Fifty Grand

It was it. The stain was mostly gone. Baking soda might have done a faster job, but muscle and hot water can do just about anything.

We went back into the kitchen. Paco couldn’t stand to listen to any more of their dialogue so he closed the shutters to the living room. I sat on a stool at the marble breakfast bar and got a glass of water.

“What now, do you think?” Paco asked.

“I don’t know,” I said.

We killed ten and Esteban came in through the back door.

“All set?” he asked.

I could see by his watch that it was nearly one in the morning. No wonder Paco and I were both exhausted.

“We’re done,” I said.

“You did well, guys. I threw you right into the fire and you did well,” Esteban said with a wide, expansive grin.

“Can we go home now?” Paco said.

“Yeah. I’ll say our good nights.”

Esteban went into the living room and after a moment he came back with Jack Tyrone. Jack’s eyes were red and his face puffy.

“I want to thank you for helping out tonight. You guys were probably on the go from early this morning,” he said.

You don’t know the half of it, I thought.

We nodded and Esteban said, “Well, good night, Señor Tyrone.”

But Jack wasn’t ready to let us go just yet. “Wait a minute,” he muttered, then yelled “Paul!” back into the living room.

Paul was another giant. This was the land of the giants. I wondered if this was Paul Youkilis from Ricky’s file?

If so-

“What is it?” he asked Jack.

“Tip?” Jack wondered.

“Oh God, yeah, fantastic job. Where’s what’s-her-name? Left already? You guys did the hard work, I’ll bet,” Paul said. Jack opened Paul’s wallet and gave us each a fifty-dollar bill.

“Oh, come on, Jack, a hundred bucks?” Paul complained.

Paco took the bills quickly. We nodded a thank-you.

“Job well done, even if fucking Cruise or Travolta didn’t show. Pitt came and he can buy and sell those guys,” Jack said and leaned against a door. He shook Esteban’s hand. “Esteban, is it?” he asked.

Esteban nodded.

“Yeah, I swear to God, I’m on your wavelength, man, Mexicans are just like us Micks, we’re Catholics, we have lots of kids, we’re religious. Difference is that you guys work harder and, truth be told, you have better food.”

Esteban faked a laugh and Jack started laughing. The laugh turned into a hacking cough. Paul got him a glass of water and led him back to the others.

“Let’s go,” Esteban said with disgust.

We grabbed the fruit and went outside into the cool mountain air.

At the side of the house I noticed a white Bentley. The white Bentley. No chills this time. Over that.

“Whose car?” I asked Esteban.

“Señor Tyrone’s, I think,” he said.

It was too dark to examine the paintwork but I’ll bet the garage had done a good job. Invisible mending. All traces gone.

“Home?” Paco said to Esteban.

“Wait a minute,” Esteban muttered, then took one of Jack’s fifties from Paco and pocketed it. “I take fifty percent of all tips. You two can split the other.”

Paco was too tired to complain. I was hypnotized by Jack’s car.

Esteban drove back to the motel and showed us to our room. Clean, small double with two beds, a shower, and a heater that you had to feed with quarters.

Beat as we were, we were too pumped and hungry to go to bed just yet and we found ourselves in the second-floor communal kitchen.

“Beer?” Paco asked and passed me a Corona.

I knocked it back in one and he cracked me another.

“What’s there to eat around here?” he asked.

“Let me see,” I said.

I opened up cupboards. An embarrassment of riches. Cilantro, chives, tomato, onion, garlic, peas, lettuce, peppers, and a fridge full of meat and cheese and beer. Like the house of a Party member.

I found that I wanted to cook for him, this kid, this man. I wanted to provide, the way you couldn’t in Havana.

“Put some rice on,” I told him. “And look for tortillas.”

While he did that I chopped an onion, mashed the garlic, diced a jalapeño, and fried them in olive oil. I threw in some cooked chicken and chicken stock and when they had all gotten to know one another for a while I slid in chopped tomato and minced cilantro and let them cook. When the chicken was brown I added a can of black beans and a can of red beans and let it reduce while the rice finished. Finally, I took a couple of tortillas and placed them in the oven.

“Man, this is good. What do you call this?” Paco asked.

“Havana chicken stew.”

“Havana?”

“Oh, I mean, just a regular chicken stew, that’s all it is.”

“Well, it’s good.”

It was good. The ingredients were fresh and plentiful and we were famished. It made me feel good. This was how life was supposed to be. Not scrimping and saving and fighting over scraps.

We ate by the window and looked out at the street. No cars, no snow, just trees and vague distant lights on the highway. We talked. He told me about Nicaragua. He’d been orphaned early, begged in Managua, ran off to the jungle to be a soldier, drifted to Guatemala and then Mexico.

I made up lies about Yucatán, bringing in things from Santiago and Havana. Paco nodded and was so kid sincere it made me feel terrible.