Read Online Standoff: A Vin Cooper Novel by David Rollins - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Rollins
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nothing.
“That’s a good one,” he continued a little too loud, raising his shot glass and toasting it.
Gomez was smart, he could laugh at himself and he knew how to drink to excess. His performance review was certainly shaping up nicely.
“Next one: Why doesn’t Mexico have an Olympic Team?” he asked, believing he was on a roll. “Because anyone in Mexico who can jump or swim is in the United States. Heh heh heh …” He waved at a Mexican-looking character seated down the far end of the bar who gave him no reaction whatsoever. “Your turn, Cooper,” he said.
“Okay …” I said, checking the immediate area. Gomez was the center of attention and, given that no one else in the place was smiling, I figured the natives probably weren’t all that happy about the roast.
“I’m waiting …”
I had to think and there was a lot of tequila getting in the way of that. Something popped into my head. “Okay – two nuns. They’re riding down the back streets of Rome. One says to the other, ‘I haven’t come this way before.’ The other nun says, ‘It’s the cobblestones …’”
Gomez stared into the middle distance, processing the joke and failing to get it. But then a grin spread across his face, his eyes disappearing behind slits. “Ya got me – I was waiting for the racial epithet,” he said.
“I’m slurring religion today. Open season on nuns.”
“Jesus, Cooper. Gimme one fuckin’ good Mexican joke, for Chrissakes.”
I looked at him.
“ Give it to me. I can take it,” he insisted.
I sighed. How far was I supposed to push this? “Okay … Why are there no Mexicans on Star Trek ?”
“I dunno. Why?”
“Because Mexicans don’t work in the future, either.”
He frowned at me, which made me think that maybe I had, in fact, nudged it over the edge. I didn’t know Gomez that well. “Hey,” I told him. “You asked for it.”
At which point he broke into a grin. “Gotcha,” he said. “Hell, this shit don’ worry me. There are millions of illegals in America. I’m American and I don’ like that as much as any other American.”
“This doesn’t get under your skin?”
“Could be worse.”
“You could be a gay Mexican-Irishman,” I said.
He sniggered. “Look, the jokes are funny because there’s a grain of truth in ’em. And they hurt for the exact same reason. There’s a poor country next to a rich one; what do people reckon is gonna happen? And when you add drugs to the picture …” He tossed back one shot and then another and followed it with a suck on a lemon, which made him pull a face like he just sucked on a lemon. “Ughh – I hate this shit. Gives me the shakes. Can we switch to bourbon now?”
I raised my eyebrows at the barman, pointed at a quart of Jack among the bottles lined up on the shelf in front of the mirror beside him and waved two fingers at the bar in front of us.
The drinks sorted out, I asked Gomez, “How long you been here? Your family …”
“My father immigrated in 1941, after Pearl. He joined up the day they gave him citizenship and he fought on the beaches of Normandy. His youngest brother, my uncle, fought in Nam. I’m just following the leader ’cause I’m not smart enough to pull the rug out from under Warren Buffett. What about you, Cooper? What’s your story?”
I shook my head. “Nope, got no Mexican in my family tree.”
“Shit, Cooper …”
Gomez’s cell rang, distracting him. He picked it up off the bar, looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it but shrugged and answered anyway.
“Gomez,” he said, followed by, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, yeah. Okay, thanks.” He ended the call and put the phone down. “The Sheriff’s Office.” He reached for the shot of bourbon in front of him and threw it back. “The road blocks on 10 and 20. They got nothing.”
The TV monitors scattered around the bar were tuned to the local news, which had spent the best part of the day rehashing what the Sheriff’s Office chose
“That’s a good one,” he continued a little too loud, raising his shot glass and toasting it.
Gomez was smart, he could laugh at himself and he knew how to drink to excess. His performance review was certainly shaping up nicely.
“Next one: Why doesn’t Mexico have an Olympic Team?” he asked, believing he was on a roll. “Because anyone in Mexico who can jump or swim is in the United States. Heh heh heh …” He waved at a Mexican-looking character seated down the far end of the bar who gave him no reaction whatsoever. “Your turn, Cooper,” he said.
“Okay …” I said, checking the immediate area. Gomez was the center of attention and, given that no one else in the place was smiling, I figured the natives probably weren’t all that happy about the roast.
“I’m waiting …”
I had to think and there was a lot of tequila getting in the way of that. Something popped into my head. “Okay – two nuns. They’re riding down the back streets of Rome. One says to the other, ‘I haven’t come this way before.’ The other nun says, ‘It’s the cobblestones …’”
Gomez stared into the middle distance, processing the joke and failing to get it. But then a grin spread across his face, his eyes disappearing behind slits. “Ya got me – I was waiting for the racial epithet,” he said.
“I’m slurring religion today. Open season on nuns.”
“Jesus, Cooper. Gimme one fuckin’ good Mexican joke, for Chrissakes.”
I looked at him.
“ Give it to me. I can take it,” he insisted.
I sighed. How far was I supposed to push this? “Okay … Why are there no Mexicans on Star Trek ?”
“I dunno. Why?”
“Because Mexicans don’t work in the future, either.”
He frowned at me, which made me think that maybe I had, in fact, nudged it over the edge. I didn’t know Gomez that well. “Hey,” I told him. “You asked for it.”
At which point he broke into a grin. “Gotcha,” he said. “Hell, this shit don’ worry me. There are millions of illegals in America. I’m American and I don’ like that as much as any other American.”
“This doesn’t get under your skin?”
“Could be worse.”
“You could be a gay Mexican-Irishman,” I said.
He sniggered. “Look, the jokes are funny because there’s a grain of truth in ’em. And they hurt for the exact same reason. There’s a poor country next to a rich one; what do people reckon is gonna happen? And when you add drugs to the picture …” He tossed back one shot and then another and followed it with a suck on a lemon, which made him pull a face like he just sucked on a lemon. “Ughh – I hate this shit. Gives me the shakes. Can we switch to bourbon now?”
I raised my eyebrows at the barman, pointed at a quart of Jack among the bottles lined up on the shelf in front of the mirror beside him and waved two fingers at the bar in front of us.
The drinks sorted out, I asked Gomez, “How long you been here? Your family …”
“My father immigrated in 1941, after Pearl. He joined up the day they gave him citizenship and he fought on the beaches of Normandy. His youngest brother, my uncle, fought in Nam. I’m just following the leader ’cause I’m not smart enough to pull the rug out from under Warren Buffett. What about you, Cooper? What’s your story?”
I shook my head. “Nope, got no Mexican in my family tree.”
“Shit, Cooper …”
Gomez’s cell rang, distracting him. He picked it up off the bar, looked at the number. He didn’t recognize it but shrugged and answered anyway.
“Gomez,” he said, followed by, “Uh-huh, uh-huh, yeah. Okay, thanks.” He ended the call and put the phone down. “The Sheriff’s Office.” He reached for the shot of bourbon in front of him and threw it back. “The road blocks on 10 and 20. They got nothing.”
The TV monitors scattered around the bar were tuned to the local news, which had spent the best part of the day rehashing what the Sheriff’s Office chose
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