“Gettin’ kinda cranky, ain’tcha, McKenzie?”
“I’m tired. My shoulder is killing me. My ankle is killing me. My head is killing me. My hand aches. A childhood friend thinks I might be a murderer. And I’ve had too much to drink, or not enough, depending on your point of view.”
“Hungry?”
“That, too.”
“I know a place not too far outta the way, you like Puerto Ricans.”
“You’re driving, Herzy.”
*
Herzog walked into Tres Hermanas Mexican Restaurant and Grocery and half a dozen voices shouted, “Herzy.” A Hispanic gentleman was sitting at the end of the bar with two friends, all of them wearing hats that declared their affiliation with Pipe Fitters Local 539. He raised his beer glass in greeting, and Herzog gave him a wave in reply. An older woman wearing an apron—I guessed she was one of the Three Sisters—met him at the door and gave him a hug. Herzog hugged her back and called her Rosie, which I later learned was a derivation of Rosita. It reminded me of a scene out of the TV show Cheers, and it caught me by surprise. I knew Herzog to be an exceedingly dangerous man who’s done time for multiple counts of manslaughter, assault, aggravated robbery, and weapons charges. It never occurred to me that he would have friends, that he’d be popular, that he’d like Ella Fitzgerald and baseball and cozy Mexican restaurants that piped mariachi music over invisible speakers and had ESPN Deportes playing on its TVs.
“Estoy feliz de verte, mi amigo,” the woman said. “?Cómo estás?”
I was surprised again when Herzog answered, “Bueno. ’Stoy bueno. ?Cómo va el negocio?”
“No me puedo quejar.” The woman gestured at me. “?Tu amigo?”
Herzog waggled her hand.
“Excúseme, se?ora, se?or,” I said.
Herzog’s eyes widened, and Rosie grinned.
“If I may answer your question, se?ora, Herzog and I are business associates.” I waved at the restaurant. “I am glad to hear that you’re doing well.”
“I didn’ say that,” Rosie said. “I said I can’ complain.”
“My mistake.”
“You didn’ tell me you could speak Spanish,” Herzog said.
“You didn’t tell me that you could speak Spanish.”
Rosie clapped her hands and laughed.
“I like ju,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said.
“I need somethin’ t’ drink,” Herzog said.
Rosie took a step forward and rested a hand on my arm. A concerned expression crossed her plump face. “?Estás herido?”
“Sí,” I said, “but I’m getting better.”
“Bueno.”
The restaurant was divided in two by an iron gate. The gate was open. The dining area was on one side of the gate. On the other was a short corridor that led to a brightly lit grocery store that I never did get a good look at. The walls of the restaurant were painted and textured to resemble adobe. Woven tapicería hung from the walls, and various Mexican artifacts—pi?atas, burros, clowns, painted clay figures of Mexican cowboys on horses, and even elephants—were tastefully scattered throughout. The booths and tables were made of dark wood, and suspended above each was a soft light with a shade made up to resemble a sombrero. Along the wall was a battered and scarred bar with taps for Dos Equis, Corona, Tecate, Negra Modelo, Summit Ale, Budweiser, and Miller Genuine Draft. Ads for Jose Cuervo tequilas were plastered to the walls next to clay lizards.
Rosie led us to a vacant booth, and after we sat down, she slipped a pair of laminated menus in front of us featuring tacos, burritos, enchiladas, tostadas, quesadillas …
“?Se?ora?” I asked.
“Sí.”
“Herzy told me you were Puerto Rican.”
“?Sí?”
“But your restaurant, the furnishings, menu—it’s Mexican.”
“Sí. Jour right. When we come ’ere thirty-five jear ago, the people, they don’ know Puerto Rican from Mexican. They t’ink it is the same. We were afraid if we don’ give ’em the food they expect, we would lose business. So we give ’em Mexican. But now”—she pointed at a few dishes on the bottom left-hand side of the menu—“we are cooking dishes from my country.”
I studied the selection—plátano frito, pescado frito, mofongo. I ordered quickly, “Empanadas de carne y pollo.”
Rosie nodded her approval.
“I like jour friend,” she told Herzog.
Herzog nodded but didn’t agree to anything. Instead, he ordered the daily special—Rosie’s Cactus Pepper Stew.
The moment after Rosie left the booth, I said, “Nice place.”
Herzog said, “Shut up, McKenzie.”
So I did.