Page 21 of Tito

I smiled. “Thank you.”

He ran his open palm over his scalp. “At least I don’t have to worry about that.”

His closely-cropped hair and his eyebrows shared the same overall appearance of neatness. I grinned just a little. “I suppose not.” I took a precursory glance around the restaurant. “Do you eat here often?”

“This is my first time.”

The dark-stained wood of the rickety armchairs was chipped and worn from years of use. The high-traffic areas of the outdated carpet had thinned to the point that loose threads were sprouting up like freshly-planted grass. The ceiling was still stained from cigarette smoke that had risen into it thirty years past. Nevertheless, the place was filled with smiling patrons who were shoveling seafood into their eager mouths.

I shifted my gaze from an elderly man who was dipping crab legs into a tub of butter as fast as his wrinkled hands would allow him to. “What made you pick this place?”

“Suggestion from a friend.”

I faced him. “A good friend?”

“He’s basically a brother. He said, if you like seafood, that’s the place to go.”

“Do you like seafood?”

“I do.”

“If this is the place to go, and the person who told you about it is basically a brother, how did you just find out about it?” I asked. “Why haven’t you eaten here before now?”

“I don’t get out much.”

It seemed like a reasonable response. Hard to believe, but reasonable. “You spend your time at home?”

“Most of it.”

I wondered why. Southern California’s population typically spent their idle time in the sun. The weather was perfect for outdoor activities and was the reason most of the people lived here in the first place. It certainly wasn’t because the commute was easy or that housing was affordable.

I gazed blankly at him, trying to decide which direction I wanted to steer the conversation. He claimed to be a homebody, but the tone of his skin suggested otherwise. His glowing tan wasn’t achieved from watching television or reading a book in his living room.

The mysterious cloud that surrounded him thickened.

I cleared my throat. “You didn’t get that tan from binge watching Netflix.”

“I manage self-serve carwashes,” he explained. “A motorcycle’s my mode of transportation. I spend the workday in the sun.”

Managing self-serve carwashes was miles away from where my mind had taken me. I’d conjured up images of him working as a security guard for a famous female pop star, being the muscle for a criminal motorcycle club, or working in waste management.

I looked at him like I’d caught him in a lie. “You manage carwashes?”

“From here to Oceanside,” he said with an affirmative nod.

“Have you seen the Sopranos?” I asked. “The show about the mafia with James Gando-whatever?”

“I have.”

“When Tony Soprano was asked what he did for a living, he always replied he was in waste management. It was a play on words. He killed those who stood in the way of his criminal enterprise, and then disposed of the bodies. So,” I cocked a suggestive eyebrow. “Do you manage carwashes, or do you clean up messes?”

The skin at the corners of his eyes crinkled. A faint smile formed. “You’ve got quite an imagination.”

He looked innocent when he smiled.

I wasn’t fooled. Even so, I smiled in return. “I come about it naturally.” I pushed my menu to the side and locked eyes with him. “You didn’t answer the question.”

Still wearing the slight grin, he pushed his menu to the side mockingly, held my gaze, and leaned forward. “I manage car washes. It’s a simple job that allows me to work alone—at my own pace—and it pays well.”