She laughed softly, dragged herself out of the comfortable armchair in the guest room, and realized there was a long way to go before she’d earn that title. Her stomach growled. It was mid-afternoon, and she hadn’t had lunch. She slipped her cell phone into her pocket and headed down the long hallway. Maybe she’d find Irma alone in the kitchen, get a snack, and ask a few subtle questions about Three C’s and its employees.
Angry, passionate conversation, between a male and female—most of it in Spanish, except for the English swear words from the male—floated toward her. Irma’s voice was raised, and Dena hesitated at the door.
“Is okay,” Irma said, looking up. She beckoned with a knife in her hand. “Come in.”
“Sorry, I was…um…I need a snack,” Dena said, and walked into the spacious room.
A Latino male, probably in his late teens, sat at the huge central table with his bare arms splayed across the top and his forehead resting on the surface. He looked up, frowning, but then his white teeth flashed and the corners of his huge black eyes creased in humor.
“Ah, the lady who stole my horse,” he said, and ruffled his short-cropped black hair.
“You must be Manny.” Dena crossed the room and held out her hand. “Thank you. It was much safer for me to ride Nancy than Susie Q. Believe me, I’m no horsewoman.”
“Anytime you want to take her out, just go ahead,” Manny said. “No need to ask.”
“Thanks.” She smiled at him, and realized he didn’t have any accent. He’d obviously done all of his schooling in the States. “Is Manny your only child, Irma?”
Irma scowled at Manny. “Uno…is enough.”
Manny laughed. “Mama,” he drawled. “You love me.”
Irma shook her head and turned back to the countertop. She chopped vegetables, adding handfuls to a huge bowl of lettuce. “So much trouble—”
Dena shifted from one foot to the other. She didn’t want to get into the middle of a family squabble. “Do you mind if I make a sandwich, Irma? Then I’ll get out of your way—”
“Sit, sit,” she said, and wiped her hands on her apron. “I make for you. Turkey, cheese, is okay?”
“Perfect. But honestly, I can do it—”
“Better sit,” Manny said, and laughed again. He pushed back in his chair, hooked a thumb between the armhole and the neckline of his black tank top and tapped his fingers against his chest.
Dena pulled out a chair and sat opposite him. Wife beaters, that’s what Carli used to call those shirts, but only if they were white. The black ones she said were totally cool and “in”. And the more tattoos, the better. Manny didn’t have any tattoos, or none that she could see, but his chest and arms were nicely muscled. She didn’t have anything against tattoos, but for some reason she was happy that Manny was not decorated.
“Mama doesn’t like people who mess with stuff in the kitchen,” Manny said. He took a swallow of soda from the can. “She told me what happened this morning, with Stanton and the other cops.” He rolled his eyes. “He’s a dick.”
On that, she would agree.
“Mama likes that you protected Zeke,” he said. “Anyone who does that gets a sandwich. Right, Mama?”
Irma gave Dena a shy smile. “You like coffee, or soda?”
Dena blinked, stretched her eyes wide. So that was the key to Irma. Good. Now she knew how to get information from the woman, and maybe also from the son. “Soda is great, thanks.”
“I’ll get it.” Manny hitched up his too-large jean shorts. “So, you’re a spin doctor?” he asked, halfway inside the refrigerator.
“A public relations communications specialist,” Dena said, and grinned at her pomposity.
Manny grabbed a glass, put in some ice cubes, popped the top of the can, poured the soda like he was pouring expensive champagne, and slid the glass toward her. “Know any famous people?”
“Some,” Dena said.
He placed the half-empty can beside the glass with a flourish, and flashed another smile. Dena smiled back. He had all of the makings of a ladies’ man.
“Thank you,” she said, and raised the glass for a sip. “So do you work here, Manny?”
Irma scoffed and shot her son another scowl.
Manny laughed. “We were just arguing about that.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry—”
“It’s okay. I dropped out of college last month. I was going to San B’doo and hated it—”
“Where?”
“San Bernadino. Anyway, Mama said I should go to college here in the valley.” He scowled. “I don’t think it’s for me.