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huh? What for? I think I don’t want to know.”
    Payaso was short for clown. It also meant C.J. was definitely in a quirky mood.
    â€œTalk to me, man. What’s the story?”
    Ben studied C.J.’s broad face and his set of white teeth that were a hair too large for his mouth, causing the left side of his grin to swerve upward when he was in this taunting mode. Coupled with the cocky way he was swinging his shoulders, the message was clear. Ben was in for a bit of horseplay, provided he could stick it out.
    Standing directly in front of him now, raising his voice over the din of the Pier and the kids shrieking in the background, Ben offered an offhanded hint as to what he was after. C.J. raised an eyebrow and began easing his stiff muscles.
    Twisting and holding it for about twenty counts, C.J. kept up his end of the conversation. He remarked about some previews flashing up on the TV screens at Ben’s pseudo-cousin Iris’ gym the other day while he was working out on the punching bag. As usual, C.J. noted how dumb most police shows were, the old ones and the new ones as well. And that went for the movies too. Scoffing at this particular promo, he pointed out that “no self-respecting cop would let some muchacha distraido tag along on a stakeout.”
    Ben agreed, still without a clue what C.J. actually did on his Hollywood beat amidst the swarming tourists. While undercover, his bailiwick could be organized crime, homicide, all manner of theft and swindling. It could be anything and everything.
    â€œOye, carnal,” C.J. said, bending over, touching his toes. “Carnal” was short for dude and signaled today’s horseplay would include put-downs and a little sparring. “When you going to ditch that nice schoolboy outfit? What is that shirt, what are those payaso khaki pants? Where is the tan, man?”  
    â€œI lost it.”
    â€œYou never had it. Swim, do something before you get sin vida—muerto. Use Iris’ gym; three times a week, not once in the blue moon.”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œWork out, not just under her sheets.”
    â€œLook, I use the spare room, okay?”
    â€œSure, sure,” said C.J. straightening up, shadow boxing and then landing a soft left jab to Ben’s shoulder. “Dame un tiempo.”
    â€œGive you a break? Give me a damn break.” Ben held out his palms, warding off a few blows to his face as C.J. kept pulling his punches.
    â€œListen, you tell me she is not a real cousin, so what is the matter with you?  No lead in the pencil? Lo siento.”
    Reluctantly taking the cue and teasing him back, Ben said, “Hey, just ‘cause your mom worked some cantina doesn’t mean everybody’s hot to trot.”
    C.J. feinted with his right and grazed Ben’s ribcage with a left.
    â€œNo te atrevaz a llamar mi madre una puta,” said C.J. faking a couple of left hooks and just missing with a roundhouse right.
    His palms stinging trying to protect his face, Ben shuffled backwards toward the parked cars, amazed at the number of youngsters gathering round C.J., egging him on.
    â€œHey, cool it down.  I did not call her a hooker. I was only ...”
    Another roundhouse right and a practice left and right cross as Ben continued to peddle backwards.
    Flinching, Ben yelled out, “What are you, getting serious? Brilliant. This is what I get.”  
    â€œFor what?” said C.J. dancing around on the balls of his feet, dodging and weaving.
    â€œHow about helping you with your English so you wouldn’t sound so damn stupid?”
    â€œOh, yes?” said C.J., peppering Ben’s hands again with a barrage of left jabs.
    â€œAnd showing you the ropes around your ...”  Ben was about to say “Hollywood beat” but cut himself short.
    C.J. dropped his hands and stopped moving. “Okay. And I show you how to defend yourself and what happens?  Oye, cabron, you hold