PART 2
Some dude named Eric Hoffner once wrote, "Our greatest weariness comes from work not done." Well, I ain't so sure 'bout that. 'Cuz I've been damn well weary ever since joining the Agency and God knows, it ain't from *not* working. Hell, when you go to work for the Fat Man, the word 'weekend' goes right out of your vocabulary.
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Darien groaned and pulled the blanket up closer to his chin, slapping repeatedly at his clock radio to stop it from ringing. Only the ringing persisted and his hand just hit the coffee table instead. With one last swipe at the non-existent alarm, he knocked himself off the couch and onto the floor. He sat up, shook his head, then grabbed the phone. "Fawkes," he muttered, rubbing his backside.
"Rise and shine, partner," Hobbes chirruped into the phone.
"It's Saturday," Darien stated, "*morning*."
"Ooooh, sounds like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the couch."
"You mean bed. The expression is wrong side of the bed," Darien corrected, his hangover spicing his tone with readily apparent grumpiness.
"I know," Hobbes explained, "But then again, I was the one who tucked you in last night there, sleeping beauty."
"Oh, yeah, you did, didn't you?" Darien scratched his chin and squinted his eyes pensively. "I guess I had a little too much liquid libation, huh?"
"You could say that, yeah. Now if you're done with your little fit of moping, we've got bodegas to inspect and scales to weigh."
"But it's the *weekend*, Hobbesy," Darien whined.
"Oh, what and you've got something better to do?"
"Hmmm, you've got a point there."
"Of course I've got a point. Bobby Hobbes always has a point. Now hurry up, take a couple of aspirin and jump in the shower. I'll pick you up in 45. And don't be late. Monroe's probably already up and halfway through her share of the stores."
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The van was parked expectantly out front as Darien exited his building with his sunglasses -- the only souvenir of his brief FBI tenure he'd chosen to keep -- firmly in place. Jumping into the passenger seat, he grunted a greeting to his partner, then slid down in his seat as Hobbes nosed out into traffic.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Lazarus, all risen from the dead. You know, green is *so* not your color," Bobby observed.
"Hahaha. What? The hangover isn't punishment enough, I've got to listen to your jokes all day?" The van made a sharp right turn and Darien lunged out the window in anticipation of emptying his stomach.
"You sure you're OK there? 'Cuz I'll pull over if I have to. Jeez, even your hair looks hungover ...."
"What?" Darien asked nervously, concern over the state of his coif taking precedence over his stomach. Checking his reflection in the side-view mirror, he pulled at his unruly locks trying to make each of them stand more fully at attention. "Oh, oh, no. I'll be fine once the boat stops rockin'," he said, pulling his head back inside the van.
"That's good. Listen, the first shop on our list is almost right next to ChezLo's neighborhood," Hobbes smiled at Darien and raised his eyebrows hopefully. "What's say we go and get us some nice gooey cheese Danish for breakfast, huh?"
Darien threw his head out the window again. "Hobbes, you trying to kill me or something? I don't feel bad enough, you wanna shove Danish down my throat? Can we just skip the food and the chitchat and get on with the job for once?"
"Fine, you don't wanna eat, don't eat. But you could try just going in there and talking to her ...."
"For the love of God, Hobbes, can we please stop beating this horse? She told me to stay away, so I'm staying away. End of story."
"Hey, you never know. Maybe something's happened to make her change her mind ...."
Darien stared pointedly at Hobbes, his voice going steely soft. "What could possibly have happened that would make her change her mind, Hobbes?"
"Oh, ah, nothing," Hobbes prevaricated. "I'm just saying, you never know, you know? But hey, if you wanna be a pessimist there, gloomy Gus, go right ahead, be my guest. I can get a buttered roll at that first bodega, you know."
"Good, then let's get this show on the road so I can go home and die in peace."
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The first store was a typical corner bodega, offering up an assortment of sundry canned goods and household products all targeted to the Hispanic immigrant population. When Hobbes and Darien informed the owner of the purpose of their visit, he escorted them to the back where there was a small deli counter next to a tiny produce area. Bins of South American plantains, yucca and batatas shared the limited floor space with more local fare like onions, strawberries and grapes.
Using the specially calibrated weights Eberts had supplied them, Darien and Hobbes proceeded to check the scales in the produce section, then at the register, and not one was out of whack. Inside of 25 minutes, they'd certified the store's scales and Hobbes was at the deli counter getting his roll and coffee.
While Hobbes was ordering, Darien wandered around the little store checking out packages of Bimbo-brand snack cakes, Maizena corn starch and Export soda crackers. The owner's wife was manning the register, having a quick conversation in what he assumed was her native tongue with another man, dressed in a dirty denim shirt, jeans, boots and with a bandana tied around his neck. They were speaking quickly and not all of it was straight Spanish, but Darien managed to pick out the words, "Tres Gatos Negros," when the man threw some money on the counter. At that the woman pulled a pack of cigarettes, not from the main cigarette display above the register, but rather from somewhere under the counter. Darien didn't have much time to wonder about it though, since the man left as Hobbes came up and paid for his breakfast.
"You ready to roll there, partner?" Bobby asked.
Darien looked after the man who'd just left and stuck his hands in his pockets with a little shrug. "Ah, yeah, sure. I guess so."
The next three stores went off without a hitch, just like the first. But in all three, when Darien heard the phrase, "Tres Gatos Negros," a pack of cigarettes would magically appear from under the counter rather than from the regular display.
At the fifth bodega, Darien's curiosity got the better of him and when he heard someone ask for the cigarettes, he followed the man out of the shop, leaving Hobbes inside. He jogged up to the man, who had stopped just outside the store to light a cigarette, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, man, can I grab a butt there?"
The man, just about Hobbes' height but much darker in skin tone and with a full head of thick black hair, turned to Darien. He was dressed in stained jeans and a natural colored denim workshirt with the name, Jesus, embroidered on the right shoulder just under the "Plains View Farms" logo.
"I'm sorry, senor, but I do not think you will like these cigarettes," Jesus replied.
"Oh no, I'm sure it'll be fine," Darien said, then added pointing back to the store. "I'd, ah, buy a pack myself but my partner doesn't like me smoking on the job ...."
Jesus took the pack out of his shirt pocket and held it out to Darien. It was bright red with an illustration of three screeching black cats on the front. The silver foil on the pack had been ripped where Jesus had opened it but otherwise the pack was intact. "Really, these cigarettes are not the same as your American brands. They are much stronger, unfiltered. I do not think you will like them."
Darien took the pack from Jesus, pulled out a cigarette and popped it behind his ear. "No problem, I'm sure it will be fine. Thanks, homey."
Jesus took the pack back that Darien handed him and shrugged. "De nada. Enjoy." Then he turned, climbed into a produce delivery truck and drove away.
Darien pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and stood looking at it. He was rolling it between his fingers when Hobbes emerged.
"Fawkes, Fawkes, what are you doing? You don't have enough bad habits already, you gotta start adding new ones?"
"Relax, Mom, I ain't smokin' it. There's something weird going on with these cigarettes here ...."
"Weird? How weird?"
"Well, for one thing, only immigrants seem to buy them."
"That's because they're a South American brand, Fawkes. See, says so right here," Hobbes pointed to the tip of the cigarette wrapper, 'Tres Gatos Negros.' They're from like Santa Ruego or Bolivia or somewhere like that. Ain't nobody gonna smoke these rather than good 'ole American Marlboro unless they were raised on 'em."
"OK, fine," Darien continued, following Hobbes over to the van. "Then how come the pack this one came from didn't have a tax stamp?"
"What, no, Fawkes, that's not right. All cigarette packs have tax seals, just like all booze bottles. Can't sell 'em without no tax seal."
"That would be my point, Hobbes. And why do they keep these under the counter, when all the other brands are kept in the display *above* the counter?" Darien pulled on his door and climbed into the van.
Bobby stopped and looked at his partner through the open driver-side window. "Hmmm, that's a good question."
"That's what I'm saying."
"Yeah, well, don't let this go to your head there, Grasshopper," Hobbes started the van. "I'm still the senior agent on the case."
Darien laughed and strapped himself in. "That's right, with an emphasis on the *senior*."
"Watch it, gland boy," Hobbes warned, nosing the van out into traffic. "Bobby Hobbes still has enough life left in these old bones to kick your butt around the block and back again, my friend. And don't be lighting that thing up in Golda. She is a smoke-free environment."
"I told you, Hobbes, I am *not* smoking it ...."
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As they pulled up to the next bodega on the list, La Corazon Blanca Market, Darien put his hand on Hobbes' arm. "Listen, you go in first, get the counter person in the back and start checking the scales. I'm gonna come in after you and see if I can't get some of those cigarette packs, OK?"
"Oh, gonna do a little transparent reconnaissance, are we?" Hobbes climbed out of the van.
"Well, you know what they say, use it or lose it ...." Darien watched as Hobbes went into the store. After a few minutes, he let the quicksilver flow over his form and invisibly left the van. Inside the store, he could hear Hobbes in the back spewing a stream-of-consciousness monologue about the various infractions he'd supposedly found with the store's scales. Once again relying on skills honed through years of breaking and entering, Darien silently padded behind the register and looked under the counter. Sure enough, the shelf was packed with carton upon carton of "Tres Gatos Negros." Pulling a few packs from various cartons, he quicksilvered them, then left the shop and returned to the van and to sight.
When Bobby emerged from the store, Darien showed him the packs he'd pilfered. "See, Hobbesy, I told you something was up with these things. Not one of them has a tax seal on it."
Bobby took the proffered packages and examined them carefully, checking them from one end to the other. "This is not good," he mused, "not good at all. If they don't have any tax stamps, that means they didn't come through customs. And if they didn't come through customs, who knows where they could have come from ...."
"Or what they got in 'em," Darien finished for his partner. "I'm thinking maybe there's a little bit more to 'Tres Gatos Negros' special blend of herbs than tobacco." Darien put his fingers together and held them to his mouth mimicking a joint.
"Yeah, well, we better check in with Alex in case she's seen anything fishy in her stores." Hobbes pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Hey, Alex! Listen ... what? Uh, the sixth one, why? Oh, 10, huh," Hobbes rolled his eyeballs at Darien, "that's just great. It's good to know that you're that far ahead of us, yeah. But hey, listen, while you were power-weighing those scales, did you happen to notice anything funny going on at the registers? Oh you don't say? 'Tres Gatos Negros,' heh? Yah, we've got a bunch of packs here -- no tax stamps, right? Right. Ah hah, I see. Tell you what, we'll meet you at The Agency in the morning to synchronize our watches and then hit the clubs tomorrow night. Right. Yeah, don't worry, we'll finish up our share of the stores today," Hobbes rolled his eyes once again. "Won't leave any for you to have to pick up. Ah hah. Pleasure as always, Alex, bye bye." Hobbes flipped up his sunglasses and rubbed his temples.
"So what she'd say?"
"Oh you mean besides the fact that if we don't pull our weight she's going to cut off our balls with a dull spoon?" Hobbes pocketed his phone and replaced his sunglasses on his nose.
Darien's face blanched. "Owie."
"My sentiments exactly. Anyways, she noticed the cigarette thing where she is too. Apparently these things are at almost every bodega in town and none of them have tax seals. She's got a line on the guy who supposedly imports 'em -- name's Jorge Amarillo or something. She says he owns some social club but she's not sure which."
"So, what now?"
"Now? Now we finish checking the rest of the markets on our list so I can someday father a family. Tomorrow morning we meet Monroe at The Agency to figure out our plan of attack and tomorrow night ... Well, tomorrow night, my friend, we'll be livin' la vida loca at the salsa clubs lookin' for Mr. Amarillo."
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Darien was awake long before the alarm rang Sunday morning. Dreams about black cats with dull spoons chasing him into spider-encrusted corners had spoiled any chance of peaceful slumber. He showered, dressed in his favorite 'Barfly' T-shirt and orange jeans, topped it off with his tan jacket, and was out the door with enough time left over to catch a cup of coffee from the local deli. He was just coming out, his morning brew in one hand, when Hobbes pulled up in the van. Darien climbed into the passenger seat, set his Styrofoam cup on the dash and proceeded to strap himself in.
Hobbes looked from his partner to the coffee cup and back again. "Oh, ah, I see you got your coffee there already."
"Ah, yah," Darien replied as he took a careful sip of the steaming beverage. "Why?"
"No reason really," Hobbes said offhandedly. "It's just that I thought maybe we could swing by the bakery on our way to the office and pick up breakfast there."
"Swing by the ... on our way to the ...," Darien shook his head and motioned with his hand out the window. "What the hell are you talking about? The bakery's on the other side of town from The Agency."
"Well, not the way I go," Hobbes tried to counter.
"Not the way you go? What, what is this sudden fascination with going to the bakery? First yesterday, then today. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be fixated on that place."
"Fixated? What do you mean fixated? Bobby Hobbes ain't fixated on nothing except a couple of hot-from-the-oven cinnamon buns and a nice cup of Colombian."
Darien gave his partner the once over, taking in Bobby's spiffy new dark denim jeans and jacket paired with a deep burgundy form-fitting polo shirt. Darien looked down at his own attire, then back to Bobby again. "Yeah, well, that's *all* you better be fixated on ...."
"Whoa there, Nellie," Hobbes lifted his sunglasses and turned to face his partner while somehow still managing to keep one eye on the road. "Is that the green-eyed monster I see emerging?"
"No. I just want to make sure it's Lola's cinnamon buns you're interested in and not her ... errr, *buns*, if you catch my drift." Darien took another swig of coffee, spilled some on his shirt when Hobbes took a sharp left turn, then tried to wipe it up with his hand.
"Oh I don't believe this," Bobby turned his head back to the road. "You're jealous of me trying to steal a girl you won't even talk to?" He knit his eyebrows and grimaced, then flipped his sunglasses back down. "I just want to get breakfast. Eberts goes in there all the time to buy those cookies he likes and you're not worried."
"Yeah, but you're not Eberts."
"Damn straight. And don't you forget it. Ain't a girl been born yet who could withstand the 'ole Bobby Hobbes charm when he chose to turn it on."
"I bet Lola could."
"Oh yeah, well maybe we'll just see about that."
"Oh yeah, well maybe I'll just take Claire on another visit down to the docks ...." Darien cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder at his partner.
"Yeah, right, like she'd go with you. You forget that last time she was completely insane, remember?"
"Oh, so what? Now you're saying any girl would have to be crazy to go out with me?"
Hobbes let out a slow, measured breath. "You know what, Fawkes? I'm not so hungry for breakfast anymore. Let's just go straight to The Agency and meet Monroe, huh?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
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Fifteen minutes later, the two men entered the Harding Building. Hustling the younger agent down towards the Keep, Bobby urged, "Hurry up, would ya, Fawkes? I want to see if Claire's in before Monroe shows up ...."
Almost immediately, Alex emerged from the elevator. "Speak of the Devil," Darien muttered. "Doesn't anybody at this frickin' Agency have a life?"
"Look, Beavis and Butthead," Alex began as she stepped back into the elevator with her two counterparts, "nobody would like to be out spending a day at the beach more than me." She absent-mindedly adjusted one strap on the coral silk tank that accentuated the flawless bronze of her skin. "But we've got a job to do and the sooner we get it finished, the sooner we can get back to more important cases -- like stopping Chrysalis."
Bobby nodded in agreement and punched the down button. "That's right, duty to your country knows no holidays, my friend."
"I'm telling you, Hobbes, embroidered pillows are the way to go with those sayings of yours," Darien suggested, stepping from the elevator and hurrying to catch up with Bobby who was already halfway down the hallway to the Keep. "Hey, we could make gift sets with them and some of the Keeper's keychain crap!"
"Some of my what?" asked Claire in her clipped British tones as the three agents entered the Keep.
"Oh, no, et tu, Claire? Of all of us I thought you'd at least have a life." Darien shook his head in disappointment.
"Actually, I do have a life. I just stopped in to pick up the videos I forgot here Friday. I'm having friends over for a movie marathon." Claire grinned and held up a stack of three Blockbuster video cases.
Darien cocked his head sideways and read off the titles: "Steel Magnolias," "Fried Green Tomatoes," and "Terms of Endearment." "Sounds like a major chick fest to me," he grimaced.
"These are all award winning films, I'll have you know. Just because they don't feature weapons of mass destruction, car chases or naked women, doesn't mean they're not good."
Hobbes quirked his eyebrows at her and pursed his lips. "C'mon, Claire. Why don'tcha ditch the chicks and the tear-jerkers and come dancing with me instead? I'm gonna be hitting some salsa clubs this evening and I could use a partner who really knows how to mambo, if you know what I mean ...." With that Hobbes grabbed Claire's hands, pulled her into a light embrace and began cha-chaing around the room. Claire automatically fell in step with him, giggling as he began to twirl her. "See, that's what I'm talkin' about, you got the rhythm there, Keepie. So how's about cutting the rug with me tonight?"
Claire stood, wobbling a little from all the twirling and holding onto Bobby's shoulder for support. When she looked over and saw Alex and Darien standing in the wings, however, she pulled away and resumed her normal clinical detachment. "No, Bobby, thank you, but I don't think that would be quite, ah, appropriate, under the circumstances."
"Oh well, I guess it's you and me then, Alex," Hobbes said turning to face the tiny auburn-haired agent. Darien reached over and closed Claire's open mouth as Bobby swept the Agency's notorious lone wolf into his arms and dropped her into deep dip. Pulling her up again, Bobby exited the room with his arm around Alex, the two happily chitchatting about their dance strategy for the clubs that evening.
"Bloody hell," Claire rounded on Darien. "It was for an *assignment*?"
"Well, yah," Darien rolled his eyes at her. "What'd you think, it was for a *date*? I mean, everyone knows about that whole "no fishing" policy you and Bobby have."
"You mean Bobby has," Claire corrected, gathering up her movies again. "I've never said any such thing."
"Well then, why didn't you say yes when he asked you?"
"It wasn't for a real date, it was for a case."
"You didn't know that," Darien stepped up to Claire, wagging his finger like Perry Mason. "So are you saying you'd go out with him for real if he asked you?"
"I didn't say that either." Claire flipped a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear.
"So you wouldn't ...."
"You know what, Darien?" she jerked her coat from the back of her desk chair. "This is not a conversation I'm going to have with you."
Darien leaned his butt against her desk and crossed his arms and legs. "Yeah, well, you're right actually. It's a conversation you should have with Bobby."
"Well, now," she narrowed her lovely grey eyes at him and pursed her lush lips into a quizzical pout. "You're hardly the person to be giving advice to the lovelorn, are you?"
He grimaced at her and shook his hand as if he'd burned it. "Ouch. That was uncalled for. Man, there really is 'no such fury as a woman ....'"
"Don't say it, Darien," Claire warned him, pulling her coat on. "I'm going home to enjoy my life and my friends. When you've got your own romantic house in order, then you can come and counsel me."
Darien watched as Claire picked up her purse and left. She was right, of course. Who was he to be giving anybody romantic advice? Hell, he'd even screwed up his chance with that chick from the newsstand ... what was her name ... Rachel, maybe ... and all she'd wanted was a one-night stand. Nope, it looked like the only lasting relationship he was going to be able to have was with his own right hand. And that was only because it was permanently attached, he thought ruefully.
Crossing the room, he put his hand in his pocket to grab his key card for the Keep and felt the cigarette packs he'd swiped the day before. Crap, he'd forgotten to tell Claire about them. He returned to her desk, put the packs on top of it and wrote her a note explaining that they suspected the cigarettes were somehow tied to a drug cartel and asking her to check them to see if they were laced with anything unusual. He wasn't sure what kind of test she could run for that, but Claire always seemed to know one for every occasion. Then he left the Keep and went in search of the other two agents to catch the scoop on the plan for that night.
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TBC
Some dude named Eric Hoffner once wrote, "Our greatest weariness comes from work not done." Well, I ain't so sure 'bout that. 'Cuz I've been damn well weary ever since joining the Agency and God knows, it ain't from *not* working. Hell, when you go to work for the Fat Man, the word 'weekend' goes right out of your vocabulary.
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Darien groaned and pulled the blanket up closer to his chin, slapping repeatedly at his clock radio to stop it from ringing. Only the ringing persisted and his hand just hit the coffee table instead. With one last swipe at the non-existent alarm, he knocked himself off the couch and onto the floor. He sat up, shook his head, then grabbed the phone. "Fawkes," he muttered, rubbing his backside.
"Rise and shine, partner," Hobbes chirruped into the phone.
"It's Saturday," Darien stated, "*morning*."
"Ooooh, sounds like somebody woke up on the wrong side of the couch."
"You mean bed. The expression is wrong side of the bed," Darien corrected, his hangover spicing his tone with readily apparent grumpiness.
"I know," Hobbes explained, "But then again, I was the one who tucked you in last night there, sleeping beauty."
"Oh, yeah, you did, didn't you?" Darien scratched his chin and squinted his eyes pensively. "I guess I had a little too much liquid libation, huh?"
"You could say that, yeah. Now if you're done with your little fit of moping, we've got bodegas to inspect and scales to weigh."
"But it's the *weekend*, Hobbesy," Darien whined.
"Oh, what and you've got something better to do?"
"Hmmm, you've got a point there."
"Of course I've got a point. Bobby Hobbes always has a point. Now hurry up, take a couple of aspirin and jump in the shower. I'll pick you up in 45. And don't be late. Monroe's probably already up and halfway through her share of the stores."
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The van was parked expectantly out front as Darien exited his building with his sunglasses -- the only souvenir of his brief FBI tenure he'd chosen to keep -- firmly in place. Jumping into the passenger seat, he grunted a greeting to his partner, then slid down in his seat as Hobbes nosed out into traffic.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't Lazarus, all risen from the dead. You know, green is *so* not your color," Bobby observed.
"Hahaha. What? The hangover isn't punishment enough, I've got to listen to your jokes all day?" The van made a sharp right turn and Darien lunged out the window in anticipation of emptying his stomach.
"You sure you're OK there? 'Cuz I'll pull over if I have to. Jeez, even your hair looks hungover ...."
"What?" Darien asked nervously, concern over the state of his coif taking precedence over his stomach. Checking his reflection in the side-view mirror, he pulled at his unruly locks trying to make each of them stand more fully at attention. "Oh, oh, no. I'll be fine once the boat stops rockin'," he said, pulling his head back inside the van.
"That's good. Listen, the first shop on our list is almost right next to ChezLo's neighborhood," Hobbes smiled at Darien and raised his eyebrows hopefully. "What's say we go and get us some nice gooey cheese Danish for breakfast, huh?"
Darien threw his head out the window again. "Hobbes, you trying to kill me or something? I don't feel bad enough, you wanna shove Danish down my throat? Can we just skip the food and the chitchat and get on with the job for once?"
"Fine, you don't wanna eat, don't eat. But you could try just going in there and talking to her ...."
"For the love of God, Hobbes, can we please stop beating this horse? She told me to stay away, so I'm staying away. End of story."
"Hey, you never know. Maybe something's happened to make her change her mind ...."
Darien stared pointedly at Hobbes, his voice going steely soft. "What could possibly have happened that would make her change her mind, Hobbes?"
"Oh, ah, nothing," Hobbes prevaricated. "I'm just saying, you never know, you know? But hey, if you wanna be a pessimist there, gloomy Gus, go right ahead, be my guest. I can get a buttered roll at that first bodega, you know."
"Good, then let's get this show on the road so I can go home and die in peace."
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The first store was a typical corner bodega, offering up an assortment of sundry canned goods and household products all targeted to the Hispanic immigrant population. When Hobbes and Darien informed the owner of the purpose of their visit, he escorted them to the back where there was a small deli counter next to a tiny produce area. Bins of South American plantains, yucca and batatas shared the limited floor space with more local fare like onions, strawberries and grapes.
Using the specially calibrated weights Eberts had supplied them, Darien and Hobbes proceeded to check the scales in the produce section, then at the register, and not one was out of whack. Inside of 25 minutes, they'd certified the store's scales and Hobbes was at the deli counter getting his roll and coffee.
While Hobbes was ordering, Darien wandered around the little store checking out packages of Bimbo-brand snack cakes, Maizena corn starch and Export soda crackers. The owner's wife was manning the register, having a quick conversation in what he assumed was her native tongue with another man, dressed in a dirty denim shirt, jeans, boots and with a bandana tied around his neck. They were speaking quickly and not all of it was straight Spanish, but Darien managed to pick out the words, "Tres Gatos Negros," when the man threw some money on the counter. At that the woman pulled a pack of cigarettes, not from the main cigarette display above the register, but rather from somewhere under the counter. Darien didn't have much time to wonder about it though, since the man left as Hobbes came up and paid for his breakfast.
"You ready to roll there, partner?" Bobby asked.
Darien looked after the man who'd just left and stuck his hands in his pockets with a little shrug. "Ah, yeah, sure. I guess so."
The next three stores went off without a hitch, just like the first. But in all three, when Darien heard the phrase, "Tres Gatos Negros," a pack of cigarettes would magically appear from under the counter rather than from the regular display.
At the fifth bodega, Darien's curiosity got the better of him and when he heard someone ask for the cigarettes, he followed the man out of the shop, leaving Hobbes inside. He jogged up to the man, who had stopped just outside the store to light a cigarette, and tapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Hey, man, can I grab a butt there?"
The man, just about Hobbes' height but much darker in skin tone and with a full head of thick black hair, turned to Darien. He was dressed in stained jeans and a natural colored denim workshirt with the name, Jesus, embroidered on the right shoulder just under the "Plains View Farms" logo.
"I'm sorry, senor, but I do not think you will like these cigarettes," Jesus replied.
"Oh no, I'm sure it'll be fine," Darien said, then added pointing back to the store. "I'd, ah, buy a pack myself but my partner doesn't like me smoking on the job ...."
Jesus took the pack out of his shirt pocket and held it out to Darien. It was bright red with an illustration of three screeching black cats on the front. The silver foil on the pack had been ripped where Jesus had opened it but otherwise the pack was intact. "Really, these cigarettes are not the same as your American brands. They are much stronger, unfiltered. I do not think you will like them."
Darien took the pack from Jesus, pulled out a cigarette and popped it behind his ear. "No problem, I'm sure it will be fine. Thanks, homey."
Jesus took the pack back that Darien handed him and shrugged. "De nada. Enjoy." Then he turned, climbed into a produce delivery truck and drove away.
Darien pulled the cigarette from behind his ear and stood looking at it. He was rolling it between his fingers when Hobbes emerged.
"Fawkes, Fawkes, what are you doing? You don't have enough bad habits already, you gotta start adding new ones?"
"Relax, Mom, I ain't smokin' it. There's something weird going on with these cigarettes here ...."
"Weird? How weird?"
"Well, for one thing, only immigrants seem to buy them."
"That's because they're a South American brand, Fawkes. See, says so right here," Hobbes pointed to the tip of the cigarette wrapper, 'Tres Gatos Negros.' They're from like Santa Ruego or Bolivia or somewhere like that. Ain't nobody gonna smoke these rather than good 'ole American Marlboro unless they were raised on 'em."
"OK, fine," Darien continued, following Hobbes over to the van. "Then how come the pack this one came from didn't have a tax stamp?"
"What, no, Fawkes, that's not right. All cigarette packs have tax seals, just like all booze bottles. Can't sell 'em without no tax seal."
"That would be my point, Hobbes. And why do they keep these under the counter, when all the other brands are kept in the display *above* the counter?" Darien pulled on his door and climbed into the van.
Bobby stopped and looked at his partner through the open driver-side window. "Hmmm, that's a good question."
"That's what I'm saying."
"Yeah, well, don't let this go to your head there, Grasshopper," Hobbes started the van. "I'm still the senior agent on the case."
Darien laughed and strapped himself in. "That's right, with an emphasis on the *senior*."
"Watch it, gland boy," Hobbes warned, nosing the van out into traffic. "Bobby Hobbes still has enough life left in these old bones to kick your butt around the block and back again, my friend. And don't be lighting that thing up in Golda. She is a smoke-free environment."
"I told you, Hobbes, I am *not* smoking it ...."
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As they pulled up to the next bodega on the list, La Corazon Blanca Market, Darien put his hand on Hobbes' arm. "Listen, you go in first, get the counter person in the back and start checking the scales. I'm gonna come in after you and see if I can't get some of those cigarette packs, OK?"
"Oh, gonna do a little transparent reconnaissance, are we?" Hobbes climbed out of the van.
"Well, you know what they say, use it or lose it ...." Darien watched as Hobbes went into the store. After a few minutes, he let the quicksilver flow over his form and invisibly left the van. Inside the store, he could hear Hobbes in the back spewing a stream-of-consciousness monologue about the various infractions he'd supposedly found with the store's scales. Once again relying on skills honed through years of breaking and entering, Darien silently padded behind the register and looked under the counter. Sure enough, the shelf was packed with carton upon carton of "Tres Gatos Negros." Pulling a few packs from various cartons, he quicksilvered them, then left the shop and returned to the van and to sight.
When Bobby emerged from the store, Darien showed him the packs he'd pilfered. "See, Hobbesy, I told you something was up with these things. Not one of them has a tax seal on it."
Bobby took the proffered packages and examined them carefully, checking them from one end to the other. "This is not good," he mused, "not good at all. If they don't have any tax stamps, that means they didn't come through customs. And if they didn't come through customs, who knows where they could have come from ...."
"Or what they got in 'em," Darien finished for his partner. "I'm thinking maybe there's a little bit more to 'Tres Gatos Negros' special blend of herbs than tobacco." Darien put his fingers together and held them to his mouth mimicking a joint.
"Yeah, well, we better check in with Alex in case she's seen anything fishy in her stores." Hobbes pulled out his cell phone and dialed. "Hey, Alex! Listen ... what? Uh, the sixth one, why? Oh, 10, huh," Hobbes rolled his eyeballs at Darien, "that's just great. It's good to know that you're that far ahead of us, yeah. But hey, listen, while you were power-weighing those scales, did you happen to notice anything funny going on at the registers? Oh you don't say? 'Tres Gatos Negros,' heh? Yah, we've got a bunch of packs here -- no tax stamps, right? Right. Ah hah, I see. Tell you what, we'll meet you at The Agency in the morning to synchronize our watches and then hit the clubs tomorrow night. Right. Yeah, don't worry, we'll finish up our share of the stores today," Hobbes rolled his eyes once again. "Won't leave any for you to have to pick up. Ah hah. Pleasure as always, Alex, bye bye." Hobbes flipped up his sunglasses and rubbed his temples.
"So what she'd say?"
"Oh you mean besides the fact that if we don't pull our weight she's going to cut off our balls with a dull spoon?" Hobbes pocketed his phone and replaced his sunglasses on his nose.
Darien's face blanched. "Owie."
"My sentiments exactly. Anyways, she noticed the cigarette thing where she is too. Apparently these things are at almost every bodega in town and none of them have tax seals. She's got a line on the guy who supposedly imports 'em -- name's Jorge Amarillo or something. She says he owns some social club but she's not sure which."
"So, what now?"
"Now? Now we finish checking the rest of the markets on our list so I can someday father a family. Tomorrow morning we meet Monroe at The Agency to figure out our plan of attack and tomorrow night ... Well, tomorrow night, my friend, we'll be livin' la vida loca at the salsa clubs lookin' for Mr. Amarillo."
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Darien was awake long before the alarm rang Sunday morning. Dreams about black cats with dull spoons chasing him into spider-encrusted corners had spoiled any chance of peaceful slumber. He showered, dressed in his favorite 'Barfly' T-shirt and orange jeans, topped it off with his tan jacket, and was out the door with enough time left over to catch a cup of coffee from the local deli. He was just coming out, his morning brew in one hand, when Hobbes pulled up in the van. Darien climbed into the passenger seat, set his Styrofoam cup on the dash and proceeded to strap himself in.
Hobbes looked from his partner to the coffee cup and back again. "Oh, ah, I see you got your coffee there already."
"Ah, yah," Darien replied as he took a careful sip of the steaming beverage. "Why?"
"No reason really," Hobbes said offhandedly. "It's just that I thought maybe we could swing by the bakery on our way to the office and pick up breakfast there."
"Swing by the ... on our way to the ...," Darien shook his head and motioned with his hand out the window. "What the hell are you talking about? The bakery's on the other side of town from The Agency."
"Well, not the way I go," Hobbes tried to counter.
"Not the way you go? What, what is this sudden fascination with going to the bakery? First yesterday, then today. I thought I was the one who was supposed to be fixated on that place."
"Fixated? What do you mean fixated? Bobby Hobbes ain't fixated on nothing except a couple of hot-from-the-oven cinnamon buns and a nice cup of Colombian."
Darien gave his partner the once over, taking in Bobby's spiffy new dark denim jeans and jacket paired with a deep burgundy form-fitting polo shirt. Darien looked down at his own attire, then back to Bobby again. "Yeah, well, that's *all* you better be fixated on ...."
"Whoa there, Nellie," Hobbes lifted his sunglasses and turned to face his partner while somehow still managing to keep one eye on the road. "Is that the green-eyed monster I see emerging?"
"No. I just want to make sure it's Lola's cinnamon buns you're interested in and not her ... errr, *buns*, if you catch my drift." Darien took another swig of coffee, spilled some on his shirt when Hobbes took a sharp left turn, then tried to wipe it up with his hand.
"Oh I don't believe this," Bobby turned his head back to the road. "You're jealous of me trying to steal a girl you won't even talk to?" He knit his eyebrows and grimaced, then flipped his sunglasses back down. "I just want to get breakfast. Eberts goes in there all the time to buy those cookies he likes and you're not worried."
"Yeah, but you're not Eberts."
"Damn straight. And don't you forget it. Ain't a girl been born yet who could withstand the 'ole Bobby Hobbes charm when he chose to turn it on."
"I bet Lola could."
"Oh yeah, well maybe we'll just see about that."
"Oh yeah, well maybe I'll just take Claire on another visit down to the docks ...." Darien cocked an eyebrow over his shoulder at his partner.
"Yeah, right, like she'd go with you. You forget that last time she was completely insane, remember?"
"Oh, so what? Now you're saying any girl would have to be crazy to go out with me?"
Hobbes let out a slow, measured breath. "You know what, Fawkes? I'm not so hungry for breakfast anymore. Let's just go straight to The Agency and meet Monroe, huh?"
"Fine."
"Fine."
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Fifteen minutes later, the two men entered the Harding Building. Hustling the younger agent down towards the Keep, Bobby urged, "Hurry up, would ya, Fawkes? I want to see if Claire's in before Monroe shows up ...."
Almost immediately, Alex emerged from the elevator. "Speak of the Devil," Darien muttered. "Doesn't anybody at this frickin' Agency have a life?"
"Look, Beavis and Butthead," Alex began as she stepped back into the elevator with her two counterparts, "nobody would like to be out spending a day at the beach more than me." She absent-mindedly adjusted one strap on the coral silk tank that accentuated the flawless bronze of her skin. "But we've got a job to do and the sooner we get it finished, the sooner we can get back to more important cases -- like stopping Chrysalis."
Bobby nodded in agreement and punched the down button. "That's right, duty to your country knows no holidays, my friend."
"I'm telling you, Hobbes, embroidered pillows are the way to go with those sayings of yours," Darien suggested, stepping from the elevator and hurrying to catch up with Bobby who was already halfway down the hallway to the Keep. "Hey, we could make gift sets with them and some of the Keeper's keychain crap!"
"Some of my what?" asked Claire in her clipped British tones as the three agents entered the Keep.
"Oh, no, et tu, Claire? Of all of us I thought you'd at least have a life." Darien shook his head in disappointment.
"Actually, I do have a life. I just stopped in to pick up the videos I forgot here Friday. I'm having friends over for a movie marathon." Claire grinned and held up a stack of three Blockbuster video cases.
Darien cocked his head sideways and read off the titles: "Steel Magnolias," "Fried Green Tomatoes," and "Terms of Endearment." "Sounds like a major chick fest to me," he grimaced.
"These are all award winning films, I'll have you know. Just because they don't feature weapons of mass destruction, car chases or naked women, doesn't mean they're not good."
Hobbes quirked his eyebrows at her and pursed his lips. "C'mon, Claire. Why don'tcha ditch the chicks and the tear-jerkers and come dancing with me instead? I'm gonna be hitting some salsa clubs this evening and I could use a partner who really knows how to mambo, if you know what I mean ...." With that Hobbes grabbed Claire's hands, pulled her into a light embrace and began cha-chaing around the room. Claire automatically fell in step with him, giggling as he began to twirl her. "See, that's what I'm talkin' about, you got the rhythm there, Keepie. So how's about cutting the rug with me tonight?"
Claire stood, wobbling a little from all the twirling and holding onto Bobby's shoulder for support. When she looked over and saw Alex and Darien standing in the wings, however, she pulled away and resumed her normal clinical detachment. "No, Bobby, thank you, but I don't think that would be quite, ah, appropriate, under the circumstances."
"Oh well, I guess it's you and me then, Alex," Hobbes said turning to face the tiny auburn-haired agent. Darien reached over and closed Claire's open mouth as Bobby swept the Agency's notorious lone wolf into his arms and dropped her into deep dip. Pulling her up again, Bobby exited the room with his arm around Alex, the two happily chitchatting about their dance strategy for the clubs that evening.
"Bloody hell," Claire rounded on Darien. "It was for an *assignment*?"
"Well, yah," Darien rolled his eyes at her. "What'd you think, it was for a *date*? I mean, everyone knows about that whole "no fishing" policy you and Bobby have."
"You mean Bobby has," Claire corrected, gathering up her movies again. "I've never said any such thing."
"Well then, why didn't you say yes when he asked you?"
"It wasn't for a real date, it was for a case."
"You didn't know that," Darien stepped up to Claire, wagging his finger like Perry Mason. "So are you saying you'd go out with him for real if he asked you?"
"I didn't say that either." Claire flipped a stray strand of golden hair behind her ear.
"So you wouldn't ...."
"You know what, Darien?" she jerked her coat from the back of her desk chair. "This is not a conversation I'm going to have with you."
Darien leaned his butt against her desk and crossed his arms and legs. "Yeah, well, you're right actually. It's a conversation you should have with Bobby."
"Well, now," she narrowed her lovely grey eyes at him and pursed her lush lips into a quizzical pout. "You're hardly the person to be giving advice to the lovelorn, are you?"
He grimaced at her and shook his hand as if he'd burned it. "Ouch. That was uncalled for. Man, there really is 'no such fury as a woman ....'"
"Don't say it, Darien," Claire warned him, pulling her coat on. "I'm going home to enjoy my life and my friends. When you've got your own romantic house in order, then you can come and counsel me."
Darien watched as Claire picked up her purse and left. She was right, of course. Who was he to be giving anybody romantic advice? Hell, he'd even screwed up his chance with that chick from the newsstand ... what was her name ... Rachel, maybe ... and all she'd wanted was a one-night stand. Nope, it looked like the only lasting relationship he was going to be able to have was with his own right hand. And that was only because it was permanently attached, he thought ruefully.
Crossing the room, he put his hand in his pocket to grab his key card for the Keep and felt the cigarette packs he'd swiped the day before. Crap, he'd forgotten to tell Claire about them. He returned to her desk, put the packs on top of it and wrote her a note explaining that they suspected the cigarettes were somehow tied to a drug cartel and asking her to check them to see if they were laced with anything unusual. He wasn't sure what kind of test she could run for that, but Claire always seemed to know one for every occasion. Then he left the Keep and went in search of the other two agents to catch the scoop on the plan for that night.
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TBC