Free Wounds by Alton Gansky Page A

forgive, then Ellis was doomed. He reminded himself that there was no theology behind the fear.
    Fear didn’t care.

    The usual lunch crowd at Jimmy Chen’s Authentic Mexican Cuisine had thinned. Of course, lunchtime had begun three hours before and ended two hours later. The large clock with the image of a cold, frothy Budweiser on it showed ten minutes past three. Carmen hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch, and a sharp-toothed gnawing in her gut reminded her of the fact. That, and a growing sensation of low blood sugar: headache and the feeling that her internal organs were vibrating.
    Chen’s place was a popular spot in North Park, especially with police. James Chen—once Sergeant Chen of robbery division before a bullet in the hip changed his career path—ran a clean place with an eclectic menu of oriental, Italian, and Southwest food. Cops from all over San Diego County came in, at first to support a wounded comrade, then because he served food worth far more money than he charged. It was a cop restaurant. Like a cop bar that catered to police, Chen’s was a safe place where uniformed officers and detectives could let their hair down and not be on. The brass never came in. They understood this was a working cop’s place and respected it. Most of them had been in many times before getting kicked upstairs.
    Chen had been a better-than-average officer, but he was a better restauranteur, one who knew his clientele and their needs. That meant keeping a back room, one away from the noise and questioning eyes of others. Detectives could discuss cases without other ears listening in.
    Carmen and Bud hadn’t taken two steps into the place before Chen met them. He limped from behind the counter and into the main dining area, a wide and long space with painted and sealed concrete for its floor. Most of the space looked as if it had been transplanted from Tijuana, across the border, but with art from Asia. The checkered tablecloths gave the place the feel of an Italian bistro. The decor shouldn’t work, but somehow it did.
    â€œLate lunch, guys?”
    â€œYep,” Bud said. “Such is the life of the best cops on the force.”
    Chen grinned. “You’re the fourth person today to claim that title.”
    â€œPosers, Jimmy. Nothing but posers.” Bud slapped him on the shoulder. “You got anything in the vault?”
    â€œI think I can squeeze you in.” Chen led them through the near empty front dining area and through a doorless hole in the wall. The room was smaller than the front, holding only six tables. A row of windows on the west side of the room overlooked a narrow garden. Chen’s wife was a gardener and nagged Chen into putting in the verdant strip. Something about the “salubrious powers of a simple planter.” Chen admitted to having to use a dictionary to look up salubrious .
    â€œWhat’s it gonna be?” He sat them at a table next to the windows. A fence blocked out sight of the rest of the world.
    â€œEnchiladas for me.” Carmen sat and set a notepad on the table. “Chicken. Green sauce.”
    Bud sat opposite her. “Tacos, Jimmy. Beef. Let’s go with the pinto beans.”
    â€œNo, you don’t, pal. Bring him anything but beans, Jimmy. I gotta spend a lot of time in the car with this guy.”
    â€œHey, you’re my partner, not my wife.”
    Carmen let the corners of her mouth lift. “She’d say the same thing.” She shifted her attention to Chen again. “No beans, Jimmy. And remember. I carry a gun.”
    â€œSo do I,” Bud said.
    Jimmy chuckled. “True, but she knows how to use hers. No beans.”
    Bud shook his head. “I get no respect.”
    â€œWould you like to know why?” Carmen leaned closer to the table.
    â€œNo.”
    Chen laughed and left. He returned a moment later with two glasses of water, a glass of tea for Carmen and Coke for Bud. He left