Trouble in Taco Town

by Jordan Castillo Price

  Since the couch pulled out and the motel really was full, Reginald offered to let us stay in the break room. I wanted to be upset about the whole “character” remark, but decided anyone nice enough to give a couple of strangers somewhere to stay couldn’t be all that bad.

  And besides, I did have to admit…my Uncle Fonzo had always been quite the character.

  5

  YURI

  Dixon slept like a baby while I struggled to ignore the metal bar beneath my back. Had his uncle merely swindled the town out of its money with grandiose claims and then abandoned it to let nature take its course? Or was there Spellcraft involved?

  I would presume he was Scribing again, if not for the fact that Dixon now had his quill. You couldn’t just pick up another magical quill at MallMart. And even if he did manage to lead a flock of crested carrion titmouses to a rare and tasty meal, I doubt one of them had bestowed him with their plumage. Not only was it unheard of for anyone to have a second Quilling Ceremony, but the birds were far too small to produce a sizable enough feather.

  I rolled to face Dixon. Even in his sleep, a faint smile curled the corner of his lips. Who knew what Dixon Penn might dream about? It was difficult enough to comprehend how his conscious mind worked.

  His uncle was clearly no good, but Dixon idolized the man. How many rambling stories had I heard about Fonzo’s exploits? Too many to count. I’m not one to make a moral judgement about right and wrong. I have never been what you’d call a law-abiding citizen myself. It was the way in which Fonzo worked his game that got under my skin.

  Fonzo Penn was a con man. A swindler. All charm and no substance.

  And, again, I’ve never been one to balk about bending the truth to suit my own needs. It made no difference to me if Fonzo took advantage of the Handless.

  But I couldn’t get past the fact that he’d done it to his own flesh and blood by falling in with Emery Flint.

  What he’d done to his nephew.

  Dixon’s thick, dark eyelashes fluttered open and the faint almost-smile broadened into a full-fledged grin. “Yuri Volnikov…. Are you watching me sleep?”

  I aimed for a playful tone so as not to broadcast how concerned I felt. “I would be a foolish man to not keep an eye on you.”

  “Adorable.” He launched himself out of bed, calling over his shoulder, “I was tempted to do the very same thing last night once you nodded off, but I’ll admit, the allure of the after-hours souvenir shop was too much. While you were out like a light, I had a look around.” His voice had been growing fainter, but was now getting loud again as he circled back toward the break room. “And you’ll never guess what I found.”

  I waited for him to announce his discovery.

  He poked his head through the doorway and flashed an eager grin. “C’mon. Guess.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Yuuuuuri….”

  “Fine.” I guessed the first thing that came to mind. “You found a gun.”

  “A taco gun? That would be totally cool—would it shoot little tacos, or shoot various toppings onto tacos?—but, no, that’s not it. Drum roll, please!”

  I did no such thing.

  Dixon made his own drum roll sound with his mouth, then swung through the door with a flourish and said, “Puppets!”

  I would have thought it unlikely that American puppets would be as creepy as the misshapen, moth-eaten monstrosities used by my childhood teachers to “encourage” the class to learn multiplication (but instead only encouraged horrible dreams of those tiny felted hands touching my feet where they stuck out from the blankets). But I was wrong.

  He thrust a nightmarish creation into the room with a wedge of cheese for a head.

  “I’m Mr. Big Cheese,” he declared in a falsetto voice as he flapped the mouth-slit open and closed. “And I can’t wait for you to meet all my friends—”

  I grabbed the thing off his hand, yanked open the freezer, threw it inside and slammed the door shut.

  Dixon blinked. “Wow. You could’ve just mentioned you were sensitive about puppets.”

  Before I could insist I was not “sensitive,” a frantic pounding on the outside door startled us both, followed by indistinct yelling.

  Dixon made a startled, eager “oh” face, then dashed out of the room to see what was going on.

  I followed him out to the front of the shop, where a small, stout man was pressed against the glass door. He was backlit by the parking lot security lights, so he couldn’t see past his own reflection…though not for lack of trying. His nose has flattened into the glass, leaving an oily smear behind. “I know you’re in there, Reginald. Open up—it’s Wendall.” Knock-knock-knock. “Come on, it’s important!”

  “This is none of our business,” I said, but Dixon was already clicking open the locks.

  “You heard him, Yuri. It’s important.”

  He swung open the door, eager to help. Wendall blinked at Dixon. “You’re not Reginald.”

  “Nope.”

  He turned and looked at my truck in confusion. “And I suppose that’s your truck.”

  “Yep.”

  “Don’t you know how much healthier it is to walk?”

  He was one to speak about health. He was winded just from sprinting through the door.

  But before Dixon could regale him with the tale of our journey, he sighed and said, “Never mind. Sorry to bother you. I’ll go try to catch him at home.”

  “Maybe we can help.”

  Dixon was always saying such things. I had no idea why.

  “Are you postal employees?”

  As surely as if he’d already blurted it out, I knew immediately that Dixon would agree. Like most Spellcrafters, he had a malleable concept of the truth, and if his curiosity was piqued, he’d say whatever it took to hear the man’s story. Before he could make the ludicrous claim we were off-duty mail carriers, I said, “No. We’re not.”

  Wendall looked around the empty souvenir shop with its shuttered postal window. “Are you sure?”

  And now it was Dixon’s turn to stop me from speaking my mind. He said, “What’s so important that you need a mailman at this hour, anyway?”

  Wendall wrung his hands. “I run the taco factory on the other side of the hill, and I realized this morning that a shipment got out that shouldn’t have made it past quality control.”

  Dixon’s eyes went wide. “You ship tacos through the mail?”

  Wendall laughed nervously. “Oh no, we don’t make actual tacos at the taco factory. We make snow globes.” Of course they did. “With tacos inside. It’s a state-of-the-art process, totally automated. I run the machine myself. But I guess that’s not always a good thing. I didn’t realize the machinery was on the fritz until a box broke open and I noticed something went wrong with the taco mold.”

  Shaking his head, Wendall sat on the edge of a tomato-shaped ottoman and said, “I’m sure it’s my own fault. A big order came in, so I hired that guy to tune up the machine. It worked great for about a week—”

  “What guy?” I asked.

  “A traveling mechanic—he happened to be sitting at the counter in the coffee shop when the order came through and I was wondering aloud how I’d ever managed to fill it given the amount of raw materials I had.” Wendall’s brow furrowed. “Huh. Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence.”

  As a rule, I try not to roll my eyes. It undermines my natural authority. But some days it was a real struggle.

  Wendall said, “At first, I couldn’t believe my luck. The tune-up wasn’t cheap, but it eliminated a lot of waste, and I got that big order out, no problem. The machine even ran a little faster. Plastic needs a certain amount of time to cure, though, and now the tacos don’t look right anymore. I have my reputation to think of. I can’t let this get out. But a bad batch went out last night, and I need it back.”

  He looked forlornly at the postal window, which was clearly closed. Dixon said, “Well, if it’s locked in there, it’s not going anywhere, right?”


  That observation seemed to be some comfort. “True. I’ll just sit here and make sure I talk to Reginald first thing.”

  While I went in back and folded up the couch, Dixon chatted with his new friend. But there was little to learn…other than the fact that this so-called “traveling mechanic” had dark eyes, dark hair, and a way with parting people from their money.

  I found some instant coffee in the break room and made us each a cup. I’m not sure if Dixon was questioning Wendall on purpose, or if the meandering conversation was just more of his stream of consciousness. I sipped my coffee and listened, and found out that Taco Town was off the beaten path, but occasionally some intrepid connoisseur of Americana would mention it in a magazine article or blog post, and they’d get enough visitors to see them through another season. The permanent population was less than two hundred people, and growing smaller every year as people died off and teenagers left for college. For every one that came back with a future spouse, three more fled for good.

  I knew more about Taco Town than I ever wanted to by the time Reginald finally showed up. “A souvenir seller and a postmaster,” Dixon said with reverence. “Talk about having it all.”

  “I need that box back I dropped off yesterday,” Wendall said.

  Reginald stroked his chin. “You’ve already mailed it—it’s not yours anymore. Tampering with the US Mail is a federal offense.” Both men looked very grave…for all of two seconds. Then they both laughed, and Reginald clapped his friend on the shoulder, and said, “C’mon, let’s take a look.”

  Wendall was practically tap-dancing with anxiety as Reginald unlocked the mailroom. Behind the door, a small basket of postcards waited to go out, a pile of bills, and a single small box marked perishable. No snow globes.

  “Oh, great,” Wendall said, “you pick now to become efficient?”

  Reginald took the insult in stride. “You might want to check over by Vanessa’s farm. Sometimes when she picks up late, she doesn’t drive out to the main hub in Fairmont till the next morning.”

  “Give her a call and tell her I’m coming by,” Wendall called over his shoulder as he sprinted out the door, moving fast on his stumpy legs. He darted out to the parking lot, did a little hop, then turned around and stuck his head back inside and said, “Say, this would go a lot faster if you guys could give me a lift.”

  6

  DIXON

  Taco Town was not exactly a thriving metropolis, and we pulled up at the farm in just a few minutes. I was struck by how neat and orderly the greenhouses were—not that I consider myself a horticultural expert. But there was a tidiness to the farm that made it seem more like a storybook scene than an actual agricultural operation, despite it being the dying end of winter with traces of snow underfoot and bare trees all around.

  Even the cars were parked neatly. A pickup truck, a little hatchback, and a mail truck with its steering wheel on the wrong side, all of them lined up precisely beside the main greenhouse building.

  The structure’s walls were clear flexible plastic, with condensation beaded thick on the inside. But we could see through it well enough to spot a person moving among the plants. Wendall burst through the door without even knocking. Yuri and I exchanged a glance and a shrug, and followed. Inside, the greenhouse was still cool, but the way the early morning sun was beaming through the panels, I could tell it would warm up fast. It smelled like spring—soil and moisture and green growing things. As far as I was aware, I didn’t have a green thumb myself, but you never know. I’d never really tried my hand at gardening. But the enticing springtime scent of the greenhouse had me thinking it might not be a bad hobby….

  A middle aged woman with strawberry blonde hair stood in the center of the greenhouse. She wore a postal uniform with a spotless white lab coat over it. She was as neat and tidy as the rest of the farm, right down to her shoes—which were so shiny I could practically see myself in them from a half dozen yards away. “Wendall,” she called over, “look at my tomatoes!”

  Yuri and I shifted our attention to the veggies in question…and, wow, those really were some tomatoes. Not only were they red and ripe, and not only were there positively scads of them, but they were huge. Seriously huge. The size of my head.

  “Yeah, they look great,” Wendall said distractedly. “But what can you tell me about my package?”

  Vanessa crossed her arms and drawled, “Excuse me?”

  “The taco globe package that went out last night. Have you delivered it to Fairmont or is it still in the truck?”

  “Off the top of my head? I have no idea. Late last night, I picked up a second delivery, and maybe it’s in there, maybe not.”

  Wendall took a lurching step toward the door like a dog trying to get someone to throw a tennis ball, hoping Vanessa would follow. But Vanessa didn’t budge. “I’m not looking for your package until I’m done harvesting.”

  Wendall finally did the first thing Vanessa asked of him when he walked through the door, and took a good look at her tomatoes. So many tomatoes. He groaned. “But that’ll take all morning.”

  “Not if you get a move on. Plus, it’s a good thing you brought friends.” She pointed out some bushels, then took a tomato in hand and demonstrated. “Twist, then pull. It’s better if you leave the stem intact.”

  How exciting—I’d never picked a tomato before—but before I could grab a bushel, Yuri snagged me by the shoulder and gave his head subtle shake. I mouthed the word why? and he made a little painting motion.

  Spellcraft? What gave him that idea? Maybe they were just really nice tomatoes. Ripening all at once. To gigantic proportions. In the middle of March in Minnesota. Overnight.

  All right…I could see where Spellcraft might have been involved.

  Wendall grabbed bushel basket and started power-picking the tomatoes none too gently. “I don’t understand. Just last week you were complaining that your crop wouldn’t ripen.”

  “Well, I must have complained in the right place. Because a traveling botanist overheard me down at the diner—what are the chances?”

  Yuri gave me a meaningful look.

  Okay, fine.

  Vanessa went on. “He came and checked out the whole operation, and you know what he determined? The soil was deficient in minerals. All this time, I’d been fertilizing with nitrates, but what it needed was rock water.”

  Wendall, Yuri and I all mouthed the words rock water.

  “It’s true,” Vanessa said. “I’ll show you.” She led the three of us to a rain barrel in the corner and heaved open the lid. We all peered inside. Arranged in a circle at the bottom was a handful of fist-sized rocks. “The botanist put this together for me, and after the very first irrigation I had results. Not only did the most stubborn green tomatoes start showing hints of yellow, but some of them even doubled in size overnight.”

  Yuri seemed particularly unimpressed. “And how much did this traveling botanist charge you?”

  “What difference does it make? Just look at this crop! And now that my mineral problem is solved, all my future crops will be just as bodacious. Frankly, I think I got the better end of the bargain.”

  Yuri’s not one to argue. He simply turned his attention to one of the massively overburdened tomato plants and studied a ripe, heavy globe. I joined him, and he cocked his head in its direction. I took a better look, and when the sunlight hit the skin’s surface just right, the subtle sparkle of Spellcraft revealed itself. But even if the traveling Spellcrafter was responsible for the bumper crop, and even if Uncle Fonzo just so happened to be passing through Taco Town, I didn’t buy that the two things were necessarily related. Because it’s not as if the members of my family were the only Spellcrafters in the world. Besides, Uncle Fonzo’s quill was back in the attic. Just before we left, I’d hidden it under the bread box for safekeeping.

  I turned to Vanessa and said, “I, for one, think it’s great. And don’t let on about the rock water—keep your horticultural edge. After all, if your competitors got win
d of your secret sauce, pretty soon everyone would be doing it, and that’d just drive down the price of tomatoes.”

  Vanessa’s eyes went wide. “That’s exactly what the botanist said! And, y’know, he actually looked and sounded a lot like you.”

  I didn’t need to glance at Yuri’s expression to sense the I-told-you-so. “Come on.” I shoved an empty bushel basket into his hands. “These tomatoes won’t pick themselves.”

  While Wendall tried to get Vanessa to change her mind and look for his package, Yuri and I went to the far corner of the greenhouse and got picking. “Most Spellcrafters look pretty much the same to the Handless,” I told Yuri—and that was the truth. Whatever common ancestors we had, there was a particular something about most of us that made us easy to spot, if you knew what you were looking for. “But even if my uncle did manage to find another quill, I don’t see what’s got you all hot and bothered. Okay, maybe the snow globe machine is on the fritz—but you said yourself, Spellcraft and machinery don’t always mix. And the tomato lady seems happy.”

  Yuri gave a grunt and snapped a huge tomato off the vine. But he couldn’t disagree.

  Personally, I was excited. If Uncle Fonzo did have a new quill, then chances were, we’d catch up to him as he made his way through the back roads and small towns looking for ways to help people with their problems. Towns where no Spellcrafters lived, and the types of problems that were best fixed with the pen could still be found. It was just a matter of figuring out which way he was headed.

  I filled bushel after bushel as we worked our way down the rows until my hands hurt from picking. Wendall was still complaining, but Vanessa stood firm. “How about this?” Wendall suggested. If the box is already gone, I’ll get my kid to come help you while I go after it. He’s got a much stronger back then I do.”

  “Call Harvey before we look. If the box is gone, he takes your place—and if it’s still here, you both work.”

  She drove a hard bargain, but in the end, he made the call.