Sam sat opposite him, caught up in the ritual, thinking of how little she knew about this careful, quiet, dangerous man.
"Where'd you learn to cook?" she asked him.
He studied the burger before taking a bite, pausing to swallow before answering her. "My mama." He put the emphasis on the last syllable, although she'd noticed that he spoke English better than most of her colleagues.
"Big family?" Sam guessed.
"Five kids."
"You had to be the youngest."
"Why do you think that?"
She shrugged, but she chose her words cautiously, not wanting to offend. "I was thinking maybe the youngest might see his mom cooking for a lot of people-get interested in it."
He nodded, chewing again, before finally saying, "You sound like a cop."
That came as a surprise. She laughed. "Right. Next I'll sound like a priest. Just as likely."
But he stayed relaxed, smiling back at her. "No. I meant that was right out of a TV show or something-detective thinking, you know? You're right. I was the youngest."
"Sounds nice-family meals."
Neither his expression nor his voice changed as he asked, "You ever see any home movies?"
She hesitated a moment, wondering where he was going. "You mean like videos? Family-at-the-beach things? Sure, everyone's seen those. Awful."
"But happy, right? Everybody smiling, waving at the camera."
He seemed to be awaiting a response. "Yeah," she finally said.
"Yeah," he repeated meditatively. "Always happy, and always called home movies."
She got the point. "So maybe your family meals weren't all that great, or learning to cook from your mom."
He smiled wistfully before admitting, "Right."
She watched him chewing slowly, and thought of them both sitting here, thrown together in an illegal enterprise, from totally different worlds, neither one of them knowing the slightest thing about the other. She knew what her role was, and she knew of her own duplicity. What about him, aside from the criminal record Joe had told her about? What was he, truly? Certainly more than any run-of-the-mill deadbeat thug.
A pair of headlights flashed against the window. Smoothly, quickly, and without a sound, Manuel was on his feet, heading toward the door to the garage, the half-eaten meal abandoned on its plate. "Meet them at the front," was all he said.
His speed and sudden sense of purpose caught her unaware, reminding her abruptly of the man who was no longer the philosophical youngest of five, learning to cook at his mother's side, but instead someone with a distinctly practical view of the value of life and death.
She walked to the entryway and opened the front door, turning on the porch light so the camera could better pick out the license plate of the two men walking toward her from the car in the driveway.
"Hey" one of the men called out. "Kill the lights, bitch."
She waited a couple of seconds before complying. "Up yours, asshole. I wanna see who I'm dealing with."
The second man laughed. "Dealing with. That's good. Real funny. Where's Manuel?"
"Behind you," came a quiet voice from the darkness.
Both men swung around, their hands diving under their clothes for weapons.
Manuel emerged into the light coming from the window "Don't bother. You'd both be dead."
"Jesus, man. What the fuck you doin'?"
Manuel gestured to both of them to go into the house ahead of him. "Protecting myself. You got the stuff?"
"Sure."
Sam stepped back to let them in, studying their faces as they passed by. One of them she recognized from Holyoke as a man nicknamed Flaco. The other was new to her.
"How're you doin'?" she asked. "I'm Greta."
Flaco, the one with the mouth, stared at her contemptuously. "We know who you are, bitch."
Without pause, she slapped him across the face, causing his hands to fly up, and then kneed him in the groin, dropping him flat to the ground, where he rolled around swearing. By the time he reached for his gun, barely two seconds later, Sam had already yanked it from his belt and was pointing it at his head.
"Say my name," she ordered him.
His companion was frozen in place, scared and confused, his eyes wide with surprise. Manuel was leaning against the wall, smiling, keeping everyone in view.
"Say my name," Sam repeated.
"What the hell?" complained Flaco. "Shit."
She stepped on his knee, making him cry out.
"You that stupid?" she asked.
"Greta. Damn."
Sam twirled the gun around and dropped it in Flaco's lap, making him jump one last time. "Just 'Greta' is fine."
He stared at her, amazed, the gun now in his hand, but not pointed at her, fully aware of Manuel's presence and realizing the encounter was over whether he liked it or not. "You are one crazy fucker, you know that?"
She smiled down at him. "Yeah, and now you do, too. You got the stuff?"
Wincing, Flaco pulled himself into a sitting position, his back against the wall. He tucked the gun away and removed a large, flat, plastic bag from under his oversized shirt, where he'd taped it to his bare chest. Almost reluctantly, he extended it to her.
Sam didn't move. Flaco looked at her, confused, until Manuel stepped forward, slowly bent over, and took it from him. "Gracias."
The two mules didn't stay the night, although Sam extended the offer. Still limping, Flaco said he'd sooner sleep in the street than under the same roof with her-something about Sam strangling him as he slept for the hell of it. It was an image she was happy to have reported back to Holyoke.
"Was that fun?" Manuel asked later as they were burying the bulk of the shipment in the basement.
"What? Knocking him around? I didn't hurt him."
"That's not what I asked."
She was sitting on a cardboard box, her back against the wall, as he smoothed over the hiding spot so that it blended with the rest of the dirt floor. "I don't like it when people talk to me like that. If I deserve it, I don't mind so much, but that asshole doesn't even know me."
Manuel straightened and dusted off his hands against one another. "He does now. That was part of the point, right?"
As before at the kitchen table, she was caught off guard by his insight. "Can't hurt. I'm trying to build something here. I can't do that unless I get respect. Being a woman is hardly my strong suit with guys like that."
He extended his hands to her, which she instinctively grasped. He pulled her gently to a standing position so close to him, they were almost touching.
"It is to someone like me, though," he said softly.
She looked up at him, enjoying him, thinking back to her angry run-in with Willy earlier. Greta would do this, she thought. Hell, she'd jump at the chance. And Sam wasn't sure she'd fault her.
Manuel placed his hands on her waist, moving them slowly up her sides. She couldn't resist doing the same, and found the heat and hardness of him under his thin shirt amazingly stimulating.
Their faces were only inches apart.
"I don't know," she murmured, hanging on by a thread.
Which seemed to be all he needed. "Then we shouldn't do this. Not yet."
He hadn't moved, but she tilted her head back to better focus on him, as surprised at his comment as by her own disappointment. "We shouldn't?" she blurted out.
"Not if you have doubts."
She laughed and placed her forehead against his chest. Christ, did she have doubts. "You're a disgrace to the stereotype," she said.
He kissed the top of her head. "Thank you."
* * *
Later that night, lying in bed alone, staring at the ceiling, Sam couldn't believe what she'd almost done-probably would have done, if not for Manuel. What the hell had that been all about?