Re: [to the capital: dahlia & cris]
As soon as she was in—when she finally made that leapa trust, the one Cris wasn't sure she was gonna hurtle over—the car started moving. He'd come up Central from Main, but Ivy dumped straight onto 314, so there was no need to U back down to Main. They scummed past the ugly rotta the motel, past the fronta the diner, and off they went. The tonguea the highway was lean just here, one lane on either side, dead enough that there were no complicated ramps or nonea that. You just pulled up to a yield sign, looked around, and shrugged off dust onto the strippa road. It would thicken out, widen and flatten, in a lil bit, nearer onea the big truck stops not too far outta town, and it'd stay that way to the Capital and prolly long past it. Cris didn't know for sure 'cause he'd never been out that way. Coming in from New York had been a straight shot, and he hadn't 'xactly been primed to seeing the sights.
LL Cool J was still going on 'bout his dad, 'bout the men in his life who hurt him and his mom, and Cris looked over at the gringa he had in his car. She looked older than she sounded, not too much, pero un poquito. She stanka burned coffee—the kind Cris associated with working the beat and styrofoam cups—and he knew that undercurrenta alcohol intimate. The subtle stringency still too sharp under loamy earth to be missed. It was his dad's choicea cologne, huh?—alcohol. Yeah, there was no missing that. But, that was prolly the lessera her evils, he got that. She wanted to go to a meeting. He was guessing NA, just from the looka her. So, he said nothing 'bout it. He said nothing 'bout her bouncing her leg like a jackrabbit, nothing 'bout the seatbelt, the gum, nonea that. She turned down his offera food and the tank was fulla enough, he'd drive. If she changed her mind, there was time for that.
He was just reaching over for another sip from his energy drink when she finally looked over, washing at her face with scrubby palms. She sounded just this sidea 'bout eight cigarettes, a nighta booze, and no sleep, her voice slushy at the edges. He kinda figured she woulda known him, not just 'cause most people did, but 'causea who she was friends with and what she did. But, she didn't.—Cris took a slugga the energy drink, replaced the can, and sat back, the heada his seat bumping at his cap awkward.
The guy didn't thinka himself as a bro. 'Cause he wasn't some gringo college kid, and that was his association with the word. He liked sports and alla that, but when it came down to it, nah, Cris was just a ratty kid from the 'jects. Maybe he dressed different now, but the music was the same and the demeanor too. Upbeat as he mighta been just then, and in spitea time and age smoothing him out a lil bit, the guy held himself with a knotta anger you could see if you knew to look. He was barrio trouble with a smile that could get him a lotta things. Not that he leveraged it anymore. But, still, it cut across his face in a gentle sorta amusement, the kinda he mighta had watching Teresita wake up slow in the backseat.
"I know Connie some," he told Dahlia, one hand off the wheel to scratch his chin and straighten the cap. He thoughta Sam—missed her. "There ain't many Cubans in town, so I kinda figure myself as memorable, huh? Prolly cockya me." Cris gave a small laugh. "Sheriff Martin. 'Bout the same numbera sheriffs as Cubans, now that I think about it." He looked over at the gringa, at her wary posture. "Dahlia, right?"