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“Yes. Full of produce. Don't take too long. We don't know what delays could happen on the way to the airport.”
Angel leaves the room, but two of his men remain by the large windows, watching us. He doesn't trust us. The feelings are mutual. Trust goes a long way in this business and isn't easy to earn.
“This is awful.” Phillip sets the spoon down, his expression sour.
“I'm sorry. Maybe there's some flavoring we can add to help…”
“It tastes fine. It's the consistency. He wasn't lying about it being oily.”
“Try not to think about it.”
“Easy for you to say, you get to eat real food.”
“What will help?” I rest my hand on his arm, hoping this is all it'll take. Touch settles him and that becomes more clear with each time I do it.
“I…” He licks his lips, swirling his spoon around the inside of the bowl. “Honestly I'm not sure anything will.”
His hand shakes as he brings the next spoonful to his lips.
“Try pretending it's something else. What do you usually eat for breakfast?”
“You mean before doing this job?”
“Si. Dime. I want to know.”
He nibbles on his bottom lip. “Bacon and egg sandwiches. My aunt made them for us every morning. I haven't had one in a long time.”
“Imagine an egg sandwich at the bottom of the bowl and in order to reach it, you have to swallow at least half the liquid inside.”
“I'll try.” He shoves the spoon between his lips, shaking too much for it all to make it in his mouth.
“Allow me.” Taking him by surprise, I grab the spoon from him and lower it to the bowl. Feeding him the soup works a lot better than allowing him to do it himself.
“Almost to that sandwich. Five more swallows.” He brings his mouth forward, meeting me halfway on the last sips.
“All done. Now for the really hard part.”
“I still want my sandwich,” he says, rubbing his mouth with the back of his arm.
Chuckling, I set the packs of drugs—eight of them in total—on the table. “I'll get you all the egg and bacon sandwiches you want after we're done meeting with our client. How's that sound?”
He lifts the first baggie from the table and places it on his tongue. He swallows each one, grabbing my hand when he reaches the last two. Gripping for a cup of water, he washes down a white pill on the table and looks at me as if waiting for me to say something.
“Good boy,” slips from my lips and I don't know where it keeps coming from and why it's the first thing I think of when he looks at me like that.
He smiles and takes another sip of water before standing from the table. “We can go now.”
“We can,” I say, handing him the empty bag and grabbing my stuff from the table.
“You'll be meeting him at the back door, that way,” one of the men standing by the window says.
Phillip doesn't move his feet until I take his hand. Angel is waiting for us where his men said he'd be. “Nice and full?”
Phillip nods and I squeeze his hand.
“Excellent. The truck is this way.” He opens the door and we follow him outside. It's exactly what he said it was—a producetruck. We both squeeze our way through the plastic containers and sit in the very back.
“If at any point my driver hits the side of the truck, get in the empty containers right in front of you. I made sure they were big enough.”
