Uncle and Ants

by Marc Jedel

  Twenty years ago, drones and self-driving cars were still in early testing stages and Laney hadn’t been hospitalized. I needed to stop wasting time reading old college newspapers and update Sergeant Jackson about the circular patterns left by the thief in Laney’s house. I returned the papers to her briefcase.

  After I left Mace a message, I heard the television turn on in the living room. The girls must have finished their homework, or given up. Much earlier today, I’d also given up on getting any of my Rover work done during daylight hours. I walked to my room to change out of my interview clothes into a more comfortable pair of shorts and a Hawaiian shirt. Then I went to check if the girls had found anything good to watch. “Hey girls, I have an idea for dinner tonight.”

  Skye’s left eyebrow raised as she looked up with a skeptical expression on her face. Megan seemed to hunch lower in the couch.

  My cooking’s not that bad. “A guy at work talked about a good restaurant with Mexican-style food.” After all, spaghetti tacos don’t qualify as Mexican, nor Italian.

  The girls cheered. I cheered too.

  At my joining their cheer, Megan started giggling, which became contagious. After my ill-advised attempt at doing the chicken dance landed me sprawled on the couch, we settled in and watched some stupid cartoon. Megan lay her head on my chest and Skye lay her head on the other end of the couch with her legs on top of Megan.

  Tonight, I’d have an El Salvadorian chicken special for dinner. I also needed to look into Fernando Hernandez so it would be like killing two birds with one stone.

  After a long ride to dinner, our Rover car dropped us in front of Restaurante El Salvador. The restaurant on San Jose’s East Side sat on a small street next to a church and a small food market with window signs all in Spanish. I could see small houses and duplexes on the cross streets and a liquor store several buildings down. A group of young men, ranging from high school to the late twenties, loitered smoking outside the liquor store. Across the street, an older couple strolled down the street while two young kids jumped and played around them. While not the best neighborhood in the city, it also didn’t look like the home of a Latin American drug lord’s son. Perhaps Fernando had some connection to the restaurant and I’d learn something else to report to Mace.

  Megan bounced as we walked along the sidewalk. She pulled my arm. “I love Mexican food. I want a bean and cheese burrito.”

  A typical taqueria-style restaurant greeted us as we entered, with inexpensive plastic furnishings, posters with Latin American scenes on the walls, and a phenomenal aroma. A young waitress waved us to a table.

  The menus were all in Spanish. Worse, they contained no obvious section of burritos or tacos. I knew a few Spanish words — it’s impossible to survive in California otherwise. None of these words looked familiar. I mentally kicked my high school self. Studying Spanish in high school, instead of French, would have been much more useful later in life, like right now. Of course, there were quite a few things I’d do differently from then, given a second chance.

  At least, I’d chosen to study French for an excellent reason. My high school girlfriend at the time registered for French, so I followed along. Show me any sixteen-year-old boy whose brain functions weren’t impacted by similar hormonal logic.

  Pursing her lips and squinting, Skye scanned her menu before putting it down on the table. “This is all in Spanish. I can’t read it.”

  “You’ll need to study Spanish when you get to high school.” Uncles truly add value.

  Skye scoffed. “Well, that doesn’t help me now.”

  “It smells like bean and cheese burritos so that’s ok.” Megan’s one-track mind had clamped down hard on her dinner plans.

  The waitress came over to our table with three glasses of water. She started in Spanish before switching to English. “Welcome. How can I help you?”

  I’d never understood why everyone took one look at me and automatically assumed I spoke only English. Hawaiian shirts, shorts, and flip-flops were sold worldwide. The same thing had happened when I’d traveled to France once years ago. Everyone had taken one look at me and then spoken in English. Before I’d left America, people had warned me to speak French while in France to avoid rude reactions. I’d tried, but the instant I spoke in French, the locals answered me in English. It was as if I offended their sensitivities and they couldn’t bear to hear their blessed language besmirched by my horrid accent.

  Finally remembering to answer the waitress, I confirmed her guess. “Hello. Do you have any menus in English?”

  “Just Spanish. Our customers usually speak Spanish.” The waitress paused, her English held just a hint of an unexpected accent, which must have been El Salvadorian. “Have you had traditional food from El Salvador before?”

  Skye answered first. “No. Is it like Mexican?”

  “A little, but also different,” said the waitress. “Maybe you want to start with some yucca frita? It’s a very popular appetizer.”

  Megan jumped on this. “No, we don’t want yucky fruit.” She wrinkled her nose. While Skye didn’t respond, she also looked rather dubious about the suggestion.

  “Yucca frita is fried yucca,” said the waitress, trying to be helpful.

  “We don’t want anything yucky.” Megan pounded her small fist on the table for emphasis.

  Case closed. I shot the waitress an apologetic look. “I think we’ll skip the appetizers for tonight.”

  Megan spoke up again to avoid the risk of getting anything yucky. “I want a bean and cheese burrito for dinner.” She crossed her arms and sat back smiling, satisfied with her order.

  The waitress winced. “I’m sorry. We don’t have burritos.” She rallied, “But we do have pupusa.” She smiled at Megan.

  Megan recoiled and her face screwed up into a grimace. “I don’t want to eat poo-poo for dinner either.” Although still silent, Skye turned a bit green.

  My throat had gone dry. I might have looked a bit green, too. I took a quick sip of water. The positive vibes I’d been feeling from the girls earlier in the apartment just got mired in yucky poo-poo. Bruce’s enthusiasm for this restaurant had convinced me to bring the girls and I’d figured I could take the chance to ask about Fernando without causing a stir. With the girls along for dinner, we looked like a normal family.

  Now, this restaurant seemed like a terrible idea and I was in a pickle. “I’m sorry. The girls aren’t very adventurous eaters yet. Is there something basic that you’d suggest?”

  The waitress thought before asking the girls, “Do you like black beans and rice?”

  Still wary, both girls gave small nods.

  Phew. Not the most fervent response that I’d ever seen, but I’d take it.

  “Ok, I’ll bring you some.” With a relieved smile, she turned to me. “And you, sir?”

  “I’d like your chicken special, pollo.” I think I pronounced it correctly and didn’t further insult the waitress. Sometimes my Spanish comes out sounding more like I have a Bulgarian accent. Of course, I’m not quite sure since I’d never met anyone from Bulgaria. In any case, my Spanish accent definitely doesn’t sound like I’d immigrated from a native Spanish-speaking country.

  The waitress pondered, probably trying to translate my words. “I think you mean “Pollo encebollado.” That’s very popular here. It’s a traditional El Salvadorian pollo dish with onions and sauce that we eat growing up.” She pointed helpfully to the item on the menu with a description that I couldn’t read.

  “Yes, that must be it. I’ll have that.” I wanted to get the order out of the way without starting an international incident. The waitress nodded and escaped to the kitchen.

  Megan crossed her arms and glared at me. “I thought we were going to Mexican for dinner. Why would you take us to a place where they eat poo-poo and yucky stuff?”

  Massaging my temples to keep a headache from starting, I shrugged. I’d forgotten how annoying it could be to take kids out to dinner. I tried to appease her. “Everythin
g smells great here. Why don’t we wait and see what it tastes like?” It’s not like I could tell her that I’d dragged them into the middle of a potentially dangerous drug lord’s den because I’d heard they had a great chicken special from a colleague in three separate twelve-step programs who couldn’t resist over-sharing at work.

  Megan frowned, slumped in her chair with her arms still crossed and pretended to read the menu. Skye looked around at the posters and other patrons in the restaurant, anywhere except at me and Megan. Another delightful family dinner brought to you by Uncle Marty.

  The waitress returned a short time later carrying two identical, bright red plates. She put them down in front of the girls. A sphere of black beans about the size of a golf ball rested carefully in the middle of a bed of aromatic white rice. Black sauce from the warm black beans oozed down into the steaming rice.

  Both girls leaned forward with renewed excitement.

  “Awesome. It looks like a black bean volcano,” said Megan.

  The red plate enhanced the perception of a lava flow across the mountainous field of white rice. I’d never seen these two ingredients served together in this way.

  Skye used her fork to dig exploratory lava tunnels for the black bean sauce to escape out of the surrounding white rice mountain. Megan expanded on her sister’s idea by reenacting a black bean lava eruption. She flicked small bits of her black beans across her plate and onto the table.

  Before the eruptions got too dangerous to the surrounding community, I suggested, “How about eating your food instead of playing with it?”

  Small sulks of disappointment greeted my buzzkill comment. But, as they tasted their food, contented smiles quickly spread across their faces. The waitress soon returned with my plate. She looked at the girls but they were too busy eating to notice. She nodded at me with satisfaction and left again.

  I dug in. Delicious. The whole plate of chicken with sautéed onions, garlic, and some tomatoes over rice made me reminisce about the El Salvadorian countryside. Quite an accomplishment delivered by a chicken dish considering that I’d never traveled south of Houston.

  We ate for a few minutes, enjoying the food in silence. Sensing my opportunity would vanish soon, I reached over to Megan’s plate and scooped up a forkful of her food.

  “Hey! That’s mine,” said Megan. Black beans and rice had risen to her “Do Not Touch” level. The waitress had pulled off a hit for the girls.

  I tasted it. The chef must have added some secret herbs and spices to make the black beans so superb. “That’s really good.” I restrained myself from taking more and sparking a bigger argument.

  Eventually, we slowed down. The waitress returned to our table. “Did you like the pollo encebollado?”

  “Delicious. And thank you for the recommendation for the girls.” I pointed to their nearly empty plates as proof.

  She nodded, with a small smile on her face, and started to move away.

  I raised a hand to stop her. “Excuse me. I was wondering if you know someone named Fernando Hernandez?”

  She froze, her smile immediately disappearing as her eyes widened and her mouth opened. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” She bolted back to the kitchen.

  Skye looked at me. I could feel the eye roll getting queued up. “Why did you scare away the waitress?”

  “I just asked her if she knew someone who your mom was going to talk to on Monday.”

  Before Skye could reply, a stocky, older lady stalked out of the kitchen carrying an industrial-sized, wooden stirring spoon in her hand like a sword. She advanced on our table. In what felt like an instant, she stood in front of me with a stern look on her face and her weapon pointed right at my face.

  “Why you talk about Señor Hernandez? You scare Gabriela.” She spoke with a thick accent.

  Surprised, I was more than a little concerned that her stirring spoon might have a hidden sword blade ready to flick open. “I’m sorry. My sister was going to meet Fernando Hernandez but she wasn’t able to keep her appointment because she got hurt.”

  “She hurt? You should learn not to talk about him here.” She leaned in closer until I could smell the garlic on her breath. She lowered her voice as she spoke again in a voice roughened by smoking or, perhaps swordplay. “Do you want girls to get hurt, too?”

  At this threat, the girls paled and huddled together. None of us had expected to be accosted by an intimidating chef wielding a scary wooden spoon with unknown, possibly dangerous properties that could hurt us.

  I tried to keep my voice from squeaking. “I only wanted to find out if he was a frequent customer here or, maybe, owned the restaurant?”

  “Stop foolish questions. You leave now and don’t come back.” Even though she spoke in a low voice, her command struck me like a blow.

  Megan overcame her fear. “What? But, Uncle Marty … I like the black bean volcano.” Her voice came out with an odd combination of anger and whimper.

  The chef calmed a bit as she glanced at the girls. “Girls. You come back another time. Maybe when your mother is better. Do not bring him.” She thrust the spoon at me to make sure everyone understood who she meant.

  But, I liked the volcano too.

  Concerned and chastened, I requested the check. Without another word, she glared at me and backed into the kitchen to sheathe her weapon. Seconds later, our waitress scurried out of the kitchen with downcast eyes, holding the check.

  I took out my credit card and handed it over. “Do you have a bathroom?”

  Instinctively, she half-pointed at a small swinging door that led to a corridor running alongside the kitchen. Then she yanked her hand back to her side as if it had been burned and clasped it with her other hand. “But, sir …” Helplessly, she looked over her shoulder at the kitchen and then back at me.

  “Yes. Yes. We’re leaving. I need to go to the restroom first.” Annoyed, I strode off. Scary stirring spoon or not, some chef couldn’t stop me from going to the bathroom. We had a long ride back home.

  I pushed through the wooden, swinging door into a dimly lit corridor. The corridor ran deeper into the building than I had expected from the dining room. Beyond a few closed doors, signs for the men’s and women’s bathrooms glowed with a barely visible, green light. I walked down an old, creaking wood floor to the men’s room.

  I put my hand on the knob. As I pushed the door open, someone grabbed me from behind. “Hey!” I said, alarmed as two large men yanked me back down the corridor and thrust me through a now-open door into a back room.

  22

  Thursday Evening

  The men shoved me into the room and took up positions by the door. I stumbled forward but caught myself before I fell. I looked up to see three men in their thirties and forties sitting behind a long table set for eight. Shadows lurked in the corners while two younger men in their twenties stood to the sides of the table, in addition to the two behind me. Somehow, I didn’t think I had been selected as the lucky, eighth person to complete their dinner party, or that ordering the chicken special came with a surprise trip to this private dining room. Perhaps the security team from DroneTech had notified the restaurant of my visit.

  The Latino men didn’t look friendly. In fact, one of the seated men scowled at me. “Who are you and why are you here?” His accent sounded authentic, with no hint of Bulgarian.

  I decided not to point this out and simply answered, “I’m Marty Golden. I came here for dinner.”

  His face twisted. “Then why are you asking questions about Fernando Hernandez?”

  “Uh … my sister, Laney Tran, was going to meet with him and I wanted to talk to him too.”

  His scowl deepened as he studied me. I didn’t even believe myself. I’d never been very good at lying. Perhaps the man could read my mind and knew that I wanted to find Hernandez so Mace could investigate him. The man shifted his eyes briefly to the two young men standing at the sides of the table. “Search him,” he commanded.

  One of the men grabbed my arms whil
e the other one patted me down. I had no weapons, not even a stirring spoon. The man pulled my wallet out of my back pocket. He flipped it open and saw the fake IRS badge where my driver’s license usually sat. I hadn’t removed it from yesterday’s adventures.

  “Federales!” shouted the man.

  The room erupted in turmoil. Chairs flew in all directions as six of the men pulled guns from beneath their shirts or behind their backs and pointed them at me.

  “No, no. No federales,” I yelled back. “Me engineer. I work for Rover, not government.” I couldn’t even speak English at that moment. I didn’t care as long as they understood I wasn’t a threat. My hands shook in the air as I held my breath.

  Everyone stood still. Before I passed out, the man who seemed to be in charge, still seated at the table, asked, “I have not heard of Rover. Are they another gang?” He gestured with a beer in his hand, which I much preferred to his colleagues’ guns.

  One of the younger men puffed out his chest. “We will take care of this Rover gang.” He kept eyeing me for target practice.

  I answered before they tested their weapons on me. “No, no! Rover isn’t a gang. It’s a company that drives people around. I’m an engineer there. I help make it work.”

  The man next to me kept flipping through my wallet. He pulled out one of my business cards. This one had Rover’s logo on it and my name and email. Whew. He stepped over to the table and showed it to the man in charge.

  When the man in charge reached for the card, I saw he had a tattoo near his wrist of a hula dancer. He threw a quick glance at the card before dismissing it. “Rover? Like the dog? Why such a stupid name for your company?”

  I took a small, shaky breath. Until that point, I hadn’t realized that you could actually hear your own heartbeat if it’s pumping fast enough. “I don’t know. Maybe marketing thought it would be funny to say ‘Come Rover’ and our car would show up.”

  The tattooed man pursed his lips and gave a slow nod as he pondered this marketing strategy. “Sí. That could make a funny ad on social media.” Everyone’s an advertising expert nowadays. He continued, “So, you’re a driver?”