Coffee, black please.” Rafael said.

Miranda wasn’t looking, but that deep growl of a voice made her stop in her tracks.

All these years, and Rafael Castillo had not changed. She knew why that was, but it never failed to amaze her. What it did was make her angry. Pablo was gone, and this thing still drew breath?

In the back, the cook, Terrance, noticed a change in Miranda’s stance and looked up.

“What are you doing here?” she hissed. She glanced around. No one else was in the restaurant. It was late, only fifteen minutes to closing time.

“You’re looking well, Miranda.”

“I am not well. If you came here for apologies, or to ask for something, you might as well go back to whatever hole you just crawled up from.”

He shook his head. “You have my very deepest sympathy about Pablo.”

“Weren’t your people supposed to keep those things away from here? Where were you when they started running the streets again?”

“Is there a problem Miranda?”

The cook stood at the far end of the counter. He held a butcher knife in his hands.

“Terrance, there’s not,” she said, half turning to him.

“You sure?” the burly man drawled. “Because if there were a problem,” he fixed his eyes on Rafael. “I’d be prepared to handle it for you.”

“Mejo,” she said sternly. “I need you to finish what you were working on back there.”

“Sure.”

Terrance slipped back into the kitchen. He knew what that meant. That line was just as good as his grandmother saying, stay out of grown folks’ business. He stood, listening to what snatches of conversation he could catch, never once putting down his knife.

 *****

“We were not aware that there was any…activity in the area,” Rafael said carefully. “You know how that works. People see things, but they are afraid to say so. And those that do have their sanity questioned.”

“It’s your job to make sure,” she spat. “So why didn’t you?”

“I am not omniscient.”

“Obviously.”

“May I have that coffee?”

She poured him a cup, and then stood there. “We will be closing soon, so you might as well hurry it along.”

He took his time, stirring the coffee even though there was nothing in it.

“You should be proud. Your husband did a great service to the Sojourners, and at great personal cost to himself, you, and the rest of his family.” He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a piece of paper.

He leaned forward. “You will find this amount available in your bank account tomorrow.”

“I don’t want your money. You think that fixes everything?”

“You and I are worldly people,” he replied evenly. “Of course money does not fix the fact that you find yourself a widow. But it does make a great many things easier. That young man in the back, for instance. Wouldn’t it be nice if you had the money to give him a raise? Or perhaps fund his courses at culinary school? That would keep him out of trouble. Tax season is guaranteed to roll around again, and you’ll need to pay for that. Maybe update some equipment in your kitchen? Perhaps your own sons have student loans that need paying off? Or mortgages?”

“While you’re busy researching me for your bribes, there are Wolves out there.”

Rafael furrowed his brow, the first sign of true impatience. “Look at this as money that we owed Pablo, for services rendered. There are not many humans that know our secrets, but we considered him one of our best people. And I knew very well you’d accept nothing from me, that’s why I didn’t bring a check.”

“So one hand brings money. What does the other hand bring?” she asked.

“A simple request.”

“Well lets hear it. I’ll be damned if you expect me to promise you anything, money or not.”

“You have influence over this community. I’d appreciate if you kept things quiet with the people here. Of course, some of them know. We don’t want vigilantes going out, trying to solve this problem. Meting out the law to Wolves is our sole territory. We are the law.”

“You’re not doing anything.”

“We will,” Rafael said. He buttoned up his coat. “This cannot be allowed to escalate. Wolves have no regard for human law, and when their own are taken, regardless of the reason, they feel justified in waging war. And you don’t want that. Down here, they will come and kill as many as they wish. And the human authorities, seeing no better explanation, will call it gang violence.”

“Some of us still believe in an eye for an eye,” she said coldly.

“Yes, well,” Rafael said, standing. “I don’t have time to debate all night, but we understand each other. Keep your men out of the alleys. Make sure they leave their knives and blow torches at home.”

___________________________ 

© 2009 Lori Titus

The Marradith Ryder Series, Part 62

Her name is Miranda Abeyta.

She grew up in East Los Angeles. She was in her mid twenties at the beginning of the nineties when crack started flowing through the streets, disease powered by the lure of a cheap price and a police force that turned a blind eye.

She lived with her two little boys in a flat off of Caesar Chavez. That street was in a neighborhood where houses and apartments fought for space with thick traffic, penny shops and too many liquor stores. The park up the way from her house was beautiful, with a shining lake and swans that watched with a suspicious eye. But by the time the boys were old enough to play there, it had become to dangerous to let them .

She was invited to her friend Anita’s birthday party one Saturday. Miranda would always remember that she didn’t want to go that night; she wasn’t too happy about leaving the kids with a new babysitter, or having to get dressed up for what was probably not more than a boring family affair . She’d known Anita since high school, and was at her house so much that she was acquinted with most of the family.

Miranda decided she’d go — put in an appearance, at least.

When she arrived, a curly haired man was standing over a vat of punch that was so spiked it barely had any fruit flavor. He was laughing and talking with Anita.

“Meja, come meet my brother, Pablo,” she said with a gleam in her eye.

“Brother?” she went over her mental inventory of Anita’s family. And she could not remember a Pablo.

Anita must have sensed Miranda’s uncertainty.

“My older half brother, chica,” she said impatiently. “From my Dad’s first marriage.”

He extended a hand to her. “This is my first time in L.A. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss…”

“Abeyta.”

He smiled. “I like that.”

He had the smoothest voice and dark eyes. She liked the way he carried himself. Like a real gentleman. He spoke softly, and listened to her before he spoke.

 

Miranda and Pablo went on their first date the following Saturday.

Pablo extended his visit from two weeks to an entire month. When he asked Miranda to move back to New York with him and get married, no one was surprised.

New York was a bit of culture shock. Los Angeles was a cool, laid back city compared to the roar and rush of the Big Apple. Miranda couldn’t get used to the crowds that carried you across the street if you hesitated, or winter days when the snow came and the sun barely seemed to make a dent in the unrelenting gray sky.

It took a while, but she did come to like it. The speed of the city seeped into her blood.

Pablo ran a little cafe in Brooklyn. It was the neighborhood hangout. Miranda made herself a part of the diner immediately, and business went on the upswing. She made the best carne asada for miles, and tamales that drew crowds during the holiday season. There wasn’t a lot of good Mexican food in New York, Miranda always complained, because there were more Cubans and Puerto Ricans there . Back home in L.A., you could trip over a good Mexican restaurant on the end of every other block. So she added some of her Mother’s specialties to the menu, just simple things like changing the recipe they used for Spanish rice and refried beans.

She joked that even though her father was Filipino, her Mom’s food took domination in her kitchen.

Pablo handled the money, and she only worried about the menu.

The boys thrived. Pablo put up the money to put them through a good private school. And when they were old enough, he sent them to college.

He had big dreams for the boys, but also for his community. He was known as the guy you went to for a hot plate of food if you were short on money. He gave jobs to some of the young men from around the block to keep them out of trouble. Miranda had held hands with some of their mothers in church, and promised that she and her husband would help their sons any way that they could. The specter of drugs was dragging too many of them down. She saw these single mothers struggling and she understood, remembering the days when she’d worried that her own boys might grow up to emulate what they saw going on around them.

Pablo was fourteen years older than Miranda, and she realized that she might outlive him. He carried a few extra pounds than she would have liked. He insisted on eggs with either bacon or chorizo every morning, enough cholesterol to choke a cavalry of horses. He drank inordinate amounts of coffee, never went to the gym, and even sneaked an occasional cigar when his wife was not looking.

She always imagined that he would have a heart attack in his sleep, passing into the next life with a little smile pressed on his lips.

He was a good man.

He shouldn’t have had to die in the alley behind his own restaurant. Slashed up and bleeding in the snow.

That wasn’t the worst of it. When he came back, an animal with no instinct but to kill, she had to watch him die again.

**********************

Something broke in her when Pablo died.

Her boys came home for the funeral of their stepfather. Miranda’s youngest begged her to come live  with him and his family. She’d have none of it. She wanted to keep Pablo’s business and his dreams alive.

So she said.

What she really wanted was revenge.

The night Rafael Castillo sat down at her counter, she thought her revenge might be coming   closer.

 

©2009 Lori Titus

*****

MUSIC for this episode? Click here:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oM3KIvT1wgs