Re: Sonrisa: Hunter R & Cris M
The cops that got painted on midcentury postcards didn't look like Cris. Nobody did. Did they have postcards with maids? Maybe then he'd see somebody who looked like his ma or his sisters. But otherwise, he didn't know there was any kinda scene to recreate, huh? Not even something iconic, like the one with Ruby Bridges. He didn't know Norman Rockwell anyway. This wasn't some kinda setup or conspiracy, whatever Hunter thought, but he expected resistance, least a little. Kids like this, they had expectations—and even if he'da thought Cris was gonna let him go, he didn't expect anybody to care, maybe, 'bout what happened after the slap on the wrist.—The Sheriff was neither fat nor a real nice guy who liked to stay clueless 'bout stuff, though the impatience could be pretty close to spot-on...—so the comparison wasn't gonna be helpful to the thief.
Cris had read all the implications in that hanging silence and in the confusion and compression that was more noose 'round the kid's throat. He couldn'tna said it had to be the father, huh? The way the kid winced, curled in on himself, but he'd been in that seat and he'd winched his shoulders up all the same, and he knew all about silences going gummy on your tongue in self-preservation.
He walked in step with Hunter, that arm circled, and he just said: "'Cause I could use one and so could you."—and that was it, 'til he seated the botha them at a booth. It was a bad move on Cris' part and he knew it. He should box the kid in, not let him have his own sidea the table, but he was trying to be respectful, trying to show the kid that he saw him as somebody, not something. Still, he figured he'd be easy enough to tackle a second time, if need be.
"If you tell me what you need the money for, I might be able to help you." He sat on the plastic bench, legs wide, feet angled together beneath the table. And belated, huh?—he passed over a napkin. "Lemme see where you got stuck."