In the few days that they had spent in Arroyo Grande, the TIG agents and their auditor had grown accustomed to dining at Sancho’s, already feeling themselves to be regulars thanks to O'Connor's performance at the bar on his first night. Like the throngs of teenagers cruising the highway for kicks, they had found the Silver Spoon suitably central to the action. From a front booth they could easily watch passing traffic, listening for the loud exhaust systems of the rival organization, henceforth called the Yahtzees, as per O'Connor's slightly sloshy proclamation.

Lisa didn't even bother to take them to a table but waved them on to take their pick. The Yahtzees, as surreptitious as ever, huddled in the back corner booths as clandestine as a cold sore. Martinez slid into a front booth, confident that they looked slightly less suspicious if they weren't trying quite so hard.

“Every time you leave me, Mai Tai, I fear it will be the last.” Lisa beamed at the sergeant as she shimmied up to the table. Unruffled and obviously in her rhythm she bent over to give him an overly familiar peck on the cheek that nearly made him blush and caused him to brighten slightly. Watching her bend over to plant the peck gave Mr. Paulson an excuse to chuckle. “Order whatever you like, boys. The aces are back at the grill.”

“No cheese omelets tonight?” O’Connor grunted.

“Oh, he’s still back there.”

Paulson chuckled. “Ask that new chef if he can make a sunbaked Alaskan.”

“Oh, sweetie.” Lisa rolled her eyes. “I get the feeling like he’s not really a chef.”

“Ain’t got the time to hang out anyway,” O’Connor grumbled. “I'm afraid we gotta be going tomorrow, Lisa. Looks like our stay in your lovely town is finally coming to an end.”

“Oh, hon, I am sorry to hear that. You boys had such a positive energy.”

Mr. Paulson chuckled again for no apparent reason. O'Connor tried to chuckle, but all of his positive energy was in his elbow.

“No luck finding ol' Vickers’s flying saucer then?” She filled their coffee mugs automatically. The three of them looked up simultaneously. “Don't feel bad. Locals have been hunting that damn saucer around here since before I was born. I was really pulling for you guys. I guess it's just nice to see people taking an interest finally. Mr. Vickers is a sweet old guy, but nobody really takes him seriously anymore. At least not until all you gentlemen showed up.”

They exchanged glances, still slightly dumbfounded that their top-secret alien artifact, as well as the investigation, were the subject of local gossip.

“I told them they ought to try meditation; ask the elders, you know? But nobody ever listens to me. I watched a program on the Gaia network, all about interdimensional travel, astral projection, that sort of thing? When I asked my own teachers, they said it was real, but that it was still sleeping, whatever that means. They're vague sometimes.”

While Martinez and Mr. Paulson listened politely, O'Connor slouched deeper into his seat. That a waitress probably knew as much about the crash site as they did was just the cherry on top for him. The case that finally ended his marriage was a complete farce. After this was all over, he would be lucky to land a flatfoot beat in parking enforcement.

“Don't worry guys, your secret's safe with us.” She leaned forward, accidentally stunning a chuckle out of Mr. Paulson, and whispered confidentially. “I didn't even realize you were with those guys for a few days. They're not very good at the undercover thing, are they?” She read the order back to them and nodded in her casual chipper manner. O'Connor just hung his head and prayed to slip into a coma for six to eight months, just long enough to miss the aftermath of this, their most impressive weather balloon chase yet. “Alright, gentlemen,” she chirped, “I'll go ahead and get this started for you.” She bounced cheerily before bustling away, taking O'Connor's last remaining happy thoughts with her.

The sergeant swirled his spoon in his coffee slowly, listening to the spoon ring against the glazed stoneware like a dismal church bell, tolling their death knell. “We're a fucking punchline, Chief.”

Martinez glanced over at Mr. Paulson, who was ever alert to the sergeant's melodrama. “Knock it off, Sergeant.”

“Face it, Dave. While you're out here chasing some geezer's childhood hallucination these guys are already taking stock of resale assets. We're fucking done here.” He checked his phone as if he might have missed her call. “I'm done, that's for sure.” His happy hour passing away, O'Connor settled into soft murky sediment of an appropriate depression. Chief Martinez and Mr. Paulson had no choice but to watch. “Ask the laughing man here.” O'Connor brooded on his grayish coffee. “Budgetary audits my ass. This guy is here to babysit us through this last ride and then he's gonna shutter the joint and ship us out.”

Mr. Paulson chuckled but made no attempt to deny the accusation.

“Whatever the doctor is up to with his contaminated soil and staged pictures, he's had his fun. Judging by the look of the Yahtzees, they haven't had much luck either, but if this is the direction the rhino wants to go in, I say have at it. Let her drag in every wannabe jarhead washout she can find.” He slid his mug away and stared at the chief, entirely satisfied with the inevitable layoff.

Martinez, still clinging to his super cop legacy, hoped that some downsizing might suffice to keep him in a government contract until retirement and pension. “Just keep it down, sergeant.” If downsizing didn't work, he could at least hope for a lateral move to the commissioner's new pet agency.

O'Connor threw his elbow up over the back of the booth, cheating out. “I don't care if they do hear me. The rhino sends in some paramilitary goon squad wrapped in a greasy paper bag of a cover story to shake down some geriatric with a childhood fantasy and access to a radioactive chemical closet somewhere and we're the ones with the bloated budgets?” Even if he knew that his rage was really about Mary's radio silence, he couldn't seem to stop himself. The Yahtzees at the adjacent table stopped eating, probably just as eager to brawl as O'Connor. They were sitting on blue balls themselves, and the worsening conditions at their hotel weren't helping much. A few more came in the front door but added numbers didn't seem to deter the sergeant. “Well, looky here, boys, if it ain't the saltpeter and steroids family reunion, come down to dine with the hired help.” O'Connor leaned back in the booth, stretching out his chest and taking on a particularly cocky air.

This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

Chief Martinez's days of healthy extracurricular inter agency scuffling had long since passed away and he had no plans to revisit them. “Easy, Sergeant.”

“They got ranks in that cracker jack corps of yours! Do you get promoted, or just take whatever the hell plastic badge you get in the box of popcorn?”

O'Connor smiled and sipped his coffee. “We get 'em from the same place you guys pick up those cute little paramilitary cosplay ensembles that you all like to wear.”

Just playing along, the agent agreed. “Oh, yeah, well why bother with tactical wear in the field,” he poured on a stoner accent, “Surf's up somewhere, right dude?” The Yahtzee sneered to his companions.

O'Connor thought about the little wave just a few blocks from the vacation rental. It was a submerged reef with a nice little left that normally didn't get too crowded on weekdays. He thought about Mary, on the beach under her big umbrella, slathered in coconut scented deep tanning oil like a sunbaked dessert. “Yes, it is,” he said, carefully placing his coffee cup back in the splash ring.

The big guy snorted a laugh. “Maybe it’s time you head back to those archives of yours and let us handle the important shit.” He elbowed his companions.

“Well, you're definitely shitting all over this investigation, that's for sure,” O’Connor muttered.

The agent seemed to swell. “You want to take this outside, Tigger?”

Mr. Paulson chuckled with a strange sort of anticipatory glee. Martinez shuddered to see a grim shade of sadism pass over the auditor's face.

“Gladly,” O'Connor placed his hands on the table, ready to rise. At the last moment, Lisa elbowed her way through the handful of agents hollering about hot plates behind them. “Boys you sit yourselves down if you’re eating here. I’ll be right with you.” Years of herding surly Sunday brunchers sufficed to teach her that a well-aimed bark of “behind!” served to startle even the hangriest of guests into quiet complicity.

Nonetheless, Smith or Johnson leaned in behind her as she set the plates. “Get it through that thick skull, Spicoli. You guys are fucking file clerks, a glorified storage facility. You're ineffective and obsolete. Figure it out.” He all but spit the final phrase.

The accusation hung uncontested in the air with them, too cold and objective to elicit a childish response. Even Lisa's cleavage couldn't console the trio. She did her best, though. “No luck finding those hooligans that stole your mufflers yet?” She smiled pleasantly enough and clicked her tongue. “Criminal element is ruining this town, and we just don’t have the law enforcement to cover it, you know?” She winked at O’Connor as she set the plates on the table. As the Yahtzees slowly backed out of the conflict, Lisa winked at the sergeant. “You boys just let me know if I can get you anything else.”

* * *

Terrence huddled in front of his locker beside the back door of the kitchen. He finished grinding up the weed and tapped it gently from the keef grinder to a fresh paper. “We know the town better than they do. I mean, if someone in the dirt lots is fencing a dozen catalytic converters, I mean, we could find that out pretty easy.” He gently rolled the paper, poking at the green shake to line it up properly as he prepared a tiny cardboard filter.

Hitch was already out back smoking, squatting on a milk crate. Octavio pulled his own milk crate directly beside Hitch, sat down with a thud, and lay his head on the old guy’s shoulder. Hitch just kept scrolling through pictures on his phone.

Earl stepped out the back door and stretched out with his unlit cigarette clenched between his teeth. “I just don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go poking around too much. Etherton’s got his own people. Let those fuckin’ do nothing deputies go door to door on this one.”

Terrence twisted off the tip of the joint and shook it a few times, presenting Earl with a machine-perfect midafternoon hand rolled joint. “The sheriff did us a solid.” He stacked his nug jar and keef grinder back in his locker. “I’m not talking about just rolling into the lots guns blazin’ or anything.” He took a puff off his vape and let slip a tiny tendril of strawberry scented vapor. “We just go see what’s what, ya know?”

“Nope,” Earl said.

“On the way home.” Terrence offered. “Real quick.”

“Hell no,” Earl said. “Listen, okay? Like, the sheriff brought us some fuckin’ decent food, alright?” He bunched his t-shirt sleeves up and crossed his arms over his chest, displaying his burn scarred forearms. “He didn’t go doin’ anything that justifies you and me rolling up into the dirt lots asking about a bunch of stolen catalytic converters, okay?” He took sharp drags off his Newport. “I mean, like, we gotta live in this town, right? Like, we go asking the wrong questions, and maybe they don’t leave us alone anymore, right?”

“Bro, we’ll be like undercover agents or something, you know?”

“Snitches, Terrence. We’ll be fucking snitches, alright?”

Terrence offered his lighter.

Earl scowled as he took the lighter and placed the joint to his lips. “Get my ass arrested and then you want to stroll right into a fuckin’ tweakers’ nest.” He puffed a few times at the joint to get it started. “Like, we got lucky, okay? Let’s not get stupid, alright?” He took one long drag and held it for a moment as he passed the joint to Terrence. “Get my ass killed over some fuckin’ catfish and gizzards.” He took a few puffs off his cigarette. “I mean, who could even pull that off, right?”

Terrence inspected his handiwork, preening the burn. “Bro, without waking anybody up?” He took another drag as he pulled another milk crate down and tried to pass the joint to Octavio. The dishwasher huddled against Hitch like he was terrified of it.

Hitch took the joint without glancing up from his screen. Octavio waved the whisp of secondhand smoke away like it was asbestos fumes. “Ay, Paco. Tienes que dejar de fumar esa mierda.”

Hitch took a long drag. “Cuando dejas de fumar pipa, querido” he muttered.

“Grosero.” Octavio slapped Hitch’s shoulder and pinched his nose as the old guy blew a cloud of pot smoke out into the parking lot.

Earl squatted down to take the joint and a knee. “Like, did they do it with a handsaw, or what, y’know? And how long does that take?”

Octavio pulled his t-shirt up over his nose, but he wouldn’t budge from his seat.

“An hour per truck, at least.” Terrence guessed, having never actually stolen a catalytic converter.

Earl, having never actually stolen a catalytic converter either, figured that an hour of hand sawing sounded just about right. “How many trucks they got?”

The black SUVs around town seemed like a swarm, especially when they were running. Besides that, all the aces ever really saw was the inside of the kitchen and the back lot of Sancho’s. “More than a guy could swipe in a single night, that’s for sure.” Terrence guessed again.

Earl watched Hitch and his new companion huddled together on their milk crates. The old guy just kept scrolling through his phone, chain smoking another cigarette. “What’s up with you?” Earl said.

Hitch glanced up and held his phone up to display pictures of the robotic lawnmowers that he was constantly looking at. “My lawnmower, man.”

“Yeah, bro. The fuckin’ lawnmower.” Terrence shook his head. “But you ain’t got some story about that one time you and a stripper cut the exhaust systems off the party bus or some shit?”

Earl stood up and crossed his arms over his chest. “Yeah, or like, statistics on alien abductions in methlab neighborhoods, right?”

Octavio gripped Hitch’s arm protectively.

Hitch shrugged and went back to scrolling through his robot lawnmower porn. “Seems to me that a couple of guys with the right tools could pull off a prank like that pretty easily if they wanted to.” He preened the ashes of his cigarette gently on the edge of the coffee can. “Wrap their Sawzalls in some hotel towels to mute the noise and catch the sparks.” He finished the last drag of his smoke and crushed it out against the curb. “Be like a couple mice putting a bell on a cat.”

Terrence and Earl exchanged a brief glance. Earl raised an eyebrow. Terrence rolled his eyes. Octavio watched them, still clinging to Hitch.

Terrence shook his head. “Get the fuck outta here, bro.”

Earl laughed. “Like, with the fuckin’ hotel towels, okay?”

Hitch took the joint from Terrence. “Just sayin’,” the old guy took a long drag. Octavio waved the smoke away.