IT WAS late afternoon, and he was no longer sleek. His sweaty jacket hung on the back of his chair. His shirt had wilted. After the old manner of Ken Barker, he had unbuttoned the collar and pulled down the knot of his handsome tie. Rough beard stubble showed, and his eyes were bloodshot. In front of him on his desk lay stained orange paper wrappings from taquitos he’d had brought in from an Olvera Street stand. A Styrofoam cup held the dregs of coffee. Not a crumb was on the papers, and Leppard crushed them now and dropped them into his wastebasket. He finished off the cold coffee, made a face, dropped the cup after the wrappers, and belched. Sourly. “There’s Mexican food,” he said, “and Mexican food.” “You’re thinking of Porfirio’s sister’s kitchen.” “Wish I was there.” Leppard sighed and changed the subject: “He ripped the wet suit leg on the cut fence.” “Which was already cut when he got there?” Dave said. “Way he tells it. He crawled through, and after that he doesn’t remember anything.
