by Marc Jedel
“Very funny.” Before Raj returned his attention back to his work, I asked, “Do you know where I could borrow a red Land Rover today?”
“You know all our Rover cars are white, not red.”
“No. I need a Land Rover, not a Rover. And it needs to be red.”
Raj’s face grew perplexed. “Why do you need a car? You work here. All our rides are free.”
To keep my health, and receiving the free rides, I needed to bring a red Land Rover to Fernando Hernandez today. I knew what was good for me. I explained what had happened last night with Hernandez’s drug gang at the restaurant.
Raj’s leg started bouncing again. “I told you chasing Fernando Hernandez was not a good idea.”
His leg had developed that tic this week. I wasn’t sure if his caffeine overdose or sitting near me was to blame. “You were right, but I think he may be my best lead so far. His gang seemed like they wouldn’t have a problem killing someone in the hospital.”
Always the rational engineer, Raj said, “So, now you will call the police.”
“Not quite yet. I have to bring this car to him first. I should be fine. They were interested in Rover so they wouldn’t shoot the messenger.” Would they?
“We don’t have a red Land Rover.”
“I’ll have to find one.”
While Raj returned to his work, I checked online for where I could rent the car today. Only two places in the whole Bay Area rented Land Rover cars. Our company, and our competitors, had almost eliminated the rental car business. The closest rental agency, located in Palo Alto, couldn’t rent me a car until after lunch.
With nothing left to do but worry, I tried to focus on my own work for a few hours.
Shortly before lunch, Raj looked up when I slapped my forehead. “What?” he said.
I shook my head. “I forgot the business card with Fernando Hernandez’s phone number written on it. I must have left it in my pants pocket from yesterday. I don’t have time to run home to get the number, get the car, take it to Hernandez’s, and get my work done.” I groaned and put my head down on my desk for a rest.
Then I remembered I didn’t need the business card. Fernando Hernandez’s phone number was in Laney’s calendar on her computer. I looked up in triumph. “Ha!”
“Now what?” asked Raj.
“I’m off to the races.”
Raj shook his head. “Better race the Land Rover. I think they are faster than our cars.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I pulled out my phone. With one, red Land Rover rented for the afternoon, I had no more excuses. My palms sweating and my heart racing, I called Hernandez.
24
Friday Noon
“Hóla?” answered a voice with a strong Latin American accent.
“Uh, hello. Is this Fernando Hernandez?” I wasn’t sure whether I wanted a confirmation or not.
“It is. How are you today?” Hernandez replied with surprising hospitality.
“Um. Fine thanks. My name is Marty Golden —”
“Very pleased to meet you, Mr. Golden. I am Fernando Hernandez.” Hernandez’s politeness didn’t match the typical rudeness of most Silicon Valley residents, all in a hurry to make it big. This proved to me that he must have grown up outside of the U.S. Perhaps drug lords teach their children good manners.
Swallowing hard, I said, “Mr. Hernandez, —”
He interrupted again, “No, you must call me Fernando.”
I’d never met such a polite gang leader. Of course, I’d never met any gang leaders. “Ok. Fernando, could you give me your address? I’m supposed to take a red Land Rover to you today. It wasn’t ready earlier, but I can bring it to you in an hour or two.”
After a moment of silence, Fernando said, “I am very sorry. There must be some mistake. I did not buy a new car.”
“I know. This is for a test drive. Your, uh, colleagues insisted that I bring you this car today.”
“Sí, sí, sí. That is so very nice of them. It is not even my birthday. I have never heard of such a wonderful gift. Tell me, Mr. Golden, which dealer do you work for?”
“I don’t work for a dealer. I work for the Rover car service.”
“Ah. I have heard of them. Good for you. What a cool company.”
That threw me off. Rover didn’t feel cool to me. Our cafeteria didn’t have “Pecan Month” and we didn’t have dueling yoga rooms. It was work. Granted, I enjoyed my work, mostly. All my friends also worked in tech companies. After all, we lived in Silicon Valley. I hadn’t expected a South American drug lord’s son to have opinions on the coolness of my employer.
I decided to take a risk. After all, he couldn’t hurt me over the phone. “Yeah, thanks. By the way, I’m Laney Tran’s brother. Do you remember her?”
“Oh, Sí. She is from Human Resources, is she not?” Fernando’s tone cooled.
“That’s right. Did you talk to her on Monday?”
“I did. She called very early in the morning. She woke me up.” Fernando’s voice had turned indignant and then turned wistful, “You see, we had a magnificent party on Sunday evening. It was wonderful — great food, great wine, beautiful women. Ahhhh.” He paused as if to close his eyes as he reminisced. Then he continued, “You should have come.”
I was disoriented by his rapid personality changes and his retroactive invitation. “Wasn’t her appointment with you at nine o’clock?”
Fernando snorted. “Sí, sí, sí. She insisted. That is much too early in the morning for work. I do not like to start work before eleven. Your sister, she started asking questions right away. I told her that was not the right way to have a polite conversation. There was not even cappuccino.” Now he sounded perplexed at the very thought.
Despite myself, I chuckled, imagining the interaction between the two of them. “Yes. Laney can be a bit intense. She gets up and runs at five every morning, so nine is practically lunch-time for her.”
“Aiyaiya! That is not civilized.” Fernando sounded distressed and disbelieving. “She mentioned some kind of sexual complaint. Can you imagine? I don’t know who is complaining about my sex. I have been with many women and there have never been any complaints. My wife, she has nothing to complain about. She does complain about many things. She would not call Human Resources. Did she call Human Resources?” Fernando’s accent strengthened as his words sped up.
I couldn’t keep up with his rapid-fire speech and I didn’t know how to respond. “I can’t believe your wife called Human Resources either.”
Fernando raised his voice. “So, she did call Human Resources.”
“No … I didn’t mean that. I mean, I don’t know.”
He kept going without pausing to interpret my stumbling response. “And to start talking about sex before we’ve had coffee in the morning is not appropriate. I told your sister that I would talk to her only if she came to my house so I could show her. She said she wasn’t interested. How is that possible? It is very rude. I told her she was making me mad.” Fernando was making even less sense now, but he seemed angry with Laney, me, and his wife.
An angry South American drug lord’s son struck me as a dangerous person to upset.
Uncertain if I wanted to hear the answer, I asked, “What did you want to show her?”
“She was not interested. You should come.” Fernando insisted, “Yes, come to my house. I will show you. And bring the red Rover over.”
I heard yelling in the background. Fernando bellowed something back in rapid-fire Spanish. The loud, intense shouting match lasted a while.
The noise and fury worried me. Laney was investigating some kind of complaint against this drug lord, but I didn’t understand why.
Fernando returned his attention to me. “Mr. Golden, you will come,” he commanded.
I had only one acceptable answer. “Okay. I will come over. Where do you live?” I didn’t think he would do anything to me in broad daylight in his own home. At least, I didn’t think so. To be safe, I’d have my phone at the r
eady to call Mace. I wanted to get to the bottom of this. If Fernando had done something or knew something, I needed to find out. He gave me his address. He lived close to the car rental agency so at least I wouldn’t waste a lot of time.
Less than an hour later, I stepped down from the Land Rover outside a small, well-kept house. The bright, red car matched several of the plants in his yard. Flowers and flowering succulents were scattered in a thick patch under the windows and around the edges of a small rock garden lawn. He might have attempted to murder my sister, but at least his yard looked nice.
I carried my phone with Mace’s contact open on the screen. My finger hovered over the dial icon in case this went even worse than last night. As I approached the house, the front door flew open. A large man approached me and flung his arms open wide. Slowing, not sure what he’d try, I almost called Mace, but I hesitated. The man carried no gun, wooden spoon, or any other obvious weapons. None of the other gang members from the restaurant appeared. I checked behind me to be sure the two from yesterday evening hadn’t snuck up on me again.
When the man stepped near, he reached out and pulled me into a hug. “Welcome, welcome!” He kissed first my left cheek, then my right. “You must be Marty, I can call you Marty, right? Now you are at my home, we are friends.”
Looking behind me, he started bouncing on his toes. He gestured to the Land Rover that I’d parked in front of his house. “Bonito! What a beautiful car. We must drive it soon.”
Again overwhelmed, I managed to keep my balance as he released me from his bear hug. “Nice to meet you. And you are Mr. Hernandez? Fernando?”
“Of course.” Fernando beamed. “Do you want to see my meat?”
“No.” Definitely not!
Fernando became indignant, his face reddening. “But you must. That’s why you’re here, no? My meat is excellent. Everyone talks about it. Come, come. I will show it to you in my backyard.” Fernando grabbed my arm and started pulling me along.
“Wait, what are you talking about?” I said, growing concerned. I could see how Laney might have had a tough time with him.
Fernando slapped his forehead. “Of course, what am I saying. We must share mate first.”
I couldn’t understand his thick accent and worried about making him mad. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand. Your, uh, associates told me I needed to bring you this car.”
This stopped him in his tracks. He stared at me. “Yes, that is very nice. First, you must try my mate. It is a traditional Argentine tea drink. This is what we do with all our guests.”
Embarrassed at my faux pas, I murmured, “Ok.” I followed him into his house.
A small Latina woman, thin and fit, walked out of a back room dressed in form-fitting, workout clothes. Perhaps five feet tall, she walked straight up to Fernando and socked him in the arm. Hard. “You fix this. Stop talking about your meat all the time. You need to fix whatever is wrong at work. I am going to the gym now.” She punched him again. “You fix it.” And she left, giving me a single, small nod as she walked past.
Fernando turned and watched her leave with a smile on his face. “Ah, I love her. My wife, she is wonderful. Sí?”
I half shrugged, half nodded. Just wonderful.
“Come see my meat. It is still cooking on my barbeque.”
Ahh. “Sure,” I said, much relieved.
Outside his back door, a pressed concrete patio held a large table with ten chairs surrounding it. From the table, Fernando picked up a gourd-shaped mug packed to the brim with chopped green leaves. A metal straw stuck out of the chopped green leaves. He took a tea kettle and carefully poured some steaming water into the mug. He picked up the mug and, instead of handing it to me, he took a long slurp on the straw until he made a loud sucking noise. He sighed in contentment. “Perfecto.”
I looked at the table for another mug, however, Fernando held the only one.
Refilling the mug with more hot water, he thrust it at me. “Welcome to my house, Marty.”
I absently thanked him while I tried to figure out where he kept the extra straws. I didn’t see them so I pulled out the straw and held it out to him. “Here’s your straw. Where are the extras?”
Fernando gasped. “No, it is not polite to move the bombilla.” He took the straw and mug from me, put the straw back in and handed it to me again with two hands.
I pulled back. Germ-phobic in the best of times, I did not want to share the straw of this stranger, a drug lord’s son who may have hurt Laney. “No, thank you.”
Fernando scowled at my polite words. “You insult me in my own home?”
Great. I insulted the drug lord. I winced. “No. I don’t mean to. It’s just … I don’t want any.”
“In my culture, refusing mate means you don’t want to be friends. Do you not want to be friends, Marty?” The bigger man leaned in closer as his frown deepened.
I don’t think so. Swallowing my disgust, I reached for the mug and took a big sip. The mate had a bitter, pungent flavor that I didn’t like. I kept it down and made sure to make a big sucking noise. I handed him back the mug and pretended to smile.
In another rapid mood swing, Fernando grinned and clapped me on the back. “Come, take a look at my grill. I built it myself.” Placing his hand on the center of my back, he propelled me to the side of the patio next to his house where we could overlook his grill. A large grilling station dominated the area. Built with red bricks, the large, rectangular barbeque featured a movable, metal grill with V-shaped grates and attached by a chain through a flywheel on the side with a hand-operated winch. The red bricks extended around and above the grill to form sides and a roof that reflected the heat back to the grill while allowing the smoke to flow out the top. The grill rested a few inches above a fire of charcoal and hardwood chips.
He had quite a setup. “Wow,” I said.
Complimenting his grill made Fernando preen. “It’s Argentine-style. That is the best for meat. Even the bricks come from Argentina. Americans do not understand meat. You use grills with gas. Gas! Unbelievable. Gas is for cars. And from beans.” Fernando guffawed at his own joke, then continued, “Meat takes time. Americans want everything now, now, now. No patience. Argentines know that meat takes time. Treat it like a woman. You need to be gentle, caress it, warm it up just right to get it ready.”
He paused for effect. “Then it explodes!” Fernando punctuated his own explosion with his arms as a little spit came flying out of his mouth.
Fernando didn’t need anyone to interact with him to stay engaged in a conversation. His passion alone could sustain a conversation by himself. After all, this was important. This was grilling. He could easily be misunderstood by others.
Fernando repeated, “It explodes with flavor. But you have to give it enough time. Exactly the right amount of time. Here.” He pushed a spoonful of an oily green sauce in my direction, “Try my chimichurri.”
“Uh. Not right now. I’m sure it’s delicious.”
He reddened and waved a large carving knife in my direction. I feared I had offended him again. I did not want to offend him.
He furrowed his brow in confusion at my response. After a moment, he nodded, “Of course. I apologize. You shouldn’t try chimichurri by itself. You must eat it on steak. That is the only proper way. I apologize.” Fernando gave me a small bow before he commanded, “Come here.”
I obeyed.
An amazing smell wafted past my nose as we approached the grill. Beaming with pride, he turned back to me. Bringing the fingers and thumb of his right hand together, he raised it to his lips, kissed them and joyfully tossed fingers and thumb into the air. “Incredible, right? Five hours it cooks. Wait until you taste it. I will cut off a small piece for you.”
He carved off a chunk about the size of my head. He handed it to me on a platter with a fork and mini version of his own carving knife. With great anticipation, he took the spoon from the container of his green, oily sauce and spread some on my plate. He looked at me with eyebrows
raised. “Now, eat. Eat my meat with the chimichurri sauce. It is the only way.”
I cut a small piece, dipped it into the green sauce and hesitantly put it in my mouth. Heavenly.
Fernando saw my reaction. “Sí? It is incredible, is it not? How can someone not like my meat?”
Mouth full, I nodded. Maybe Fernando would adopt me. Why hadn’t I come to his party on Sunday? Had Laney tried some?
Fernando waved his arms exuberantly and kept the conversation going without needing my involvement. “I do not understand. Why would someone complain about me at work? I work very hard. I do not waste time with silly talk about TV shows or American baseball. I am very good engineer. I work on my software and I tell people about my grilling. That is all.”
“Wait. You’re an engineer?”
“Yes. Didn’t my colleagues tell you?”
I shook my head. “Do you, uh, hang out at the Restaurante El Salvador often?” I didn’t know how else to ask about his gang without provoking him again.
“El Salvador? No, I know no one from El Salvador. We beat them at fútbol in the World Cup this year, but that is all I know of El Salvador.”
This didn’t make sense. He didn’t act like a drug lord. At least not like the ones I’d seen on television or at the restaurant. While we stood there looking at each other, with the wonderful smell from his grill still drifting across the yard, my phone rang. I excused myself as I answered.
“Hi, Marty?” Meghan Emerson’s voice came out of my phone. She sounded breathless, but not from her excitement to talk to me.
I hadn’t expected to hear from her. I hadn’t even added her as a contact into my phone. “Yes. How are you?”
“I just got home.” Meghan’s voice wavered. “My house … my house has been broken into.”
25
Friday Late Afternoon
Both Meghan’s and Laney’s homes getting burglarized on two consecutive days couldn’t be a coincidence.
