by Lisa Samson
At the next stop sign, José popped it between his teeth and Francisco held his torch lighter up to the end. “You know not to inhale, right?”
José sat back, took a deep pull, and let the sweet flavor rush over his tongue. He blew out a thin, directed stream of smoke that the wind quickly disbursed and looked at Francisco like he was crazy.
Which he was. It was why he hired him as his manager. Francisco made everything a party. Or tried to. Today he had a tough job ahead of him, convincing José to charm the public at a press conference. José planned to make him earn his keep. Let Francisco sweat for a bit.
He took a right. “I’m a soccer player, man. I hate interviews. I told you: I’m not a speaker.”
Francisco ran a hand over his buzzed, blond hair. “Remember what to say, right? Let’s practice.”
José grinned. “In English or Spanish?”
“English. Come on, José. Practice.”
Talking to David and the gang was one thing, but this on-demand interview practice was another. José puffed on his cigar, trying to calm himself. Get him on the field and he didn’t care what stood in his way. But interviews? He’d rather play one-on-eleven than sit with a microphone in his face. “I’m happy to . . . the opportunity . . . be here with all of you, with—”
Tell me. Where did you learn English? Hooked on Phonics? ” “Francisco rolled his wrist, his own cigar circling its smoke. “You have to say it with class. Maybe a little tear, a drop of emotion. ‘I am thrilled to be here in this outstanding presence of you beautiful people.’ Then you put on the hat.” He took off his leather cap, placed the team hat on his head, and continued. “ ‘I am . . . eh . . . ecstatic to be here in front of all you beautiful people today. I want to thank my wonderful manager, Francisco, et cetera, et cetera . . . Club Madrid, et cetera, et cetera.’ With great emotion. That’s how you do it.”
“Sí,” said José with a grin. “I’ve got an even better idea. You do the interview.”
Francisco drummed his fingers on the door, replying in kind. “You’re right. I should do it. How do I look?”
“Like you were born for this.”
Francisco winked. “Seriously.”
José jabbed his cigar toward the cap. “That hat represents two million dollars.”
“Two point two. We don’t round down.”
José could feel the celebration winds that blew around his chest that day, remembering what Francisco said, the words still jabbing him as he worked in his brother’s kitchen.
Tomorrow, José, you will be in every magazine from Canada “to Argentina. Your face is going to be everywhere.”
Yes, it would. But he needed to get through today, standing before reporters and photographers.
Are you sure we need to take these shortcuts through the “neighborhood, Francisco? Can’t we just get on 278?”
You’ve come with me this far, brother. Trust me to get you “where you need to go.”
And José drove on. His sleek Italian shoes pressing the gas of his sleek old convertible. He sang with the music, cigar between his teeth. “‘Dance with me, make me sway . . .’ Hey, where’s the opener again? Is it Buenos Aires or Madrid?”
Don’t know yet. But I’m hoping it’s in my homeland . . . “I’m telling you, man, Argentinean women are gorgeous. Can’t ask for more.”
José loved this song. “ ‘. . . Only you have that magic technique, when you sway I go weak . . .’ With their accents alone they get me.”
Look, bro, they aren’t perfect . . . but they are Argentinean.” “Francisco grinned, raising his eyebrows.
Yeah, too bad. Man, if you love it there so much, why don’t “you move there?”
Same reason you don’t move to Mexico.” He ran his thumb “along the tips of his fingers and lifted his eyebrows. It always came down to money.
José poked his cigar toward the sun. “Do you know, bro, why Argentineans look up at the sky and smile whenever lightning strikes?”
“Why?”
Because they think God likes them so much that he’s taking “pictures of them.”
“And you doubt that?”
They drove along, music blaring, leaving the simple neighborhoods of Brooklyn in their wake.
Francisco pointed to José’s shoes. “Man, you can’t be risking it in those shoes . . . playing on the sidewalk like that?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Francisco turned toward him, his face earnest. “I’ve heard that before. You get a injury and poof”—he jerked a thumb toward his door—“all those years in the minor leagues, everything you worked for, out the window.”
The man worried too much. “Look at you, the overprotective mama.”
“I’m serious. Something happens and who gets yelled at? They’ll put you up in a luxurious rehab center with pretty nurses. But the suits will yell at the manager.”
Okay, boss, no more playing soccer in the street. It’s big “business now.”
Francisco sat back in his seat. “You got that right. Your feet have a price tag.”
Six years later, there in that busy kitchen, José wanted to go back to that day. To that very moment. No, back to the shoe store when he bought those Ferragamos. That would be the moment because he had thought he deserved shoes like that, and when a man finds himself believing he deserves a pair of two-thousand-dollar shoes, he’s already walked halfway down the road to trouble.
He never forgot the closing argument of the prosecutor who called him “a young man devoid of temperance, lacking the carefulness it takes to be a citizen in our society.” And he had to agree with the man, even as he sat there with his lawyer, hoping and praying for a miracle. People got off for doing things far worse, his family kept saying. The sentence stunned them all to silence. They still rarely talked about it, and if they did, it was shrouded in terms like “the accident” or “when you were away.”
He held up his hand and examined the palm, once smooth and white, now red, scarred, and calloused. He slid the rice pot off the gas burner and lowered his hand to the flame.
There. There.
Five
Manny shined his gold cuff links on his pants, then arose from his desk, ready to really begin the day. He’d finished the books, and now it was time to check on the kitchen. José usually did a great job, but some days he was so distracted.
How do you see your little brother go from clean-cut, outgoing soccer star to bearded, sober-faced cook without it hurting your heart just a little?
You don’t.
It was just that simple.
But Manny knew that hard work and just pushing through solved most of life’s ills. The best thing he could do for his brother was keep him on his toes, expect high and mighty things from him, and keep a watchful eye. The restaurant was good for José. Manny couldn’t let him go back to being the shadow person he’d become in prison. Gaunt, haunted, inwardly playing the scene over and over again.
But José was good for the restaurant too. He had to admit that. The man could cook.
Manny had opened El Callejon eight years earlier on a small business loan, and he hadn’t had a full night’s sleep since. If he expected a lot from José and his staff, he expected even more from himself.
He ran a hand over the purple jockey silks hanging by the door, delivered the day before, then locked up his basement office and headed up the steps toward the main floor of his restaurant. He jokingly called El Callejon the love of his life when he first opened up. Now, well, the joke wasn’t so funny. Thirty-six and married to the place, not to mention having just bought a thoroughbred, he had no time to find a wife. His mother was almost beside herself. “No children from you. None from José. Only my baby gives me hope that someday, someday, Manny, I will be a grandmother.” She’d been praying for ten years now and so far, no grandchildren.
“Mama,” he always told her, “if you’d stop being so overcome with all of this, I think it would do you good.”
I’m sorry, M
anny. It’s just that you and your brother would “make good fathers.”
If they were anything like Manny’s father, that certainly would be the case.
And now you buy this horse!” she had said just the other “day. Of course his papa was thrilled that the family way of horses would continue here in America.
Manny stiff-armed the swinging door and stepped into the kitchen. Luscious yellow and green peppers, oranges, mangoes, and avocados awaited the knives of his cooks; flaming red peppers and tomatoes contrasted with the wooden cutting surfaces, the stainless steel, and the tile. Ever mindful of the Health Department and being of a meticulous nature himself, Manny demanded a clean kitchen. Everything was up to perfect standards. Everything, except his brother’s huge beard. “Morning!”
Yes, all was moving along like a steam train. At the range, Pepito, a friendly faced young man wearing a black cook’s cap, shook a large sauté pan of sweating onions. One of the other cooks—Manny couldn’t remember his name—cut up a smoked pork loin and Manny pointed to it. “Make sure you get five cuts out of that.” Let them get too generous and there would go his business. You had to keep an eye on every detail, every single one.
He headed over to the dishwasher and pulled a freshly washed piece of stemware from the tray. Good. Spotless. He’d gotten the dishwashing unit second hand when he opened and only luck and duct tape kept it from landing in the junkyard. He was certain of this because it surely was the only explanation.
Marco, a grizzled slightly double-chinned fellow with a close-shaved beard, seeded jalapeños at his workstation, throwing them into the blender.
“Marco, remember—not too many jalapeños. Too spicy, they won’t eat it. They don’t have the stomach we have.”
He nodded at José, who looked glum and serious as usual, then Manny headed into the dining room, the aroma of cooking following him.
El Callejon had evolved over the years. He’d collected authentic Oaxacan art, fanciful carved animals in vibrant colors, and murals of everyday life that complemented the tan linens and grass green tablecloths.
The room buzzed with servers—men in loose white pants and shirts cinched together with crimson sashes, women wearing embroidered skirts and blouses, all polishing silverware or arranging tables or setting up the service alleys with extra glasses, plates, and cutlery.
Vases and vases of fresh, exotic flowers lent a carnival air to the place. Excitement. Celebration. That’s what Manny wanted, as if to throw open the doors and tell the world, “Come. We Suvirans know how important life is, living is.”
At least on his good days he knew. And today was going to be a good day. A very good day. He’d make sure of it.
His dining room manager, Pieter, stepped beside him. “Morning, Manny.”
“Morning.”
Manny never actually called Pieter by name, afraid to mispronounce it. According to the tax record, he reported him simply as “Peter.”
Pieter took out his PalmPilot, ready to make notes. Manny thought he was a bit of a suck-up, but he did a good job, paid great attention to detail, and could find the most obscure ingredients imaginable.
They halted by the blond wood bar where Margarita, a waitress, folded linen napkins as she sat in front of the bar. Henry, the new bartender, a smiling sandy-headed Irishman with thick-lensed spectacles, polished stemware.
Manny pointed at him. “Henry, make sure to bring more than enough fresh mint to the bar.”
Henry set down the glass. “You bet. I have the mojitos down.”
“You better.” Manny softened his words with a smile. “That’s our signature drink.”
As if Henry didn’t know that. Sometimes he wondered at his own inability to let anything go. His mother told him he was ripe for a stroke. His youngest brother, Eduardo, called him a control freak.
Eduardo was too American these days. Especially with his new girlfriend. A model. What was her name again? Manny couldn’t remember. But it sounded skinny, like she was. Manny preferred more robust women. A skinny girl gets sick, and imagine all the medical bills!
He pointed to Henry. “If they ask, say you’re Irish-Cuban. I’m Mexican-Cuban. The whole place is something Cuban for the week.”
He’d heard a convention of Cuban businesspeople was taking place at a hotel down the street. José was planning a special each day: boliche, costillitas, and lamb shanks. José had a way of cooking meat, rubbing it, massaging it with spices, that Manny himself couldn’t replicate.
It was going to be a good week. He could feel it. They were ready.
He turned to Pieter and whispered, “Try Henry’s new drinks and tell me how good he is.”
Pieter made a note of that in his handheld, his stylus flicking in a quick step across the surface.
Manny approached the cheese table, the aroma of wedges of anejo, asadero, and Oaxacan cheese mixing with mangos, melon, and grapes. Manny dipped his pinkie in a bowl of dipping sauce. He brought it to his mouth, letting it touch the tip of his tongue. “That’s a good sauce.”
Yes, a very good day. And an even better weekend coming too.
Come Monday, the day they were closed, he’d drive out to the stables. Maybe he’d convince José to get out of the city with him.
He approached Amelia working at her tortilla station at the front of the restaurant. Amelia’s fleshy arms vibrated with each push of her rolling pin, and she brushed aside a stray piece of hair that had escaped her bun. “Amelia!”
She smiled, baring her white, even teeth. Amelia always had a wide smile, and there was beauty in the wide forehead. She made him miss Mexico, her dark eyes sparkling almost as much as the jet earrings dangling from her earlobes. “Buenos días, señor.”
Amelia worked hard. Manny appreciated dependable people.
A long table stretched down the middle of the dining room. “Nice. Very nice.”
They knew how to do it right at his place.
Pieter looked around, tapping the stylus against his handheld. “Anybody seen Nina?”
Oh no. Manny looked at Pieter.
Rules were rules. Manny liked Nina, and she’d been here a long time, but lately . . . He headed back toward the kitchen. Maybe José would know something. The employees trusted him. Maybe it was those sad, doe eyes in which they found a quiet sympathy. Well, better José than himself. He had a business to run, and without that business, where would all these people be anyway, eh? Most of the other restaurateurs he knew weren’t nearly so nice.
Six
Nina held the plastic stick up in the dim light trickling through the small, frosted bathroom window. The two blue lines might as well have been made of neon tubing, lit up and fl ashing, “Pregnant! Pregnant!” She threw it into the sink with a frustrated groan and kicked the trash can because, unlike Pieter, the sugar bucket was there. Why did the truth, showing itself in plain light, always feel worse than when it remained in the shadows?
But she knew. Now she knew.
She bumped her head against the mirror. Again and again.
No, no, no. This wasn’t in her plans. Not in her grand plans. And not even in the “just-settling” plans.
Best just to get on with the day.
One more thing to do, though. She grabbed a phone book, looked up the second listing in the yellow pages.
Abortion Clinics.
Well, no use being cryptic about it.
Before it, Abortion Alternatives caught her eye. The first listing.
No.
There were no other options.
She dialed the number. A warm voice assured her everything would be okay, and it would be, wouldn’t it? Women did this all the time and they survived.
“Yes, we had a cancellation for Wednesday. You’re in luck,” the voice said. “Is one-thirty all right?”
“Yes.” Nina whispered the word, feeling another bout of nausea. She gave the woman her information. Was told what to not eat, how much the procedure would be.
“How will you be paying
for this?” the woman asked.
Nina had no idea. Rent was due on Monday and her bank account was down to her last five hundred dollars. “Cash,” she said, having no idea where she would get it, especially with rent due. “Yes. Cash.”
She’d hope for the best.
A lot can happen between now and then, right?
She grabbed her wallet off the coffee table, shoved it in her purse, and left for work. There was no way she could take a shower, and she’d spent last night rolling around in bed, covered in the slick perspiration of dread. Well, knowing Manny, he’d overbooked the dining room and she’d be hoofing it anyway. No amount of deodorant could keep that kind of sweating at bay.
Pumping her feet along the cracked sidewalk, she called Pieter.
“I got the test results.”
“Yeah?” He sounded hopeful.
“Positive.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah, so . . .”
“I was careful.”
“Me too, Pieter.”
Silence. “It’s getting busy here, Nina. You should be at work.”
She smashed the phone more tightly against her ear. “So, yeah. So I thought you’d want to know.”
“Are you going to get it taken care of ?”
“Me? Just me?”
“You know what I mean, Nina.”
“I don’t have that much money.”
“I’ll go halvsies with you on it,” he said.
“Halvsies? Halvsies, Pieter? This isn’t appetizers at Chili’s.”
“Man, Nina. This isn’t easy for me either.”
Oh brother. She could picture him with his slicked-back, faux European hair and attitude. Such a phony. Pieter. He’d grown up plain old Peter in Paramus, New Jersey. The rest of the staff thought he added the i to make himself seem French and up his chances of opening a restaurant of his own one day. “Look, I gotta go. We’ll talk about the money after work, okay?”
“I’ll write you a check for my half when you get here.”
“You do that, Pieter. Sure.”
