Cord walks over to the sink, looking out the window toward the parking lot then the entrance. “I guess I would have expected you to make some extra tortillas yesterday so you could sleep in this morning.”
Of course he would. “We serve our food fresh.”
He resumes his place, settling in at the doorway to the dining area. With a shoulder to the frame, he wraps his hands around the cup, quietly watching as I work.
I put the rolling pin to the testal, turning it to make the large circular shape I strive for. “Tell me about your mom’s bread making. Did she bake every day?”
Cord scoffs. “No. Definitely not.” He smiles.
“She made several loaves, to last the week?” I ask, working on the next tortilla.
“Naw.” He shakes his head, a crooked smile on his lips. “She wasn’t going to put time and effort on what she could buy for less than a dollar.”
“Oh.” So much for making small talk.
“She makes those big yeast rolls they serve at restaurants,” he explains.
“I see.”
“My dad loves those things.” He stares into his cup for a couple of seconds. “According to the story, my parents hit a rough patch when I was a kid. Certain God-fearing people around town thought Dad was hitting on a girl at the steakhouse in town.”
Oh dear. How did I manage to bring up painful memories for him?
“Wasn’t that at all. He’d go in and order a French onion soup, just so he could get the rolls.”
“At least it wasn’t what she thought.”
“They straightened things out,” he confirms, taking a drink.
Thankfully. “She learned the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?”
“Yep. She started baking regular like.” He heads to the coffeepot. “Though we called my little brother Rolly ’til someone told him how he got the nickname.”
Laughter erupted before I knew it was coming.
His cell rings, sending him into the other room. Meanwhile, I drop the first four tortillas on the flat top, adjusting the flames to avoid charred bits.
“I’m calling it, Miss Bonnie.” Cord pulls the backpack onto his shoulder. “Kassy’s got you covered.” He nods toward the camera.
I can’t help but follow his line of sight. This is the first bit of information I have on these people. At least now I know there’s three of them.
“Thank you.”
He heads to the door. “Well, I’ll see you tonight.”
“Okay.” My smile falters, but I manage not to ask about Tino, and if he’ll be back at some point.
“Have a good one,” he says, going through the door.
“You, too, Cord.” I’m glad I’m turned away from the camera because I don’t think I can keep the disappointment from my face. Stupid. I manage through another couple dozen tortillas before I cover the masa with a stainless-steel mixing bowl and switch to the prep.
I fill a pot with water then add salsa fixings and set a timer. Next, I grab a cutting board and knife, filling the bins, one after another, with tomato, onion, serrano peppers, cheddar cheese, pepper jack, and ham. I didn’t realize how much Tino did before heading upstairs. It was kind of sweet of him to make sure I didn’t fall behind.
Grabbing packs of chorizo and bacon, I head to the stove, turning on the fryer along the way. The chorizo goes into a pan then I slice bacon and toss it into another.
The sizzling leads my mind to an earlier conversation. Would it be so bad to do some prep work the day before? Or find a way to speed up what I do in the morning? The cold knife of betrayal scrapes across my conscience. I can hear the echo of my mother’s voice reminding me of our tradition. Wincing, I spoon cooked chorizo into the rectangular bin sitting just above the burners to stay warm. I’m doing the same with the bacon when the phone rings.
Glancing around, I check the time. Still a few minutes before seven. Oh well. I set the pan to one side and head over.
“Bomberos.” I reach for the notepad and pen I keep handy.
“Morning, Bonnie. This is Franklin.” One of my regulars from Bridge II.
“Good morning, Franklin. How can I help you?”
“Can you fix me one, with everything?” he asks.
The keypad announces an arrival. I swing back to see Manny and mouth a good morning. The mixing bowl catches my attention.
Tino’s voice comes in. If you offer both regular-sized and monster tacos, you can adjust the price to increase your profit and give yourself a break. Would making a change be such a big deal?
“Bonnie?”
“Yes, Franklin,” I reply, heart beating in my throat. “Hey, um…” I take a deep breath and go for it. “We have some regular tacos, too.” I can almost feel Manny’s eyes on me.
“Oh.” The uncertainty in his voice makes me wince. “Yeah, I’ll stick with my usual.”
“You got it.” The heat of embarrassment streaks across my face as I take his credit card information.
“Thanks.”
I’m putting the phone in the cradle when Franklin’s voice catches my attention. “Bonnie. Hang on.”
His voice goes muffled as I turn to Manny, who’s washing up to start the day.
“We’re doing little tacos?” he asks.
I open my mouth, ready to deny it, but obviously he heard me telling Franklin. Cornered, I start fidgeting, as if I’d just asked the guy to prom and been shot down in front of my friends.
“Hey, Reynolds wants a potato & egg and a chorizo & bean. Regular size,” Franklin adds.
“Oh-kay.” I jot down the order, catching myself before he realizes I’m surprised. I went from thinking Tino was wrong to taking an order for regular-sized tacos.
“No,” Franklin says to someone in the background. “Bomberos has regular tacos now.”
A glimmer of hope starts to grow inside me.
“She’s still got— Hey, Bonnie, you’re still gonna have the monster tacos, right?” The concern in his voice has me smiling.
“Yes,” I assure him. “That’s still what we’re known for.”
“So,” he says with the finesse of a used car salesman, “If you start naming these, would you call mine a Franklin?”
I hadn’t considered naming the tacos, but if it works.
“Oh, wait. How about the Frankenstein, since it has a little of everything?”
“Sure.” I chuckle at his enthusiasm.
“Maybe the little ones can be a Franky.”
“I like that.” Meanwhile, I add the note on the corner of the pad.
“Okay, we have a couple more. Bacon?” he asks, covering the phone. “Bacon. Bacon. Bacon. Okay, Bonnie. We have five bacon & egg, and a bacon egg a la Mexicana for Mr. Fancy-britches over here. A bean & cheese. Two potato & egg…”
Seventeen tacos later, I hang up the phone and turn to Manny. “I guess I’ll switch to making a few regular-sized tortillas.”
By ten o’clock, I’m at my wit’s end. The bell rings above the door, and I’m praying it’s not a delivery service coming in for a large order.
“Mom.” I’ve never been so happy to see her. “You’re here.”
“Of course. I’m early for church and thought I could meet—” she says, coming straight into the kitchen, eying me from head to foot before tucking a stray strand into my hairnet. “What’s wrong?”
I give her a brief explanation as I dust bits of cheese off my apron.
“Okay, let me get some help over here.” She taps away at her cell phone, frowning.
My heart beats in my throat. How could I possibly think she wouldn’t be upset? Grams started this place with the intention of having good food and family tradition. I went and knocked everything she worked so hard to build. “I’m sorry, Mom.”
“For what, dear?” she asks, distracted.
“I just took decades of tradition and trashed them.” I bite my bottom lip, ready to take whatever she has to say.
“How?” Her frown turns to confusion.
“Oh please, Bunny.” She swipes her hand, dismissing my concern as she sets her phone down. “I just told you that to keep you busy and out from underfoot.” She heads to the storage room. “If we’d been able to buy good, ready-to-cook tortillas, like you can find now, we would have ordered them in a heartbeat.”
Seconds tick by as her words sink in. I had to suck in a deep breath because I lost the ability to breathe after that blow. The building blocks of my life are crumbling around me.
Manny folds a taco, bringing the aluminum around with a practiced move then frowns. “You okay?” He takes a sharpie to the foil, labeling the taco before reaching for the next one in assembly line fashion.
Meanwhile, I have no idea how to answer him. “It’s all been a lie…”
“And I suggest you take care of that first thing,” Mom suggests, tying on an apron. “Once the courts and the banks open tomorrow, you’re going to get really busy.”
My eyes widen with the realization. “Maybe I should hold off on telling anyone.”
“Too late, baby.” She shakes her head. “It’s going out by Cappy-gram.”
“What?” My heartbeat echoes in my head.
“I texted Cappy and said he might want to skip coming in today since you’re so busy with the menu changes.” The phone rings, and she reaches for the receiver. “When he asked what changes, I turned off my phone.” She chuckles and winks as she brings the phone to her ear. “Bomberos,” she greets, without missing a beat.
“Ay, Dios,” my great aunt says from the doorway. “I’m going to need ten more Hail Marys if I’m going to wear one of those hussy aprons, mija.”
I turn to Manny, trembling hands at my stomach. “I may be sick.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Bonnie
“Mom,” I exclaim, exasperated. “Quit telling people we have a new menu.”
“I may end up running a little late with your order,” she continues, ignoring me. “The delivery truck hasn’t come in yet, and we were swamped yesterday.”
Well, at least she added a grain of truth to what she said. Yesterday was a beast. Thankfully, Mom was tired enough to leave with our aunt because she was dead set on drilling me about Tino.
After such a long day, I only did the necessary cleaning. No additional pass with bleach on the floor of the dining area. And the seats got a dowsing with disinfectant spray and little else.
Mom cuts the till at the end of the day. I can’t muster enough strength to be shocked when she gives me the day’s earnings. We actually made three times as much as a typical Sunday. And the one person I want to share the news with isn’t around.
I run my teeth along the inside of my bottom lip. Why didn’t I at least hear him out? I was so angry at him for wanting me to change what I’m doing that I didn’t listen to what he suggested.
Something between regret and shame churns in my stomach. I was unfair to him. I lumped him in, expecting him to be like every other guy I’ve been with. One thing I can say for sure is he’s not like anybody I’ve ever met before.
He was actually trying to help me, and I blew him off. Now I feel like the little piece of scum around the edge of the sink drain. The one everybody misses until I get there to do a thorough cleaning. Oh hell. If I wasn’t so annoyed about him walking out while I was talking to him, I might feel bad about it.
It’s almost noon and, for the first time, maybe ever, I don’t want to be here. I’m tired from last night, tired of worrying, tired of not meeting my own expectations. As much as I complained about being pushed aside, I did the exact same thing to the one person who’s actually tried to help me.
I grab a chunk from what’s left of the mountain of masa, pull some off, and toss the rest back.
Mom ends the call, pulling the ticket and setting it beside Manny. “Did you call the delivery service you use about bringing in some flour tortillas?”
It’s not enough I overslept this morning, and my arms have all the substance of overcooked celery. “I have Noah going by the grocery store to buy enough to see us through the lunch rush.”
“Perfect.” She smiles, looking across the table in front of me.
Manny picks up the latest ticket, raising a brow. “Cobb Salad?”
“Mom, stop creating new items for the menu,” I add with a pointed look.
“What new items?” She has the gall to try looking innocent. “You have salad greens, tomato, cheese, bacon, eggs, chicken breast, and avocado.”
“But no turkey breast,” I point out.
“Precisely why I asked if you called the delivery service,” she replies with a click of her tongue.
Manny shrugs. “We can use chicken.” He heads off to pull chicken breast from the fridge.”
“They’ll live.” She sets a hand on her hip. “Most of these people are ordering salads to make themselves feel better, not because they actually want something healthy.”
Taking a deep breath, I prepare to remind her we can’t upset the budget and have us risk running short on our staples.
“Before you start.” She raises a hand, stopping me before I can utter a word. “These salads have almost twice your regular profit margin.”
Okay. That’s enough to rob me of every argument.
“You need to expand the menu a little. It’s time.”
“We’ve had these items ever since I can remember,” I insist.
“Yes. When Mom put this together, people weren’t looking at diets and portions,” she explains.
“Hey,” Cappy’s voice rings out from the dining room. “Anyone coming to take our order?”
Mom rolls her eyes.
“We want some of these new tacos.”
“He does know these are just smaller versions of our regular tacos, right?” I ask, needing to verify.
“Yes.” Mom waves, dismissing my concern as she heads to the front. “It’s his way of telling everyone we have something new.” She pauses at the doorway. “Oh, the guys at Bridge I want to name the next Monster Taco since Bridge II got to do the first one.”
“We don’t have a naming competition,” I remind him.
She shrugs. “The guisado taco is now the Wolfman.” With that, she goes through the door, heading to Cappy.
“Everyone wants to make changes,” I say to no one in particular.
Manny turns, tongs in hand. “I want the hot dogs in salsa to be called the Dracula.”
I throw my hands up in defeat.
*****
Tino
Robalo cuts the engine, letting the rubber raft drift onto the bank of the Rio Grande with a light thud. He’s one of the border’s most prolific coyotes, having swum across the river enough times to earn himself the nickname.
“Vamonos.” The low command gets the men moving, exiting both rafts under the cover of night. I’m on the floor, my clothes blending into the darkness as a dozen men make their way past the U.S. border.
I keep my breathing shallow, biding my time as I concentrate on the sounds above the lap of water against the raft. The group is stomping through the undergrowth, breaking branches, warning any creatures of the night they’re coming through.
Snippets of their conversation filter back on the warm summer breeze. Someone curses, stumbling over a large rock, a complaint about a snagged shirt, and the warning to watch for snakes, followed by another curse.
Where the hell are you? The timing is off. I frown, checking the need to sit up and assess the situation. My information has never been wrong before. So, what gives? The guys have made enough noise they’d be heard all the way to El Paso.
Another minute goes by as they drift farther away, chiding each other, as if they’re headed to a soccer game.
“Alto,” a man’s voice rings out, telling them to stop. “U.S. Border Patrol.”
There we go. I tilt my head, concentrating on what’s being said.
A few
seconds pass then the whooping starts as the group scatters. “Correle,” the coyote yells, signaling them to run left.
One, two, three... Seconds tick by as the other agent is lured away. Sitting up, I step onto the bank. Once I reach solid ground, I go in at a crouch, my feet landing where the others have already cleared the way.
“Transported to a holding facility until which time…”
Half the group is kneeling, their hands on their heads, patiently listening to the border patrol agent.
I stop two steps behind him, leaning in one direction and another to get a better view of him. So this is Saul, the man who left Bonnie without a dime. I’m not impressed.
The guy continues giving them the rundown on what happens now that they’ve been captured, sparking a guffaw, a chuckle, and a couple of snorts, along with their laughter.
“We good, jefe?”
“Once my partner—” Saul stops mid-sentence, realizing the question wasn’t for him. His shoulders jerk, and his breath hitches. Did it dawn on him someone else may be nearby? There’s a slight tremble to his head as he cranes his neck to glance over his right shoulder while I shift my weight, swiveling to the left. He switches, searching to his left. I pivot, going right.
Laughter erupts from the group. Ignoring them, I reach out, jerking his arm behind him and pull the gun from his grasp in one fluid move. Now that I disarmed him, I aim my boot high on his calf and his legs buckle, landing him on his knees. The whole thing happened in less than two seconds, too fast for him to react.
He tries to look behind him. “What the hell?” His voice goes up at the end.
“Saul Mares,” I state, waiting for confirmation. Meanwhile, the guys get up out of the dirt, giving us their full attention.
“Shit,” Saul says under his breath.
“I’m here to talk finances.” My voice is loud enough so every guy hears me. I stash his gun at my waist then slap a pack of bills on his left shoulder.
Saul jerks, leaning to his right, until my hold pinches enough to stop him. Turning his head, he glances over to see what’s landed on him.
Saving Bonnie: A Dark Mafia Romance (Blood Ties Book 2) Page 11