“Bet you could get AIDS off of money,” Hooter said, nodding at her own convictions. “How you know some homosensual don’t meet up with another homosensual and have sex in a park and then before washing his hands, he buys a sandwich and pay for it with a five-dollar bill. That same five-dollar bill is shut up inside a little cash drawer with hundreds of other unsanitarian bills, and then goes to the bank and is picked up when some other man dying of AIDS cashes a check. Next thing, that five-dollar bill is smacked down on a filthy bar and the waiter puts it in his unwashed pocket and decides to drive downtown and corner to my window.”
“That will be next,” Macovich thought out loud, and the conversation was making him uneasy and causing him to wonder if he would ever touch money again. “We’ll have to wear gloves morning, noon, and night if we’re gonna pay for things. Thank God we don’t got to take money direct when we write tickets.”
“Yeah, you mighty lucky in that department,” Hooter said.
Macovich stepped out into the lane and held up his flashlight at the approaching Pontiac Grand Prix. It was an older model with dents, and his pulse quickened when he recognized New York plates and an expired inspection sticker. He walked over to the driver’s door, his hand conveniently touching the snap release of his holster.
“License and registration,” he said as the window cranked down, and he shone the flashlight on the frightened face of a Mexican boy who didn’t look old enough to drive and was obviously an illegal alien. “You speak English, sir?”
“Si.” The Mexican made no move to deliver either his driver’s license or the registration.
“Why don’t you ask him if he understands English,” Hooter loudly suggested from her booth, which had nothing inside it except a stool, a fire extinguisher, and her Pleather pocketbook.
Macovich repeated Hooter’s question while the Mexican averted his eyes from the blinding scrutiny of the flashlight.
“No,” the Mexican said, getting more frightened by the second.
“No?” Macovich frowned. “Yeah? Well, if you don’t understand English, how did you understand it enough to know I was asking if you understood it?”
“Creo que no.”
“What he say?” Macovich turned around and looked at Hooter, who was hanging out of her booth now.
“Guess I may as well come on out since the lane’s all blocked with you and that big Pontiac,” she said to Macovich as she opened the door and stepped outside.
“He said that?” Macovich was baffled. “He said he’s getting out of his car? ‘Cause it don’t look to me like he has any intention of getting out or cooperating in any way.”
Hooter caught only fragments of what Macovich was saying as she buttoned her overcoat and slipped a lipstick out of a pocket. She pecked her way over the asphalt in six-inch high-heeled red Pleather boots. One thing about being a toll collector was that it involved a constant exposure to the public. Hooter was fastidious about fashion and fresh make-up and making sure every dreadlock was in place and interwoven with bright, colorful beads.
“It ain’t good to not cooperate, honey,” Hooter peered through the Mexican’s open window. “Now you cooperate with this big trooper. Nobody wants no trouble, ’cause they be looking for a suspect right this very minute who could very well be you. So you best cooperate and not make things worse for yourself. …”
“Hooter, don’t tell him so much,” Macovich whispered loudly in her ear, her perfume rushing up his nostrils and enveloping his brain. “What that you got on?”
“Poison.” She was pleased he’d noticed. “I got it at Target.”
“How’d you know we was looking for a suspect?” he whispered into her perfume again.
“Why else you be blocking off all the lanes except the Exact Change line, huh?” she replied. “You think I was born yesterday? Well, I been around, let me tell you, and I’m the senior operator at this toll plaza.”
“Wooo, I wasn’t putting you down or nothing, Senior Operator.” Macovich teased her a little.
“Don’t you be smart mouthin’ me!”