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Footsteps crunched on the dirt road. A blinding flashlight scanned the inside of Romero’s car, assessing the empty pizza box, lingering over the yellow liquid in the plastic jug. “Sir, may I see your license and registration, please?”

Romero recognized the voice. “It’s okay, Tony. It’s me.”

“Who … Gabe?”

The flashlight beam hurt Romero’s eyes.

“Gabe?”

“The one and only.”

“What the hell are you doing out here? We had several complaints about somebody suspicious sitting in a car, like he was casing the houses in the neighborhood.”

“It’s only me.”

“Were you here two nights ago?”

“Yes.”

“We had complaints then, too, but when we got here, the car was gone. What are you doing?” the officer repeated.

Trying not to squirm from the pressure in his abdomen, Romero said, “I’m on a stakeout.”

“Nobody told me about any stakeout. What’s going on that—”

Realizing how long it would take to explain the odd-sounding truth, Romero said, “They’ve been having some attempted break-ins over at the church. I’m watching to see if whoever’s been doing it comes back.”

“Man, sitting out here all night—this is some piss-poor assignment they gave you.”

“You have no idea.”

“Well, I’ll leave before I draw any more attention to you. Good hunting.”

“Thanks.”

“And next time, tell the shift commander to let the rest of us know what’s going on so we don’t screw things up.”

“I’ll make a point of it.”

The officer got back in his cruiser, turned off the flashing lights, passed Romero’s car, waved, and steered onto Old Pecos Trail. Instantly, Romero grabbed the plastic jug and urinated for what seemed a minute and a half. When he finished and leaned back, sighing, his sense of relaxation lasted only as long as it took him to study Old Pecos Trail again.

The next thing, he scrambled out of his car and ran cursing toward a pair of men’s shoes—they turned out to be Rockports—lying laced together in the middle of the road.

* * *

“Did you tell Tony Ortega you’d been ordered to stake out the Baptist church?” his sergeant demanded.

Romero reluctantly nodded.

“What kind of bullshit is that? Nobody put you on any stakeout. Sitting in a car all night, acting suspicious. You’d better have a damned good reason for—”

Romero didn’t have a choice. “The shoes.”

“What?”

“The shoes I keep finding on Old Pecos Trail.”

His eyes wide, the sergeant listened to Romero’s explanation. “You don’t put in enough hours? You want to donate a couple nights free overtime on some crazy—”

“Hey, I know it’s a little unusual.”

“A little?”

“Whoever’s dumping those shoes is playing some kind of game.”

“And you want to play it with him.”

“What?”

“He leaves the shoes. You take them. He leaves more shoes. You take them. You’re playing his game.”

“No, it isn’t like that.”

“Well, what is it like? Listen to me. Quit hanging around that street. Somebody might shoot you for a prowler.”

When Romero finished his shift, he found a dozen old shoes piled in front of his locker. Somebody laughed in the lunchroom.

“I’m Officer Romero, ma’am, and I guess I made you a little nervous last night and two nights earlier. I was in my car, watching the church across the street. We had a report that somebody might try to break in. It seems you thought I’m the one who might try breaking in. I just wanted to assure you the neighborhood’s perfectly safe with me parked out there.”

“I’m Officer Romero, sir, and I guess I made you a little nervous last night and two nights earlier.”

This time, he had everything under control. No more large Cokes and coffees, although he did keep his plastic jug, just in case. He made sure to bring a jacket, although the frost danger had finally passed and the night temperature was warmer. He was trying to eat better, too, munching on a burrito grande con polio from Felipe’s, the best Mexican takeout in town. He settled back and listened to the radio call-in show on the Walkman. The program was still on the environmental theme: “Hey, man, I used to be able to swim in the rivers when I was a kid.