by N. C. Lewis
Last Wednesday he had cussed her out when she had given him a latte macchiato instead of his usual Americano. Then he had complained to Barry.
"Maybelline has been with me since the start," Barry had said with a short, quick laugh. "She is the eight-to-six office gofer during the day and office cleaner at night. Yeah, she's short, fat, ugly, and dumb, but she works two minimum wage jobs, and we only pay her for one."
"Then slash her pay," Abay insisted.
"Okay," Barry had said. "I like the idea, okay. We can do that. I'll tell her before she leaves."
As Abay stood up to pace around his office he remembered today was Saturday. He'd have to get his own coffee. It was Maybelline's day off. He swore. Make her work six days for the same pay. "She'd do it too," he said aloud. "If she knows what's good for her."
Just then his office door flew open. His first glimpse of Barry Battles for the day told him all he wanted to know. Today wasn’t going to be an easy day. He stood up.
"Abay, get on the plane to Paris tonight and take a hammer to their sales team. Fire the head of sales, what's his name… Henry Thomason. Promote Mathieu Legrand to his position." Barry's dark eyes dared him to question the order.
Abay knew that it would be pointless for him to do so. He'd tried to challenge a decision before, make a suggestion. Barry had threatened to fire him. Nor was that the end of the matter. For weeks afterward, Abay's life had been made even more uncomfortable than usual. Barry had insisted he visit their overseas offices to conduct business when a telephone call was enough.
"Doris has already booked your ticket and made the arrangements," Barry continued. "I want the European sales numbers up. The fund needs a constant stream of new investors. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mr. Battles."
"Good."
"I'll speak with Doris, now," Abay said, moving toward the door.
"That won't be necessary; Doris is busy with a personal project." Barry gave a dismissive wave of the hand and went quickly out of the room.
Abay sat back down and stared at the door. He knew all about Doris and Barry. She'd told him. "I like being with you, Abay, but Barry is so good to me. He showers me with gifts, and he is your boss."
He'd tried to persuade her to stop seeing Barry, so he could have her all to himself, but she refused. "I want a strong, rich man," she had said. "I'll keep seeing you, but I won't give up Barry, not while he is the boss. Who knows, I might be his seventh wife."
That had infuriated Abay and given him an idea. Anonymously, he'd sent a letter to Judy Battles. It had dates, times, and a photo of Doris at the Delicious Spoon with Barry. It showed them sitting at a small table in the corner of the restaurant smiling at each other. Their eyes gave them away. Abay felt sure Judy Battles would see that.
The sound of muffled voices caused Abay to jump up and rush to his door. Opening it a crack, he peered out. A giggling Doris, arm in arm with Barry, strolled out through the executive lobby to the elevators. Something snapped. He wanted Doris all to himself. The only way I can get her is to get rid of Barry Battles—permanently.
Chapter 6
Maybelline Riera walked in the sweltering summer heat along the narrow dirt path to her double-wide trailer. Saturday afternoon was when she did the grocery shopping. She carried cotton bags of groceries in her right hand, a cigarette in her left, and her handbag across her left shoulder. On the little wooden steps that led to her front door, she took a last drag, then threw the butt on the ground turning back toward the road.
The merry music of an ice-cream vendor, a pale thin man in a yellow, stained T-shirt and dirty blue jeans, blasted out from a battered speaker atop the ice-cream cart. A swarm of swirling flies surrounded the wobbly wheeled cart as it made slow progress along the road. A group of children were playing, shouting and pointing at the cart
The man stopped under the shade of a tree.
"Nieve de limóóóón!!!" He shouted, then rubbed a hand on his unshaven chin, blew his nose, wiping his hand on his stained jeans.
"De limón la nieveeeeee!!!"
The children raced toward the man. He served the first customer, a little, gapped-toothed girl with her hair bunched into pigtails. Soon there was a lengthy line.
Maybelline put down the shopping bags and searched her small handbag for the door key. She picked through receipts, packets of tissues, sticks of gum, a hairbrush, a brown envelope, and her cell phone. Lifting out the brown envelope, she saw the key at the bottom of the bag.
The door flew open. A small boy with a runny nose and a crooked smile waved her inside. "Tía, qué tienes para nosotros, estamos hambrientos?"
"English," Maybelline barked. "Speak English like they teach you in school."
"Aunty, what you got for us? Aunty, we're hungry," wailed the boy.
"Donuts," she replied stepping into the darkened room that was markedly cooler and smelled of bacon, oil, and chorizo. She'd picked up a box of seven from the discount aisle.
Two other children appeared, a girl of about seven and a toddler.
"Donas para todos!" the girl cried.
"Donuts, donuts, donuts," yelled the toddler waddling forward.
Maybelline gave the toddler a little hug, then turned to the boy. "Share with your brother and sister while I make dinner."
Maybelline, at fifty, looked closer to seventy. She was the oldest of three sisters. Born in a village about sixty miles south of Guatemala City, she had come to the United States hidden between sacks of flour. Her youngest sister, Camila, fifteen years her junior, came with her.
Maybelline placed the brown envelope on the table, rummaged through the groceries pulling out a bag of potatoes. She'd make fries with hamburgers for dinner: the kids loved that. At the sink, she peeled potatoes while the kids ate donuts and watched television.
A twinge of guilt caused Maybelline to wince. It had been over two years since her sister's deportation, and two and a half years since they had shared a meal together in the trailer. They'd spoken on the telephone, and she'd sent birthday and Christmas cards. But scraping a living, looking after Camila's kids, and keeping out of the line of sight of the authorities, had gotten in the way.
Things would be a little better if their father was around.
Six months earlier Camila's husband had died in a construction accident. As an undocumented worker, when he stopped working so did the money. Maybelline felt guilty not coming forward to claim the body, but that would have put her in sight of the authorities.
That's what happened to Camila.
She'd witnessed an attack on an old woman and hung around to give a statement to the police. That’s how she ended up back in a ramshackle village sixty miles south of Guatemala City without her children. Maybelline didn’t want that to happen to her.
Maybelline washed, then sliced the potatoes, put on the burgers, and sat down. Her legs ached. She came to el norte for a better life, but she worked such long hours there was little time to enjoy it. Sunday, she cleaned rooms at a motel on Santiago Street, two blocks from the Interstate. Monday through Friday she worked as a gofer and cleaner at Battles Equity Partners. Saturday morning, she did grocery shopping, returning in the afternoon. The rest of the day she cooked and played with Camila's children. It was a grueling never-ending cycle, and still there was never enough money.
She put on the fries then sat at the table staring at the brown envelope. It was cash payment for working for Battles Equity Partners. Mr. Battles had said he was reducing her pay. She counted the bills. Then she counted them again. It contained a little over half of her regular pay. What can I do? Mr. Battles threatened to turn me over to the authorities if I complain.
The boy and girl argued over the last donut. The toddler joined in.
Wearily Maybelline rose from the table, knife in hand. She sliced the donut into three. "You choose first," she said to the toddler. He reached a chubby hand for the largest slice.
"Hey!" yelled the boy.
"Not fair!" cried t
he girl.
"Yummy." The toddler grinned.
Maybelline flipped the burgers, checked the fries, and sat back down at the table. Her lip curled in disgust as she again leafed through the cash in the envelope. Barry Battles is wealthy, lives in a big house, drives a fancy car, has a beautiful wife, and servants to meet his every need. He does not understand what it is like to live as an illegal immigrant, trying to scrape out a living, bringing up your sister's children.
"No! Another channel. I want to watch cartoons," screeched the girl.
"No! Movie! Movie! Movie!" hollered the boy.
The toddler had fallen asleep.
Maybelline clenched her jaw. "You watched a movie last week. Cartoons today."
The boy began to bawl. The toddler woke up, jerked his head up and began to cry.
A thought made Maybelline catch herself. Why should I be the only one to suffer? Barry Battles deserves to suffer as well; that way he can never tell the authorities about me or my sister's children.
Her mind made up on what she had to do, she forced herself to attend to the crying children and dinner preparations.
Chapter 7
It was a beautiful sunset as Amy, Nick, Ruby, and Noel sat at a table overlooking the courtyard at Hansel's House. The popular eatery, hidden away in Enfield Court, had a covered Mediterranean terrace with a courtyard of hanging greenery and flowers. Inside, the walls were covered with paintings and photos of famous Austin landmarks. Huge floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked Shoal Creek.
Ruby was over her jet lag, bubbling with fun and even more glamorous than usual. Her hair was caught up in a loose bun, with soft curls dangling against her cheeks. She was wearing a modest flowered dress with a frilly neckline and heels to match. Noel was charming to everyone, his eyes sparkling with the passion for life that had been missing at the airport.
"I've never been here before. What do you recommend?" asked Noel, glancing around at the other tables.
"One of Austin's hidden secrets," Ruby said, holding on to his arm. "Mom and Dad always brought us here on Wednesday evenings when we were little."
"Why Wednesday evenings?"
Ruby shrugged. "Don't know, but that is when we came, right Dad?"
Nick grinned. "Yep."
Amy burst out laughing, nudging Nick. "Better spill the beans, hubby."
Nick's eyes twinkled. "Wednesday was when Conrad Abensberg, Chef Hansel's uncle, had family night. The place was full of screaming kids, and nobody complained. Now that everyone is grown up we come here on Tuesdays—discounted European beer night!"
Noel looked from Amy to Nick. "That makes sense. Who is Chef Hansel?"
"He's the head chef now," Amy explained. "He inherited the restaurant from his Uncle Abensberg. If I remember correctly, Conrad Abensberg was Bavarian."
Nick, warming to the conversation, added, "It was a tradition back then. A lot of restaurants had family night. Wednesdays we came here. On Monday's we went to Carter's Corner."
"Oh, I remember that restaurant!" squealed Ruby. "It had a giant rattlesnake over the front door to keep the tourists away. What happened to that place?"
Nick closed his eyes in thought. "Closed down a few years back, when the original owner died."
Noel leaned forward. "What was the food like?"
"Terrible," Nick, Amy, and Ruby said simultaneously.
Everyone laughed.
A waitress appeared at the table. "Are you ready to order?"
Just then the kitchen's swinging doors flew open. Chef Hansel, wearing a white, double-breasted jacket, and houndstooth-patterned pants, strode with dramatic steps out to the center of the restaurant. He climbed three shallow steps onto a small platform, somewhat like an old-fashioned soapbox once used by politicians. He held a wooden spoon in his left hand, and in his right was a battered metal pot. His saucer-sized eyes gazed from table to table.
The patrons didn't seem to notice, and the wait staff continued to serve. Ruby nudged Noel. "Look! Watch this, it's a tradition in here."
With a theatrical flourish, Chef Hansel beat the wooden spoon on the metal pan.
"Ting-ting-ting."
The conversation died down, the wait staff stood in place.
"Ladies and gentlemen," his deep voice resonated off the walls as clear as if he had used a microphone. "Today we travel to the Caribbean with a Trinidadian special of curried goat with buss up shut. It's a scoop of tender goat meat, neither tough nor gamey, with shredded roti—a delicious flatbread originating on the island. It comes with a side salad and is perfect with a beer or a glass or two of our house red wine."
He adjusted his hat, stepped down from the platform and retreated, walking back into the kitchen.
"I'll have that," said Nick, Amy, and Ruby together.
"Me too," said Noel with a confused look on his face.
The waitress disappeared.
"The house special," Ruby explained, "is limited. It is always good and usually runs out in the first ten minutes."
Noel's phone chirped. "Excuse me," he said stepping away from the table.
Ruby let out an audible groan.
"What's the matter?" asked Amy when Noel was out of sight.
"That damn phone! He's always on it," complained Ruby. "Work, work, work, work. They won't leave him alone. Not even for this special family meal with my parents."
Amy glanced at Nick, but he kept quiet.
"I wish he had never taken that job," Ruby continued. "They call and email him at all hours of the day and night. Last week his boss got on his case for not answering an email she sent him."
"You know," said Nick, "it has been a challenge for Noel to hold down a job. I'd be upset if one of my workers didn’t answer an email."
"Yes, but his boss expected a reply within the hour."
"What's wrong with that?"
"She sent it at two forty-five in the morning!"
Again, Amy glanced at Nick. This time he spoke up. "That's ridiculous. What's her name?"
"Amelia Dubois. Noel says she is a tough taskmaster. He calls her the witch of London Bridge."
Amy was furious. "Well, I—"
Nick saw Noel returning, nudged Amy, and changed the subject. "Going to be another long, sizzling summer, don't you think, Amy?"
Noel sat down quietly, the sparkle and energy of earlier gone.
"Who was it, darling?" asked Ruby cautiously.
"Work."
"Can't you even have a meal out with the family without those dratted people calling you?" Ruby's raised voice was almost a shout.
"That job pays the bills, and buys your fancy clothes," Noel spat back.
Amy changed the subject. "What time is your appointment at the hospital, Nick?"
"Ten thirty. It's just a routine checkup. If I pass, I'll be one step closer to starting work again."
A somber silence fell over the table.
Eventually, Nick spoke. "Noel, why don't I show you the terrace bar while our food is prepared. Stretch our legs a little." Nick got up and headed outside. Noel followed, his shoulders slumped, and his head hung forward toward the ground.
At the bar, Nick signaled for two beers.
They came in two large china mugs.
"Take the edge off things, " Nick said taking a sip from his mug.
"You think so?" Noel responded.
"Work's tough right now?"
Noel took a deep gulp from his mug. "Don’t I know it."
Nick looked at his son-in-law for a long moment. "So, it occurred to me, Noel—I don't want you to think I'm prying—but if you and Ruby are having some trouble, some… um… marital difficulty."
There was a long silence. Then Noel smiled sadly. "What has Ruby been saying? As a matter of fact, you don't know anything about our relationship. You're just nosy and want to find out." He slammed down his beer, turned, and stormed out of the restaurant.
Chapter 8
The next morning when Nick came down for breakfast, he found Amy drinking coffee
and reading the Austin American Statesman. There was no one else in sight.
"Coffee in the pot," said Amy without looking up. "I've got a staging at Battles Equity Partners today. It's going to be a little crazy."
"Danielle helping out?" asked Nick.
"Yep, she'll organize the staging at his homestead on Route 360. I'll cover the office on Congress Avenue."
Nick poured coffee into a mug, added milk and a teaspoon of sugar. "Any sign of Ruby or Noel?"
"Noel left early. Ruby is upstairs." Amy stood up. "Fancy scrambled eggs and toast?"
"That'll be great," he replied, sitting at the table. "What's going on with Ruby and Noel?"
Amy put bread in the toaster and cracked two eggs into a pan, beating them with a wooden spoon. "I'm not sure. But I'll spend some girly time with Ruby later today."
She didn't tell Nick she suspected Noel's job was at the root of the problem. She'd felt the same way when Nick first became a detective. Those first few years were difficult. Nick worked long, irregular hours, leaving her at home with their two small daughters.
Amy hoped once Noel found his feet, things would settle down. Her main concern was to encourage Ruby to stick with it and help her see the light at the end of the tunnel.
"It must have been hard for you after I became a detective," Nick said simply, as though he read Amy's thoughts and didn't want to push it. Amy liked that about him. They always seemed to be on the same wavelength, even after twenty-two years of married life.
She stopped for a moment and then said, "How can you expect things to run smoothly when your husband works long and irregular hours and in a new job?"
Nick nodded in answer. Amy handed him the plate. "Delicious," he said, forking in a mouthful of eggs. "Just how I like it."
Amy giggled. "That's what you said the time I burned the turkey at Thanksgiving dinner. Do you remember?" She sat down, and Nick placed an arm around her shoulder.
"We didn’t have kids then, and I'm a detective—I'll eat anything." He took another forkful and a bite of toast. "What time is it?" he asked, glancing at the kitchen clock and standing up. "Eight o'clock. Good." He crossed the kitchen to the counter and turned on a small television.
A familiar local news announcer ran through Austin's metropolitan stories, then moved on to discuss the economy. The announcer stood up, walked across the studio floor and pointed to a chart with a single jagged line that zigzagged down.
