in yellow letters. That last word, if I recall correctly, means “alligators.”
    “Why do they call it Alligator Street?” I ask. “I haven't noticed any giant reptiles wandering around.”
    Luna repeats the word “La-gar-tos,” slowly, letting the rolled “r” trill on his tongue.
    Silva gives his mustache a pensive tweak. “I know that story. It's a pretty good one. Dates back to when I was a little kid.”
    “Are all three of you from around here?” I ask, curious if they've all heard whatever tale Silva is set to regale us with.
    Luna and Montalvo nod.
    “Not me,” says Silva, shaking his head. “I'm from the other side of the river. El Paso. But my family visited Juárez all the time.”
    “I was gonna mention that,” I say. “With that Texas twang you've got, you sound like more of a Gringo than me.”
    “My father was Anglo. Rest his soul. An Irishman.” Silva points to a patch of hair near his temple with a slightly red hue.
    “So what's the story with Alligator Avenue?” I say.
    Silva repositions himself in his chair and leans toward us. “Now, this very first part I can't personally vouch for. But according to my sources, it all started like this. A long time ago—it must have been just over twenty-five years back—someone let three baby alligators go in that fountain across the street. . . . Do you guys remember this?” Silva asks the other two.
    “It's been a while,” Montalvo says.
    Luna scratches his head. “Not sure—where did the alligators come from?”
    “I never heard,” Silva says. “I think one day they were just swimming around there in the basin, as if someone had thrown them in. With the wall around it, they couldn't get out.”
    More mezcal shots have materialized in front of us. My new colleagues encourage me to dispense with mine—which I do—while they require no encouragement. The taste really isn't bad, but I give a wince for the sake of camaraderie.
    Silva clears his throat to announce that his tale will resume. “At first, everyone took a liking to the baby gators.