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the tractors and stuff. It turned out to be one of the easiest assignments I ever got. The only other job that was easier, was when I was workin' security at a bar that was frequented by illegals. Easiest job I ever had- the only thing those fellas wanted to do after spendin' a hot day out in the fields was to have themselves a beer, and listen to music. Those people wanted no trouble. Illegals make great neighbors, too, by the way. They don't make a sound. Anyway..." Pitt quietly sighs, wondering where the hell this story is going.
     
    "Everyday at noon this roach coach owned by a bunch of Mexicans would pull up to the site, blarin' its horn, and man, those people had the best tacos. I mean, the best, the finest kind. " He winks at Pitt, who rolls his eyes. "I used to have two or three of those tacos everyday for lunch. Well finally, after a couple of weeks, suddenly they stopped comin.' Just stopped. Some of the guys at the site were jokin' that they must've been deported." He manages to squeeze a very small chuckle out of Pitt with that line. "Well, a bit later on, the construction site is closed down 'cause they're all done, the job's over, so I gotta find new work. And I'm goin' through the newspaper lookin' for stuff, and I see this story about a mobile food truck that had been busted outta business 'cause the health inspector caught 'em using cat meat?"
     
    He pauses for effect as Pitt and J.C. take it in. "That's right. They were using dead, skinned cats. I never found out if it was the same people, but I may have spent a few weeks livin' off of cat tacos." Clarence pats his stomach for emphasis, a big, queasy smile on his face. "And they were really good tacos, man!"
     
    J.C. interjects, awkwardly trying to fit in with a waggishly overstated dirty joke involving felines and female genitalia.
     
    Clarence begins to roar with laughter, J.C. lets loose with an obnoxious, wheezing sort of guffaw, and Pitt finds himself embarrassed for both of them- looking away, shaking his head, wondering if the story is even true. He decides to react- quickly. "Fellas, come over here. Right now." He takes several steps away from the Crest's house, into a neighboring yard, deliberately creating more space between them and the crowd of onlookers.
     
    "Guys..." He draws in a sharp breath as Clarence and J.C. join him, still chuckling. "Guys, there's a time and place for everything, and right now, this is not it. Clarence, ask yourself- why do you do things like that, telling a funny story when the victim's neighbors and the reporters from as far away as L.A. are watching our every goddamn move?" He pauses for a moment, not really expecting an answer. "Now they've all got to be wondering why a couple of the Beaumont cops are laughing their heads off like damn fools when they've got another homicide on their hands." Clarence shows signs of moderate embarrassment, while J.C. maintains his usual smirk and stares resolutely at the ground, refusing to make eye contact with Pitt.
     
    "Now I want both of you to start canvassing the neighborhood some more, and start showing some professionalism, for Chrissake. I don't think our suspect is going to sit around and wait for us to catch up to him." Pitt angrily stalks off- but to their credit, the two men gear up and fall in, pulling out their notebooks and heading out into the neighborhood.
     
    Pitt is exhausted when he finally returns to the station, somewhere around one o'clock. "Time to sit down and write reports, like a good little bureaucrat," he mutters to no one in particular. "Damn things want everything but your eye color and underwear size."
     
    He has some time to think.
     
    He stares up at the ceiling, his eyes eventually falling upon a shelf on his office. He looks at a souvenir he picked up a few years ago at the Palm Springs Aerial Tramway- a tin can of "fresh mountain air." Its tongue-in-cheek label suggests that you open the can, breathe deeply, and smile. That goofy little