Trailer Park: Brett T & Cris M
Cris wanted a quiet Saturday night too. He wanted paperwork and mild chatter until he could go upstairs and wrap himself around Sam. He wanted to be able to read the baby books he bought, maybe to call Teresita, his ma. But, it wasn't his night, huh? Y así es.—The trailer seemed kept-up though, like somebody was working on it, caring for it, half-painted, grass shorn, if littered, and the lights low. Least that was something. It meant, to Cris' mind, that the guy was prolly blue-collar now that he'd left the force, handy, but not careless. He wasn't the kinda guy who went off the deep end maybe. The place seemed too neat to be a junkie's or a drunk's, and he cared 'nough 'bout appearances to paint the outside, which was an aesthetic thing, huh? That was telling too.
It was quiet, no kids' toys, and Cris was already thinking the guy was alone when the door opened. He looked at this Brett Trent, a once-over with black eyes, and they were nearly of the same height, similar muscular kinda build. He was prolly late 20s, early 30s—Cris seemed to remember him being 28 or 29 from his file. He gave a perfunctory smile, dark slit in darker face, no teeth. He didn't try to look inside. He didn't even do the small-talk bit. The guy hooked his thumbs into his belt, feet set wide and chin up, every bitta him reading 'city cop.'
"Gotta call. Somebody reportin' loud noises, said maybe you were havin' trouble over here." His own brows, black, the ones Sam said were perfect or something like that, perked, expectant.