Cry Mercy

by Toni Andrews

  “Who’s got the waffles?” Our waitress, looking harassed, hovered over us, arms full of carefully balanced dishes. Tino raised his hand, and she plopped the fruit-laden plate in front of him. Grant and I had ordered the same thing, and she slid the identical omelettes in front of us.

  “Could I get some water?” I asked before she had a chance to rush off.

  “Sure,” she replied, reaching for a pitcher on the nearby wait station. “Oh, and I forgot your blueberry syrup.” She smiled brilliantly at Tino, who had stopped glaring at Grant long enough to favor her with his best Antonio Banderas grin.

  “Just a minute,” said a voice behind her. “We were here before those people, and we don’t have our breakfast yet.” It was the tourist from the next table, and he pointed to the pass-through window, where several plates sat under heat lamps. “I think those are ours. If you let them sit there, the eggs will get rubbery.”

  “I’ll get them right away, sir,” she said, breaking eye contact with Tino with apparent reluctance. “As soon as I get this gentleman’s syrup.”

  She started to turn toward the counter, away from the pass-through, when the man’s hand shot out to restrain her. “You’ll get it now, or I’ll complain to the owner.” The man’s voice took on a tone I associated with some of the more abusive foster parents I’d known over the years.

  “Please let go of my arm, sir.”

  The asshole ignored her and, in fact, seemed to be trying to compel her to turn toward the pass-through. “I don’t know why our hotel recommended this place,” he went on. “This has got to be the worst service I’ve ever seen.”

  “I asked you to let go of my arm, sir.” The waitress’s voice had grown shrill, and heads were starting to turn in our direction. Both Tino and Grant seemed about to get out of their seats and intervene, but the jerk was oblivious.

  “And at these prices, you’d expect a little class. Not some bimbo waitress who can’t even—hey!”

  The man shrieked as the waitress dumped the pitcher of ice water, which she was still holding in her other hand, directly into his lap. A collective gasp went up from the rest of the customers, and I caught a flash of movement as Mitzi, now standing behind the register, quickly lowered her head to stare into the cash drawer. I caught the hint of a grin before her face took on a neutral expression.

  The outraged man was on his feet, spluttering, completely ignoring his hapless wife’s efforts to calm him down. He pushed past the waitress, who narrowly missed landing in Grant’s lap, and stomped over to stand in front of Mitzi. She didn’t look at him.

  “Did you see that? What that idiot waitress did to me?”

  “Nope.” Mitzi continued counting her money, her concentration on the bills.

  “She dumped a pitcher of ice water on me!” The man fairly vibrated with rage.

  Mitzi’s fingers never paused as she shuffled worn bills, and she still didn’t look up. “You must have pissed her off.”

  The entire room broke into laughter, and the outraged customer seemed to reach a level of anger that rendered him speechless. Gesturing to his wife, he pointed to the door and then stomped out of it. She followed him silently.

  Mitzi finished her counting and closed the cash drawer, then finally lifted her head. Walking around the end of the counter, she went to the still open door, then shouted down the sidewalk in the direction of the departing couple, “Have a nice day, asshole!” Then, turning to the small crowd waiting near the door, she gestured toward the now-empty table. “Next.”

  The laughter inside the restaurant had died down, but the short-order cook and the dishwasher were still peering around the kitchen door, grinning at the fracas.

  “What are you motherfuckers looking at? Get back to work.” The two heads ducked back inside the kitchen, and Mitzi shuffled back behind the counter. “You want some free eggs, honey?” she asked a shabbily bearded man nursing a cup of coffee at the counter. “I’ll just have to throw ’em out.”

  The old guy nodded, and the waitress, who had regained both her balance and her composure, retrieved one of the plates and set it in front of him. Then she grabbed a small pitcher from the counter and brought it over to Tino.

  “Here’s your syrup. Sorry about the wait,” she said. I noticed tears standing in the corners of her eyes.

  “You okay?” I asked her.

  “Fine,” she replied. “I love that old bitch, that’s all.”

  “You gonna stand around all day or pour some fresh coffee?” the bitch in question called from her post at the counter.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming.” The waitress swiped at tears as she reached for the pot.

  “Oh, God, I’m sorry I missed it.” Sukey was still laughing as I finished up my attempt to relate the tale of Mitzi and her hapless customer. “I can just see her, too. ‘You must have pissed her off.’ Priceless.”

  “Yeah, she’s one of a kind. People are always asking me how someone so rude can run such a successful business. I tell them it’s because the food is amazing.”

  “That’s just part of it. I think Mitzi’s is successful because she’s so nasty. People go in there hoping something will set her off. It’s part of the experience. And you gotta love that she backed up her waitress.”

  My first client was late, which was not unusual for a Saturday, and Sukey and I were sitting in the two rocking chairs she had recently purchased at a garage sale. The second-floor walkway extended about ten feet past our office door, making a sort of a balcony. The morning sun could make the spot uncomfortably warm in the summer. This time of year, it was perfect.

  “Hey, did you remember to bring in those adoption records? I’m itching to get a look at them.”

  “I forgot to put them in the car.”

  “Mercy! I’ve been reminding you all week.”

  “I know, I’m sorry. I meant to bring them today, but it took longer than I expected at Mitzi’s, so when I got back to the apartment, I never went inside. I just got in the car and came straight here.”

  “Oh, well. I’ll just go by and pick them up after work.”

  I was about to say I wasn’t planning to be home after work—untrue—but realized it wouldn’t make a difference. She had a key. I’d given it to her so she could drop off and pick up Cupcake without having to schedule in advance.

  I wasn’t sure why I was dragging my feet. Yes, the realization that I had been the architect of my own misery had rocked me to my core. But did that really change my need to find my birth parents? If anything, my decision to separate myself from the only family I’d ever known was even stronger evidence that I was something other than strictly human. I had probably, on some level, been trying to protect them.

  “Yeah, okay,” I told her. “They’re in a brown envelope—I stuck them behind the wet bar.”

  “Great. I got these worksheets in class last week for researching public and private records. They’re way more comprehensive than the ones in The Exciting World of Private Investigation.”

  I was careful to hide my smile. The well-worn manual, purchased a few months back when Sukey decided to help me look into my past, still held pride of place on the end of the reception desk. Sukey studied the thing constantly and quoted it like the Bible. Managing my office was far from a full-time job, but I was glad she chose to spend most days studying and doing research here. It was more professional for clients to talk to a live person rather than a machine during business hours, and besides, it kept her out of trouble.

  Actually, since I’d made her my first unofficial client, she didn’t need nearly as much looking after. She still liked to hang out in bars and was always on the lookout for a good party. But Sukey’s most self-destructive behavior had always centered on men. With a little press-induced boost to her self-esteem, she was no longer an asshole magnet.

  This morning I’d noticed that The Exciting World of Private Investigation had been joined by a less gaudy textbook and what must be a corresponding workbook.

 
“I don’t mind you researching my adoption records as a class exercise, Sukey, but I hope that doesn’t mean the whole group, or even the instructor, will have access to my private information.”

  “I’ll make sure anything that gets posted in class is anonymous. Don’t worry—I know how important your privacy is to you.”

  Of course she did.

  Footsteps on the metal stairs told me that my client had finally arrived, and we stood up to greet the heavyset woman who panted her way to the top. I was actually pleased to see that she was substantially overweight. Many of the people who called requesting hypnotherapy for help with weight loss were, in my opinion, not overweight at all. It was a lot more satisfying to help someone for whom weight posed an actual health risk than someone who was trying to look like a supermodel.

  My recent slipups using the press had made me hyper-cautious, and even though the session was routine, I was still relieved when it ended without incident, as did the next two in my busy morning schedule. I never let Sukey book more than three clients without at least a half-hour break, because I got mentally tired, a state I couldn’t afford even when I wasn’t having control issues.

  When the break came, she and I walked across the street to Alta Coffee, even though our state-of-the-art coffee machine made this custom more of a treat than a necessity. Cupcake needed to be walked, anyway, and enjoyed the inevitable attention he got from the staff and other customers.

  “Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Sukey said when we settled in the cafe’s cozy garden area with our twin lattes. “Tino called. He wanted to know if you could come by Hilda’s after work.”

  I was puzzled. “I saw him two hours ago, at breakfast. I wonder what he wants.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe something he didn’t want to say in front of Grant.”

  I shook my head. “Tino’s a lot closer to Grant than he is to me. Probably Hilda asked him to call.”

  “If it had been Hilda, he would have invited both of us.”

  “True.” Hilda probably liked Sukey more than she liked me. Hell, everyone liked Sukey—why wouldn’t they?

  “Besides, he sounded different. Normally he’s all ‘hey, baby, how you doing?’ but he seemed kind of, I don’t know, edgy. I got the impression he was going to ask you for a favor.”

  I felt a twinge of annoyance, then immediately mentally chastised myself. I’d recently given some thought to the idea of karmic debt. Tino had done me a lot of favors in our short acquaintance, only the first couple of which had been because I’d pressed him. If he wanted a favor, I owed it to him.

  I just couldn’t imagine what it might be.

  5

  “Is there a point to this discussion?”

  Tino had been talking for twenty minutes, and I still had no idea why he had asked me to stop by. Hilda had, uncharacteristically, withdrawn to another room, leaving Tino and me to our own devices in her spacious kitchen. I was sitting at the breakfast nook, watching him avoid eye contact.

  “I’m getting to it,” he said, a hint of annoyance in his tone. “You should drink your beer before it gets warm.”

  I picked up the Corona bottle, wet from condensation, and obediently took a sip. I gave him what I hoped was a pointed look, and he sighed and sort of shrugged, as if he knew he had used up his stalling time.

  “Look, most of that stuff Grant said this morning was a bunch of shit, but he was right about one thing. You’re good at getting people to do stuff.”

  I had gotten pretty adept at keeping my face neutral when people said things that hit too close to home, so I just nodded.

  “There’s someone…I mean, I know it ain’t your problem, but it’d be a solid if you would talk to him for me, man.”

  I felt a tightening in my lower abdomen, as if my body were trying to suck itself in defensively. “Not one of the Hermandades.” I may be persuasive, but I’m generally not suicidal.

  “No, no,” he assured me. “At least not now.” Before I could voice an objection, he went on. “It’s just this guy. A kid.”

  “Kid?” Tino had never mentioned any children, at least not to me.

  “Yeah, he’s still a kid, even though he thinks he’s a man. It’s my brother.”

  “Your brother?” I don’t know why I was so surprised. Tino was a Chicano, a U.S.-born citizen of Mexican descent. As a group, they weren’t known for their small families. And yet I’d always thought of Tino as a lone wolf, an image he definitely cultivated. For some reason, it was funny to picture him having siblings.

  “Yeah, Gustavo. Gus, we call him.”

  “What do you want me to talk to him about?

  “The Hombres. I want him out. He don’t want to go.”

  “You let your little brother join the gang? Jeez, Tino, how old is this kid?”

  “Older than I was when I joined,” he said, defensive. “Fourteen. Fifteen next month.”

  My disapproval must have been apparent, because he took a sip of his beer, set it down carefully, then spread his hands on the table and looked at them.

  “When I was a kid, the Hombres ran the barrio—the neighborhood. Not the police, not the government, the Hombres. Your house gets broke in to? No point calling the cops. If they even show up, they stay about five minutes, write down what’s missing, tell you probably you’ll never see it again and go.”

  I nodded. Most of the cops I knew were good people, but, in the neighborhood where Tino had grown up, they were stretched pretty thin.

  “So about the twentieth time it happened to us—I was nine—my Mami, she walks down to the bodega. Takes me with her. I’m trying to act cool, you know? She talks to a guy there, goes by the name of Flaco. He asks Mami, ‘What house you live in? What they take?’ and she tells him they took the radio—the TV’s gone from two times ago—and the new air conditioner she just got.”

  He took another sip of his beer, his eyes glazing with memories. His accent had gotten stronger, his words more redolent of barrio rhythms. He was nine again, following his mother down the gritty street and into the bodega. I knew the neighborhood—could smell the chicarrónes and cigar smoke that dominated those neighborhood stores.

  “Flaco, when he finds out what block we live on, his jaw kind of tightens up and his eyes get real small. We’re in the middle of his barrio. No one’s supposed to commit no crimes unless he gives them the say-so. I guess whoever broke in to our place didn’t talk to him first, and I can see he’s pissed. He tells Mami go on home, don’t worry about it. So we go.

  “Next morning, there’s a knock on the door, real early. Mami, she’s scared—don’t no one come to the door that early unless there’s a problem. But she opens up, and these three guys are standing there. One’s got a big fucking TV, way better than the one got stolen. The other two, they got a brand-new air conditioner, still in the box, and this boom box, got speakers big enough to rattle the windows, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  I nodded, finding it easy to picture the scene.

  “They say Flaco sent them, and he wants to send his apologies for not having better security in the building. And he says they got to apologize, too. I take a better look at the guys, see they’re all beat up—got black eyes, cuts, bruises and shit. The one carrying the boom box got a bad limp.” I caught a flash of gold as he grinned at the image and finished off the beer.

  “That day, I skip school and go to the bodega. I ask to talk to Flaco, tell him thank you for the new stuff, and thanks for making my Mami feel safer. He looks me up and down, says ‘How old are you?’ I tell him thirteen, and he just laughs—he knows I’m lying. And he asks how’d I like to really help out my Mami. I ask him what I need to do, and he tells me to come around the next morning, he’ll find something. After that…” He shrugged.

  It wasn’t a surprising story, but it was the first time I’d really thought about how normal it was for someone like Tino to enter gang life. Not long ago, I’d chastised Hilda for referring to him as “an entrepreneur.” Maybe she wasn’t that fa
r off.

  I picked up the story where Tino had left off.

  “So you started working for the Hombres at nine. How much longer did you stay in school?”

  He gave me a look that would have chilled someone who didn’t know him as well as I did and of whom he hadn’t just asked a favor.

  “Couple years. By then, I was probably making more money than some of the teachers.”

  “So,” I went on, “when your brother got a little older, it was only natural for him to follow in your footsteps.” I didn’t quite keep the accusation out of my voice.

  “That was a long time later. Gus wasn’t even born then—I was almost thirteen when he came along.”

  I thought about that. Tino hadn’t mentioned a father in his earlier story, and presumably his mother wouldn’t have had to go see Flaco on her own if there’d been a man in the picture.

  This was tricky ground. You don’t impugn a Chicano’s mother. Period.

  “You and Gus,” I said carefully. “Do you have the same father?”

  I saw his jaw tighten, but it wasn’t me he was mad at. He avoided my eyes and didn’t say anything. I waited. I was good at this game.

  He got up and put the empty bottle into a recycle bin—Hilda had really civilized this guy, whether he realized it or not—and got a couple of fresh beers out of the refrigerator, even though mine was still half-full.

  He sat back down, sighed, and finally made eye contact.

  “When you go to a guy like Flaco and ask for help, he’s gonna remember. He may come around later asking you for a favor. Something you can do. Like if you’re a tailor and his kid needs a suit for his confirmation, maybe you make something special.” He stopped again, and I waited. It didn’t take long.

  “Papi was gone, died of cancer real young. Mami, she worked at a dry cleaners. She didn’t have anything Flaco needed. But, you know, she was pretty. Hot-tempered, fight like a tigre for her kids. When she was down at the bodega, yelling because of all the times the place got broken in to, how she doesn’t feel we’re safe in our own beds, Flaco was looking at her, really paying attention. And then, when I started working for him, she came around sometimes. Made him a cake to thank him for taking care of me, shit like that.”