Clay was restocking cigarettes when the bell over the Deli-Mart door jingled. By the time he looked up, the customer was standing on the other side of the magazine racks, hidden from view. “Evening,” Clay said. “Evening.” The soft rustle of pages turning came from the other side of the magazine rack, Sports Illustrated or Low Rider or Guns & Ammo, probably, down low and free for browsing unlike the porn mags. They were tucked into the upper shelves like hymnals, bright and unstained behind their vestal plastic wrappings. “I hear you used to be a priest.” “Used to be. I got laid off. No little boys,” Clay added, because it was what they always thought. Clay glanced at the CC monitor. The customer happened to be standing in a spot the camera didn’t cover. Probably just a fluke. “Do you miss church?” “We’re always in church,” Clay said. “That’s what God means.” The rustle of pages stopped. “Oh, I see. Did you come down into the barrio to do the Lord’s work, padre?” An edge to the voice, now. Sardonic? Angry? “Come down here looking for those in need of redemption?” “If you want to catch fish…” Clay said. “—go where the fish are.” A beat. “I knew a schoolteacher once, used to say that.” “I got here the same way you did,” Clay said. “I screwed up.” After a long moment, something like a laugh. A blur in the security camera, the very edge of a white muscle shirt briefly in the frame, then gone. “You looking for anything in particular?” Clay said. “We have Dos Equis on special, and—“ “I killed a man.” Clay said, “Okay.” “Actually, several men. Must be … quite a few. But only one today. I kill bad people. Very bad people.” Clay slid his hand toward the alarm button under the counter. “Any of these people from around here?” “If you want to catch fish,” the stranger said. Clay’s finger found the emergency button. “Don’t,” the stranger said. Clay froze. “They were all bad men,” the customer said. “Very bad. But it still seems like I ought to feel sorry about it.” “Ah.” “I mean, a human life. It ought to matter. It ought to bother me.” “But it doesn’t.” “Not at all,” the stranger said. “Not one damn bit.”
|