Showing posts with label hector acosta. Show all posts
Showing posts with label hector acosta. Show all posts

Monday, November 14, 2022

El Curandero, fiction by Hector Acosta


The bright, yellow egg yolk sat perfectly unbroken at the bottom of the water-filled glass, the murky water magnifying its size and color. The sight of the yolk always reminded Juan of the story his mother read to him about the goose who laid golden eggs. All around the egg yolk were long, milky strands resembling spider webbing, the fiber stretching from the yolk itself and up to the surface of the water, where a thin layer of white foam had form.

        “You were right to call me Señor Parker,” Juan said in Spanish. “See all this?” he pointed to the strands, his finger following one of the strands to the surface, “this is all the bad energy which I pulled from your body. Someone wishes you ill.”

        He stopped and waited for Adolfo to translate the speech to Mr. Parker, who sat on the bed and stretched. Juan stayed quiet, watching Mr. Parker’s well-toned body ripple and shift as he stretched his arms to the ceiling and arched his back until it produced a satisfying and small cracking sound. Adolfo had told him that Mr. Parker was in his forties, but with his full blond hair, trim body, and wrinkle-free face, it was hard to believe. He’d be handsome if it wasn’t for the splotches of red which covered his neck, shoulders, and chest like irregularly shaped pools.

        After Adolfo finished translating, Mr. Parker got up and walked over toward Juan.

        “I knew it,” Edward Parker muttered, his eyes moving up and down the glass. He turned to Adolfo and said, “I had a deal go bad at work this week and haven’t been able to meet my daily steps goal all week. Not to mention this,” he said, motioning to one of the red spots.

        Juan gripped the glass tighter and tried not to look at Adolfo, only for Adolfo to cough and remind Juan he almost missed his cue.

        Adolfo, a man who, until a month ago, Juan assumed he would never see again. He was as thin as a bad lie, with shiny, slicked black hair frozen in place thanks to a hefty use of hair gel. He’d shaved his stubble, trimming it down to an angular goatee, but his eyebrows were still too bushy and big for his face, like dark clouds hovering over almond-colored eyes.

        Clearing his throat, Juan said, “You will need weekly limpias. This…” he motioned to the glass, “is too much to wipe away all at once.”

        It had been Adolfo’s idea to play the role of the translator for Juan’s Spanish-speaking only healer. “The guy is will be expecting a certain…ambiente, you know? He has certain expectations, and the fact you’re not a little old, hunchback woman is going to throw him off already. The least we can do is have you speak only Spanish.”

        “Should I wear a sombrero too?” Juan had asked.

        While Adolfo translated, Juan looked at the strands connected to the yolk. He’d added a bit of salt to the water beforehand, just like his mother taught him, so that when he cracked the egg and dropped the yolk in, he’d be guaranteed some strands. But Juan’d never seen so many appear so quickly.

        “And how much do you say he charges for each session?” Edward asked, his eyes on Juan, who tried to look wise and mystical. Juan wasn’t wearing a sombrero, but he wore a pair of loose, white pants and a flowy white shirt, along with a large silver cross he’d gotten off a pawn shop a day ago.

        “Well, Mr. Parker, it all depends on a variety of factors. As you can imagine, pulling away the bad shi—” Adolfo paused and corrected himself, “energy, out of a person, that takes a lot out of Don Alvarado.. It can even prevent him from booking more jobs.”

        “But he guarantees he can make me better? And get rid of all the bad energy?”

        Juan nodded when Adolfo asked him the question in Spanish.

        Edward again looked at Juan. The man’s gaze stirred things in Juan’s gut and drips of condensation caressed the fingers holding the glass.

        Walking over to Juan, Edward took the glass without asking. When he did so, his fingers grazed Juan’s, and maybe it was just Juan’s imagination, but he thought they stayed there longer than necessary. Edward brought the glass up and studied the egg.

        Adolfo and Juan waited, neither daring to move.

        Setting the glass down on a nearby counter, Edward said, “¿Qué dices, Curandero, de veras me puedes ayudar?”

        It was a good thing Edward had taken the glass from him, because hearing him speak Spanish, good Spanish, mind you, Juan might have dropped the glass himself.


        “I told you, Juan,” he said, “I told you this was going to work,” Adolfo said and reached for his drink, a giant frozen margarita with a small beer bottle embedded into it. When the waitress placed the drink on the table, Juan thought of another story his mom read to him once, of a sword stuck in some stone and the one person in all the kingdom who could pull it out.

        Juan stared at Adolfo and thought of the last time he’d seen him before he reappeared a month ago. They’d been living together in an apartment, both working as curanderos. Juan had always been the one with the deft hands and knowledge gleaned from his mother’s lessons. At the same time, Adolfo was better at talking with the customers, convincing them to either book another appointment or buy some of the herbs and candles. Things had been good, or at least Juan thought they were good. Until the day Adolfo told him he was leaving.

        “Nada personal, Juan,” Adolfo told him as he packed up his stuff. “But I don’t want to spend my life running eggs over abuelitas complaining about their arthritis and getting paid in tamales. I’m better than that.”

        Sometimes, in the middle of the night, or after he had too many drinks and left the bar alone, Juan wondered what he would have done if Adolfo had asked him to go with him. If he’d said Juan was also better than this life he’d been living.

        “I’ll never understand why you love these types of places,” he muttered and took a sip of his beer.

        They were seated in a local Tex-Mex restaurant corner booth, miles away from Edward’s neighborhood and hours from the meeting they had with him. The restaurant was empty when they’d first arrived but was now full of people done with work and celebrating the weekend. Bright decor and loud Mariachi music surrounded them, giving Juan the start of a headache.

        “What’s not to love? Adolfo said as the waitress appeared with a large tray of tortilla chips and a bowl of thick, nuclear yellow cheese.

        “Are you two hombres ready to order?”

        Adolfo went with something called a smothered, bothered, covered, border burrito, while Juan chose a plate of fajitas and asked for the kickin’ ranchero sauce on the side. Once the waitress left, Adolfo plunged his hand into the tortillas and reached for the queso.

        “Two men came looking for you,” Juan blurted out.

        Adolfo stopped mid-queso dip. “¿Quién?”

        Who, Adolfo wanted to know. He tried to keep his tone casual, but Juan noticed the edge of his word, the way it could have cut through flesh.

        “Dos tipos,” said Juan, “About a week before you showed up. Said they were old friends of yours.”

        They’d been waiting at Juan’s door one day after he came back from a job. One of them, a fat and bald guy with a bent nose, leaned against the stair’s railing, and the way the structure whined as he shifted his foot, Juan wonder if it would support him. The other one, big and muscular, and bien bien moreno, stepped forward and introduced himself as Santiago. Juan didn’t fail to notice they were now blocking his way inside. They were looking for Adolfo, Santiago told him, were old friends of his and heard he was back in town.

        “I could tell they weren’t your friends,” Juan said just as the waitress returned with their plates.

        “What you tell them?” Adolfo asked.

        “The truth. That I hadn’t seen you in almost three years, but if they did find you, to give you an ass-kicking for me.”

        Adolfo stared at Juan. “They bought it?”

        “They haven’t come back around since,” Juan said.

        “Good,” Adolfo said, reaching for the bottle of Cholula hot sauce. “Good.”

        Who were they?”

        “Just some guys, nothing you gotta worry about,” Adolfo said, uncapping the bottle and covering his already-covered burrito with bright red sauce.

        Juan grunted. “Bullshit. Those two looked like they would have skinned you alive if they’d found you. Let me guess—you owe them money?”

        "Nothing like that,” Adolfo said, unwrapping his utensils. Glancing at Juan, he sighed and said, “They weren’t happy with a limpia I did, okay?”

        Juan blinked, not sure he heard correctly. “I thought you gave that up?”

        “I’d do it every so often when either the opportunity came up, or I was desperate. Mostly just me swatting some vieja complaining about headaches or their bad love live with whatever branch I found beforehand.”

        “Why were those guys looking for you?” Juan asked

        “They’re brothers. They’d hired me to help out their sister and weren’t happy when I told them there wasn’t much I could do and that they should take her to a real doctor.”

        “Did you give them back the money they paid you?”

        Adolfo grunted. “¡Ni a putas! Why would I? I did my part. Plus, I always set expectations. Gave them a whole speech about how I wasn’t guaranteeing anything.”

        “What was wrong with the person?” Juan asked.

        Shrugging, Adolfo dipped a chip into the queso. “Cancer of some sort.”

        “God damn it, Adolfo,” Juan said. While Juan might not have followed all of the lessons his mother imparted on him, one he’d managed to adhere to was never giving people false hope. In his mother’s view, there was a large divide between the people she saw and their everyday maladies, and other curanderos who promised they could heal anything and everything.

        “It was a dumb mistake,” Adolfo said. “But don’t worry, I‘m going to fix it with those guys. That’s part of the reason why I returned here.”

        For a second, Juan wanted to ask if he was the other part of the reason Adolfo came back. But he knew better. Adolfo returned because of his new business idea.

        “You should see this guy, Chino,” Adolfo had said pulling out the nickname he used to call him, Chino—on account of Juan’s curly hair. “El tipo es bien extraño,” he continued. “He’s a...what do you call them, the weirdos who always think they’re sick or about to get sick? Hypocrites?”

        Juan didn’t know the word either, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t that. “And he wants a limpia?” he asked.

        “He will after I sell him on it.”

        It turned out Adolfo worked for Edward Parker as a driver. This despite the fact Juan knew Adolfo didn’t have a valid driver’s license. He could have asked how he got around that fact, but instead decided to stick to Adolfo’s plan, which sounded less and less thought out.

        “When I say the guy is weird, I mean it. The stuff he spends money on! Card readings, psychics, objects that supposedly will bring him luck. He’s one big walking mark, and I’m surprised no one has tried to milk him for all he’s worth already. “

        “Until you.”

        Adolfo shook his head. “You’re not listening. I don’t want to milk him dry. He’s our way in. All we need is to impress him, and he’ll start recommending us. You know how the richies are. They jump from trend to trend.”

        Adolfo cut into his oversized burrito, spilling its meat, rice, and beans contents into the plate, reminding Juan of the summers he spent in Veracruz, where his grandma ran a farm and kept pigs. Juan couldn’t have been more than seven years old when he saw his grandma slice open a pig’s throat, the blood spilling into the concrete pen and coating his grandma’s rough, brown skin.

        “You’re still good to follow through with the next step?” Adolfo asked without looking up from his plate.

        Tearing a piece of the flour tortilla, Juan piled it with meat and bell peppers. “You sure he’ll be okay afterward?” he asked. The meat was flavorless and stringy, nothing like the fajitas Juan would make at home.

        “You saw him today. He looks fine, doesn’t he?”

        An image of Edward sitting on the edge of the bed, the top button of his shirt undone, puffs of blond chest hair peeking through slipped into Juan’s mind, silencing the brightness of the restaurant. Blinking the image away, he found Adolfo staring intently at him. “Relax,” he said, “I’m only put a bit into his morning coffee, just like we talked about.”

        The discussion to poison Edward came up far more naturally than Juan would have ever thought.

        “We’re going to have to keep him on the hook, somehow,” Adolfo had been musing one day, shortly after Edward agreed to meet Juan. “The guy likes to jump from treatment to cure—toda la pinche gente adinerada son igual. They throw the money away without thinking about it. I’ve seen this guy jump from acupuncture to steam baths to vegan diets all in the same week.”

        “I thought the goal was to get him to recommend us to his other rich friends?” Juan had asked.

        “That’s not going to happen if we don’t leave an impression on him. He’s not like one of your regular clients, the ones who come to you just out of sheer belief and tradition. He’s going to want to see results.”

        “Even though there’s nothing wrong with him,” Juan said.

        “Pretty much.”

        Sitting across from him now, Juan wondered if Adolfo knew exactly what he was doing with the conversation, leading Juan to the same solution he had in mind.

        “Your tío get us more of the stuff if we need it?” Adolfo asked, finishing his margarita and setting the glass by the edge of the table for the waitress to pick up.

        Juan leaned forward, glancing around to make sure no one was listening to them. “What do you mean ‘if we need it?’” he asked. “You just said you’re barely putting any into the guy’s coffee. You know how dangerous that stuff is?”

        The truth was, even Juan didn’t know how dangerous the substance they’d been giving Edward really was. He was repeating what his uncle always told him about thallium poisoning. His uncle, who’d worked in an ore smelting plant over in El Paso for most of his life and used to tell Juan stories about his co-workers suffering diarrhea, hair loss, nausea, vomiting and “la piel bien bien roja, como el kool-aid qué te gusta.”

        The skin as red as the kool-aid you like to drink.

        “Cálmate, wuey,” Adolfo said, “There’s plenty left in that bottle he sent us. I’m just thinking for the future. For the next clients.”

        Leaning back in his seat, Juan picked at his meal and tried to ignore the migraine building in his head. “Estás loco,” he told Adolfo. “We got lucky with Edward. You have a way of giving him the stuff without him noticing. How would we do it with anyone else?”

        Adolfo grinned and said, “Way ahead of you.” Raising a queso-stained hand, Juan thought he was motioning the waitress over, but a different woman reached their table, Adolfo already pulling his chair back to stand.

        “You’re late,” he told the woman.

        “Hay no empiences,” she said, tugging the strap of her exposed bra. “I told you I didn’t get off till five thirty.”

        The woman was short, and curvy, wearing tight, bedazzled jeans and a white t-shirt that drew the attention of most males in the nearby area. She had long, black hair and big breasts, and when she leaned and kissed Adolfo on the cheek, it sparked a bolt of jealousy across Juan’s mind.

        “Juan, this is Sofía. Sofía, this is Juan.”

        Taking a seat, Sofía wasted no time reaching for a tortilla chip and dipping it into the queso, somehow managing to do so without getting a single drop of yellow on her polished nails. “Nice meeting you, Juan,” she said.

        “Uh, hi,” Juan muttered, glancing at Adolfo and trying to figure out what was happening.

        “Sofía here is a cleaning lady. She—”

        “I’m a house cleaner, pendejo,” she said and, in the same breath, flagged down a waitress and ordered a beer.

        Rolling his eyes, Adolfo continued. “Sofía is a house cleaner. I met her the other day while she was house cleaning Edward’s house.”

        “Has Adolfo told you how much of a weirdo he is? Requires I wear different gloves for each part of the house and that I wear these dumb little bags on my feet so ‘I don’t track dirt and other things from room to room,’” Sofía said.

        “We got to talking, and she mentioned how she services most of the neighborhood.”

        Juan’s heart raced, and his chest tightened as if he was trapped in a rollercoaster ride and had no control over where it was taking him.

        “It’s true. Every house in a three-block span is one of my clients.”

        “Tell her what you told me about the guy who lives across from Edward.”

        “Mr. Garth? Oh, he’s a freak too, but on a whole other level. Guy has a whole room dedicated to this weird collection of, like, cartoon toys and stuff. You should see the tetas on some of the toys he has up and around, bigger than mine.”

        “The other thing Sofía.”

        “Oh yeah. He believes in ghosts. Thinks he’s been haunted his whole life by his mom, who died giving birth to him or something.”

        “Sounds to me like he could use a limpia,” Adolfo said, running his finger around the bowl of queso, collecting the last bit. “Maybe a session to see if we can invoke el espiritu.”

        “Yeah, I can get you guys dirt on all my clients,” Sofía said. “And if I can’t find anything, I can help you poison them, like you’re doing with Mr. Parker.”

        Even though he’d been expecting it, the words still made Juan’s stomach drop. “You told her?”

        “I figured it out,” Sofía said, tapping on the table to get Juan’s attention. Ever since this guy showed up, Mr. Parker hadn’t been acting normal for the last few weeks. Then I heard him talking about you coming in to try to heal him and figured something was up.”

        “One morning she caught me putting the stuff in his drink. I had to tell her.”

        “Lucky for you both, I decided to join you rather than turn you all in. Lucky also because I’m going to help you expand,” Sofía said.

        “Expand?” Juan asked. “You want to poison every single client? I think that’s going to be noticed eventually.”

        “First of all,” Adolfo said, nodding to the waitress who picked up their plates, “If you’re shitting blood, are you going to tell your neighbor? But more importantly, how often do you think they notice people like us? You think they would ever realize if a cook started to include ingredients they’re allergic to into their food? Or the gardener directing pollen toward their side of the bedroom? We make their lives just a little bit miserable for a while, and then bam, we show up and make everything better.”

        Think about it, all these assholes hire people like us,” Sofía said, motioning to the three of them sitting around the table, “to keep their house in order, cook for them, fix their cars, and keep their yard neat, but I bet you we’re invisible to them.”

        “Come on, Juan. Don’t you want to stop taking the bus everywhere? Don’t you want to make something of yourself with what your mom taught you. I’m not saying we’re going to end up using the stuff, but it’s better to be prepared, right?”

        The grin Adolfo threw at Juan was one he’d seen countless times before. It was the one he gave him when they were both just getting hair on their lips and elsewhere when he dared him to follow him into the empty lot a few blocks from their house, where no one ever went. The same grin he gave him when he convinced Juan to dip into his mother’s purse and take twenty dollars.

        “I’ll reach out to my uncle,” Juan said, just as the waitress placed a five-layer tres leches cake between them.


        While there were still a couple of spots of red on Edward’s body, mostly cluttered among his left arm and shoulders, the rest had disappeared. Bare-chested, Edward marveled at this fact, staring at himself in the full-length mirror while Juan collected his stuff from the counter.

        “Increíble,” Edward said, turning around and craning his neck to inspect his back on the mirror. “Incredible,” he said again.

        Glancing at Edward, Juan’s eyes slid from Edward’s trim waist to his broad shoulders. He was browner than he would have expected, and he had a sudden image of Edward in a tanning bed wearing nothing but a speedo and those strange little goggles. Blinking away the image, he made some non-committal noise and returned to packing his tools.

        Juan has been treating Edward weekly for a little over six weeks now. The sessions usually consisted of an egg limpia or a barrida, which involved Juan bundling some herbs together, dipping the bundle into a bowl of water and then running the soaking bundle all over Edward, who was ordered to remain perfectly still with eyes closed. Juan enjoyed these moments, when he was close to their client, so close he could smell the cologne—some subtle, French thing, Juan guessed—and take his time inspecting Edward’s body. During the last session, as Juan was doing just that, he thought he saw one of Edward’s eyes flutter open and catch him staring, but he couldn’t be sure.

        “Incredible,” Edward repeated in Spanish and, to Juan’s disappointment, reached for his shirt lying on a chair. “And it’s not just the redness that has gone away. So has my migraines. I feel like I’d been living underwater for a few months, moving in slow motion and drowning, and I finally got pulled out.”

        Juan smiled and continued packing. If his uncle were right, Edward would still be feeling some of the effects from the thallium for a couple more months, but Adolfo had been tapering off on the doses for a while now, as well as introducing some Mexican pharmacy-bought antidote to counterattack it.

        “I’m sure Adolfo already told you I had some doubts about this whole thing in the beginning,” Edward said, sitting on the bed and buttoning up his shirt. “I hope you didn’t take it personally. I’ve just been searching and visiting so many places and people, trying to find something to…” he paused and frowned, running his hand through his hair as he grasped for an elusive word. Finally, he just shrugged and let it drop.

        This was the most Edward had spoken directly to Juan. Even though he’d shown he could speak Spanish, and spoke it well, he usually stuck with English and relied on Adolfo to “translate” for Juan. But Adolfo hadn’t been able to make this session, so it’d been only Juan and Edward this whole time.

        Qué bueno que lo pudiomos ayudar,” Juan muttered.

        “I imagine you’re going to be helping a lot of new people soon,” Edward mused, still sitting on his bed, watching Juan. “Adolfo told me he couldn’t be here today because he’s meeting Mrs. Dolson.”

        Adolfo had been busy this week, setting up meetings with many of the clients Edward referred them to, and figuring out who from their rosters of underpaid, overworked employees he could bring into their plan. For Mrs. Dolson, they were using Sofía, who cleaned the old woman’s house twice a week.

        “The old bitch always makes me do the bathrooms all over again,” she’d told Adolfo and Juan when they met for dinner at yet another tacky Tex-Mex restaurant.

        “Word of warning,” Edward said as he rose from the bed. “Be careful around her.”

        Juan thought he was talking about Sofía but realized Edward was referring to Mrs. Dolson. “She’s known to have roaming hands,” he said, closing the distance between himself and Juan with three strides of his long legs. Reaching into his pocket, he took out a wad of folded bills and presented them to Juan.

        “Adolfo handles the payments,” Juan said, looking at Edwards’s face and fighting the sudden desire to run a finger across the angle of his chin and feel his stubble.

        “This is for you. Think of it as a bonus for the work you’ve done,” Edward said. His lips thin but somehow fitting his face twitched into a smile as his eyes focused on Juan. “Take it.”

        The two words prickled against Juan’s skin, and he reached for the money. He thought he saw the smallest of nods from Edward when he took hold of the bills, and he almost let out a gasp as Edward’s finger skimmed across the palm of his hand.

        “When can I see you again?” Edward asked.

        “Adolfo handles the scheduling. I know he’s scheduling a lot of sessions, but I’m sure we can get —”

        “No,” Edward said shaking his head. “When can I see you.”


        Juan was pretty sure they’d forgotten his eggrolls.

        He checked the bag as he climbed the steps up to his third-story apartment, the Houston heat pressing against his back even as the sun dipped into the horizon. He rummaged through the chopsticks, multitude of soy sauce packets, and cartons filled with General Tso’s Chicken and Lo Mein. The eggrolls were the best thing the restaurant made, so good they were worth putting up with the place’s long wait time, overpriced menu, and dirty tables.

        He'd left Edward’s place without giving him an answer, stammering something about being late for his next scheduled session and racing out of there like a teenager fleeing a classroom after someone pointed out the tent in his pants. He replayed the conversation as he climbed the last set of stairs to reach his apartment. His stomach tingled with a mix of nervousness and excitement as he thought of the way Edward’s fingers lingered on his palm, the brazen look he gave him as he said he wanted to see him again, the emphasis of the word you. The single word stayed in his mind, the salt on the a rim of a margarita, and just like when he drank too many of those drinks, it made Juan’s stomach flutter.

        Thinking back to the moment lifted his mood to the point he almost forgot about the missing eggrolls. It also prevented him from noticing the man waiting at the top of the stairs until he almost bumped into him.

        Just like before, Santiago was blocking the entrance to his house.

        “Señor Alvarado,” the big man said as a way of greeting.

        “I already told you I hadn’t seen him,” Juan said, stopping five stairs away from the apartment landing. Hearing creaking from behind him, he glanced back and found the other one, the bald one, climbing up the steps. He was on the second floor already, and the way he was huffing and puffing, Juan thought there might be a chance he’d dropped dead before he reached him.

        Y te creímos,” Salvador said. “But that was almost three months ago. A lot can change in that time. Isn’t that right, Heriberto?”

        “Yea….a….lot…change,” Heriberto said, the man trying to catch his breath and sound intimidating at the same time. Juan would have found it funny if he still wasn’t wedged between two men, one who was nearly double in size of him.

        “We’ve been hearing some interesting things about you Señor Alvarado. That you’re working for the gringos and fresas. Is that why you can take an Uber now? Wasn’t he taking the bus last time we saw him?” Santiago asked his brother.

        “Yeah,” Heriberto said. “Not anymore though. It’s like he came into money.”

        “You’ve been watching me,” Juan said.

        “We’ve been watching for your….” Santiago paused and climbed down a step, the stairs groaning under his weight. “You know, what is Adolfo to you? They used to say you were primos.”

        “He’s my friend,” Juan said before correcting himself. “Was.”

        If Santiago caught the error, he didn’t show it, just took another step down. “Lousy friend. The rumor is he left you high and dry a few years back. Someone did that to me, I wouldn’t want him back in my life anymore.”

        “And especially not someone like Adolfo,” Heriberto chimed in, having finally caught his breath. He also took a step toward Juan. “Es un ratero, and a liar.”

        “I haven’t seen him,” Juan said, and this much was true. Technically, Adolfo was still crashing in his place, but he saw less and less of the man. He was either arranging new clients for Juan or scoping out the people who would help make the clients’ lives miserable before Juan swooped in and magically cured them.

        “Is he that busy with his new girl?” Santiago asked.

        “You know, the one with the big tetas?” Heriberto, only two steps below him, added. “Spends almost every night at her place seems like.”

        “What do you two have planned with that old woman?”

        Juan’s knee shook, and he almost dropped the bag of Chinese food he was holding. He wasn’t sure what to focus on first; the fact the two brothers seemed to know so much about Adolfo and his life, or that Adolfo had been lying to him.

        “Adolfo said he was going to return your money,” Juan whispered, a loud dim in his ears.

        “¿Qu­é dijo?” Heriberto asked. “I couldn’t hear him over the whimpering.”

        “I think he said Adolfo was going to return our money,” Santiago answered.

        “How much does he owe you?” Juan said and reached into his pocket, grabbing the money Edward had given him. “I can give you what I have right now. Maybe that’s en—”

        His words were cut short by Santiago slamming a fist into his stomach, yanking away his breath and instantly blurring his vision. The Chinese food fell on the floor, Lo Mei splashing against his tennis shoes as Juan fell to one knee and gasped for breath.

        “How pathetic are you,” he asked, gripping Juan by the hair and pulling him to his feet. “Guy goes and leaves you, and not only do you take him back—and don’t pretend you haven’t—but now you’re even offering to pay his debts.”

        Heriberto grabbed Juan’s left wrist, slamming it on the railing. “Hey, if the vato wants to pay Adolfo’s debt, maybe we should let him, Santiago.” He said and snickered. “Didn’t you always say you’d break each of his fingers if you caught up to him?”

        “Sabes que, I think you’re right,” Santiago said releasing Juan’s hair. Reaching down, he picked up a small loose concrete slab and held it in his hand like a baseball. “Hold him tight,” he told Heriberto.

        “No, please, wait,” Juan said, struggling against Heriberto’s grip. “We can pay you, I promise.”

        “You don’t get it, do you?” Santiago said, slapping him lightly on the cheek. “I want to hear this from him. I want to take everything out of him.” Santiago raised the hand holding the piece of concrete. “You? You’re just what I have to make do with till then,” he said and brought the concrete down.

        In order to prepare for the pain of having his fingers broken, Juan inhaled deeply and closed his eyes. He was so focused on being prepared for the wracking pain he almost missed the clanging sound and the way the rail he was being leaned against shook.

        “I think he peed his pants,” Heriberto said with a laugh, releasing Juan’s grip.

        Juan opened his eyes and cast a quick glimpse at the portion of the rail that his palm had been resting against just moments earlier. Even though the logical part of him already Santiago hadn’t gone through with his threat, a part of him still expected to see his fingers mangled and crushed. He stared at his uninjured hand and watched his fingers move under his command to be sure.

        “Tell him we’ll be back,” Santiago said as Heriberto reached into Juan’s pocket and took out the folded bills. “Make sure he knows that for what he did to us, we expect more than just a refund.” Patting Juan on the cheek one more time, Santiago let the slab fall to the floor.

        They descended the stairs without another word, the clanging of their steps attacking Juan’s ear as he slumped down on the floor among spilled soy sauce packets and General Tso chicken.


        The queso was a brighter yellow in this restaurant than at the last one, Juan noted. There were also chunks of brown meat and diced tomatoes trapped within the thick, congealed cheese. The appetizer had been the first thing Adolfo had ordered, but surprisingly, it’d gone untouched so far.

        “Four thousand dollars,” Adolfo said, his attention alternating from his phone and a small notepad on his side of the table next to the tortilla chips. “Just for this month alone. Mrs. Dolson has you booked two times next week—she says she really likes when you wear those tight shirts by the way—and the Garth guy has you every other Wednesday.”

        Juan only half listened, his attention on Adolfo himself. He’d made a couple of changes to himself in the last few months, starting with his new phone. “We need to present a certain look to everyone,” he’d told Juan at the strip mall store they went to pick it up. “Most of these people schedule everything electronically, and I can’t be pulling out an old phone that takes five minutes to load up the email app.” Juan cosigned for the phone contract because his credit was a lighter shade of red than Adolfo. His phone remained cracked and three generations behind.

        His clothes looked more expensive, something he’d been able to verify by looking through his section of their closest and fingering some of the price tags still left on the jackets and shirts. At least he did look good with them, though that might have to do with the new haircut and shave.

        “¿Oyes, Juan, me escuchas?” Adolfo asked, snapping his fingers in front of Juan’s face. “Did you hear what I asked you?”

        Blinking, Juan had to admit he didn’t.

        Adolfo grunted, “I wanted to know if you still thought Mr. Parker was worth doing? Guy still has you booked every week, but the asshole let go of Sofía, and it’s not like I’m driving him anymore, so we got no one to help us out with him. I know he’s the one who originally hooked us up with a lot of our clients, but it’s not like we need that from him anymore, and if we free up that day, I bet we can get Mrs. Dolson in for another session at double the pay.”

        The mention of Edward caused a burning sensation in his stomach, like heartburn, except he’d yet to eat anything. Squeezing his hands, Juan shook his head. “Yeah, I was going to talk to you about that. He mentioned he was pretty sure he wouldn’t need us anymore.”

        “Shit, really? Why didn’t you tell me? That works out perfectly then.” Adolfo’s thumbs flew across his phone for a few seconds and afterward flipped some pages on his notebook and crossed out a couple of lines. Glancing up at Juan, he asked, “You okay? You’ve been acting weird and moppy these last few days.”

        Before Juan could answer, the waitress came over to see if they were ready to order. Adolfo told her they weren’t, as they were still waiting for their third, but did ask for a Margarita—with top-shelf tequila, please. Juan asked for a water.

        “I’m okay, just tired, I guess. It’s been almost back-to-back sessions.”

        “Yeah, I know,” Adolfo said and picked up a tortilla chip, “but look at how much we made this month. And it’s not like we have a lot of expenses. This is almost all for us.”

        “And Sofía, right?” Juan asked.

        The tip of the chip broke against the stiff surface of the queso. Adolfo picked up a spoon and swirled the dip before saying, “She’s the reason you’ve been so pissy lately, isn’t it? You know she earns her share. You think la vieja Dolson would keep scheduling sessions if it weren’t for Sofía mixing her medication? Or Mr. Garth and how he keeps thinking it’s ghosts who keeps moving his shit around.”

        “It was supposed to just be us two,” Juan said. The words were muttered, yet to his ears, they felt like the loudest thing he’d ever said. His hands held the edge of the table as if afraid his words would shake the entire restaurant. “Three years ago, you left, and I was fine with it. I kinda understood. You would never be happy until you were…” Juan motioned to him, “here. But then you came back, we figured out how we could both get there, and then you brought her in.”

        Adolfo stared at him without saying anything. The silence grew, taking over the entire table so that when the waitress came with their drinks, she set them down and, without prompting, said she would give them more time and come back.

        “Maldita sea, Juan,” Adolfo muttered, reaching for his drink and taking a long drink out of it. “Why are you trying to ruin this thing? What we have is good.”

        “Sofía told me you’re moving in with her.”

        Setting the drink down, Adolfo nodded. “Shit, I told her to let me tell you, first.”

        “Just like you were going to tell me about the two brothers you still haven’t paid, I bet.”

        Adolfo’s stiffened in his chair. “What the fuck are you talking about.”

        “A week ago, they paid me a visit, Adolfo,” Juan said, his fingers tearing up a napkin, bits of white fluttering down to the table. “They told me you hadn’t paid them anything. Didn’t you say that’s why you came back, to make it right with them?”

        “Why didn’t you tell me, Juan?” Adolfo asked. His voice was calm, almost casual, but Juan could see his eyes, and the thoughts behind them. He looked like the stray cat his mom used to take in during the hot summers, the way the animal would be comfortable and kneading the carpet one moment and then desperate to flee the house the next. That’s how Adolfo looked, like he was waiting for someone to open the door so he could flee.

        Juan had meant to tell Adolfo about the meeting with the brothers on the stairs; he had even called him from the apartment landing, his pants stained with Chinese and his wrist pulsing in pain. His phone had gone straight to voicemail. And then he’d waited for him in the apartment, sat on the sofa after taking a long, hot shower and waited for him to come home. Except Adolfo didn’t come home that night, arriving at noon the next day and telling him how he and Sofía drove out for some tacos, got lost, but found a great little bar he would take Juan to the next weekend.

        With every bit of detail Juan heard about Adolfo and Sofía’s evening, the need to talk about the brothers compressed down a little further, squeezed until it became pocket size, and then he placed it in the deepest part of his brain.

        “I did make it right, I mean, I am going to make it right. I just needed to get a bit more money before I reached out to them. Fuck, Juan, you should have told me this. You don’t know those two. They’re dangerous. They could mess everything we’re working so hard on here.”

        “All because you won’t give them a refund,” Juan said. His voice cracked because he’d never been like Adolfo.

        Adolfo had nothing to say this time, which was all the confirmation Juan needed.

        “You didn’t tell them to find a doctor, did you? When you found out the sister had cancer.”

        Adolfo took another longer sip of his drink and said, “Not right away. ¡No sabía! I just assumed she was normal sick, and then later, they’d already paid me so much that for me to suddenly say no would have just angered them.”

        “So you kept taking their money while telling them you could make her better. Christ, Adolfo. That’s something we were taught never to do.”

        “Oh please,” Adolfo said, “Don’t bring you’re her into this. And don’t you pretend you’re any different. We’re all using their beliefs and taking their money, aren’t we?”

        “I’d never do what you did.”

        “No, you would just come up with the idea to poison someone.”

        The jab hurt, and for a moment neither spoke, only stared at the other. Then Adolfo took a deep breath and said, “This is why I left the first time. I like you, Juan. I really do. But whatever thing you think we have, it’s not like that. You were driving me nuts by the end. That’s why I think it’s better if I move out now before things get even more tense. We wouldn’t want to ruin what we have right?”

        If Adolfo had stopped right then and there, Juan might have had regrets. But he plowed through, adding, “After all, we got our business to think about.”

        Our business. Not us to think about. Juan would have even settled for our friendship. But looking at Adolfo, he realized it would always be like this. Too one-sided.

        “I wonder where Sofía is,” Adolfo said, glancing at his phone before he started to cough. The coughs were deep and long, sending Adolfo into short spasms as his chest heaved in and out.

        “She’s not coming,” Juan said.

        “What are you talking about,” Adolfo asked. The question was asked in between coughs, his face growing bright red. Redder than Edward’s skin had ever been.

        “She didn’t even think twice about it, Adolfo,” Juan said, lining up his fork and knife in front of him, so they pointed at Adolfo, who kept coughing, the sounds being lost by the cumbia playing over the restaurant’s speakers. “When I told her there might be a chance it might just be me and her from now on, and she said that would be okay.”

        She actually said, ‘Honestly, I always regretted not going for you, though I guess that would have been a waste,’ but Juan didn’t want to be mean and rub salt on the wound.

        “¿Qué me hicistes?” Adolfo asked, clutching his sides and groaning.

        In response, Juan set the empty thallium bottle between them. “You were right,” he told Adolfo, “we never consider those who serve us. Like the waitress who’s been helping us all night—I bet you didn’t even catch the family resemblance.”

        “Fa…family?” Adolfo muttered, his head dropping a bit.

        “To her younger sister. The one you gave months of false hope and left when it was too late for anyone to help her.”

        “¡Pinche culero!” Adolfo tried to lunge at Juan but instead tumbled and almost fell to the floor, caught at the last minute by Santiago, who’d appeared out of nowhere, still wearing his white cook apron.

        “Calmado, calmado,” Santiago muttered into Adolfo’s ear and helped him back up to his chair, where he propped him up and kept him in place by resting his two large hands on his shoulder.

        To Juan, he asked. “You finished here?”

        Juan looked at Adolfo. His eyes were already glazing over, and a small bit of drool slowly dripped from the side of his mouth. Juan had the waitress pour a full bottle of thallium into Juan’s drink, not having been sure how quickly it would react nor its full effect. He wondered if he used too much.

        “Yeah, I am,” Juan said, keeping his eyes on the queso and trying to ignore the whimpering sounds coming from Adolfo. “And we’re done, right?”

        “Yeah, buddy, absolutely,” Santiago said, in a tone that Juan figured would keep him up at night.

        Pushing his chair back, he thought about taking one last look at Adolfo but decided against it. He didn’t want to remember him this way.

        Walking outside the restaurant, the humidity assaulted Juan, his shirt immediately sticking to his skin. Glancing around, he spotted the Silver Lexus idling by a parking space and moved towards it.

        “Everything went okay?” Edward asked him when Juan slipped into the back seat.

        “He took it better than I thought he would. Actually wished me luck and said he was thinking of moving out of the city anyways.”

        “Really,” Edward asked in Spanish. “I’m surprised. I thought he would be upset about you deciding it was time to break off the business part. No offense, I liked him at all, but there’s nothing he was doing that you couldn’t do.” He patted Juan on the leg and let his hand rest on his thigh.

        “Yeah,” Juan said, closing his eyes and leaning against the leather seat. The car’s engine turned on, vibrations moving across his ass and back.

        “I have to drop you off at home. Have work to deal with, but hopefully, I won’t be long.”

        “It’s fine,” Juan said, trying to will away the image of drooling Adolfo that sat center in his mind. And it was fine. He trusted Edward. He knew they would work out.

        And if not. Well, he could always reach out to his tió.

Hector Acosta is an Edgar nominated author who lives in Houston with his wife and cats. His stories have been features in Vautrin, BAMS 2022, and more. He has been told he watches too much wrestling. 

Monday, July 20, 2020

La Cocinera, fiction by Hector Acosta

Teresa stared at the food, wondering how much more of her spit she could include in the plate of rice, beans, and chimichangas.  Swirling the refried beans, she looked at the reddish-brown pool, a master painter studying their brushwork. The added layer of white cheese to the beans was a stroke of genius on her part, as they camouflaged the string of saliva she’d included to the order.

 “Ya apúrate con esa orden, mujer!” Juan shouted from the front of the restaurant, his voice barely audible over the music she had on.

If only she’d known who the order was for ahead of time, she thought. How easy would it have been to fill the contents of the chimichangas with anything she wanted before dunking them into the fryer! But no, she only realized who sat at the table when she came out to the kitchen to bring them the beer they ordered. The deep-fried burritos now laid neatly across the plate, sandwiched between the rice and beans, both of them packed with her special combination of spiced ground beef and chicken. The sides of the chimichangas bulged with the meat, like tumors on a golden body.

 “Dame un minuto!” she said, rushing to the back of the kitchen. Taking the sour cream out of the refrigerator, she started working on a glob of spit, pushing the saliva from one side of her mouth to the other.

“¿Que demonios haces?” Juan barreled into the kitchen, immediately turning off the music playing from the small radio she kept sitting on by the counter. “It’s a simple order,” he said in Spanish. “I don’t know what’s taking you so---” he stopped his rant mid-sentence, catching sight of Teresa standing in the middle of the kitchen, her cheeks puffed like those of a chipmunk and the lid of the sour cream container half off.

They stood in silence for a moment, then Juan’s brown eyes narrowed. “Chingado, Teresa,” he whispered. “Not this again.”

Teresa had three responses ready about why yes, this again, but answering Juan would mean swallowing the spit intended for the sour cream. Instead, she stared at Juan with bulging cheeks and furious eyes.

 “At least throw out the sour cream afterward,” Juan said before heading back to the front of the restaurant. Teresa heard him adopt the friendly, halting English he used for customers as he apologized for the delay, offering a free dessert for the inconvenience.

Depositing her hard work into the sour cream, she grabbed a spoon from the sink and swirled the cream around, making sure it retained a familiar-looking consistency. Once satisfied, she took a massive dollop and plopped it in the center of both chimichangas.  Taking a step back, she looked at the plate critically, grabbed a nearby towel, and did a last wipe around the dish. Just because the food was full of her DNA didn’t mean it couldn’t look nice.

Even if they were chimichangas.

Satisfied, she picked up the plate and walked out of the kitchen and into El Paseo Rico’s dining room.,

As always, the restaurant immediately assaulted her eyes with bright greens, reds, and whites. The colors were found on the paper streamers crossing the entire ceiling, on the tablecloths and napkins, and especially on the five-star piñata hanging by the large storefront window looking out into Concepción’s main street. Teresa walked the steaming plate of food right past the giant mural depicting a cartoon, brown-skinned man with a comically large sombrero and chanclas taking a nap beneath a cactus. Large Z’s floated above the man’s head.

Six months ago, when she interviewed for the cooking position, Juan told her how the mural had been created at the request of one of the other owners of the restaurant. Needing the job, she laughed away the painting, even saying how the sleeping Mexican looked a little bit like her abuelito, the one who’d shown young Teresa how to climb into the brick pig pens and what part of the animal’s throat to focus on as she ran the knife to end their squealing, soiled lives during her summer visits to his pueblito.

The first few months, she hardly even saw the painting. Sometimes she glanced at it when opening the restaurant alongside Juan early in the mornings, right before she put away her purse and brewed the coffee for the morning rush. At night, when they closed, she was usually too tired to see anything but the image of a beer and her bed. In between those moments, she was in the kitchen, slicing up jamon for tortas, grilling bits of pineapples to go atop the tacos al pastor, and mixing up some lengua with chorizo and chile chipotles while Juan manned the register and Maria served the tables.

Thinking of Maria caved in her chest and robbed her of breath. Her steps faltered, and she could feel the plate tilting in her hand. Then she saw him, sitting at the table closest to the window, and she regained her composure.

 “I figured you crossed back over to Mexico and got stuck trying to scale the wall back,” Calvin Brooks said, leaning against his chair and taking a sip of his Bud Light, a wrinkled, white shirt stretched over a belly built out of years of choosing deep-fried anything from lunch menus. A red stain rested on the left leg of his tan slacks, and Teresa couldn’t say if it were due to the bowl of salsa on the table or a previous lunch mishap. Gray hairs sprouted from the sides of his otherwise bald head, nose, and mustache.  His words lathered in a Texan accent Teresa had a hard time understanding sometimes.

 Calvin reached over for the bottle of Tapatío on the table, covering her cooking with a red layer of hot sauce. The sauce would make it harder for him to detect the extra ingredients Teresa added to his order, but she couldn’t help but chafe at the fact he didn’t even bother to taste her cooking before covering it in the stuff.

“You know, darling,” Calvin said, cutting into the chimichanga with his knife and fork, cheese and meat oozing out of the wound. “If I knew you were this good of a cook back when you were cleaning rooms for me, I might have never let you go.”
Dipping the cut piece into the sour cream, he brought it up to his mouth.

Teresa counted the number of times Calvin chewed the food, transfixed by the way his jaw quivered as it moved up and down, splotches of red marked all around his jowls, the victims of a rushed shave job. She tried not to smile as Calvin swallowed and went right back for a second piece of the chimichanga, scooping some of the refried beans along with it. If Teresa had her way, she would have stayed right where she was and watched him clean out the plate, but she reasoned doing so might make him suspicious.

Moving to a nearby empty table, Teresa pretended to busy herself by rearranging the hot sauce bottles and the salt and pepper shakers, every so often sneaking glances at Calvin, who noisily and blissfully continued to eat, breaking his focus only to take swigs from his beer bottle. Watching how more and more of the food disappeared off his plate filled her empty cavity with a warm, soothing sense of satisfaction. Even Juan’s disapproving gaze, thrown at her from his position at the cash register, couldn’t curdle this feeling.

If anything, Juan should have added a bit of himself to the dish, Teresa thought. After all, it was Calvin’s fault the restaurant was struggling now. There was a time, not too long ago, when the lunchtime crowd would have filled every table here, men and women driving in from the nearby farm and dining on plates of Teresa’s albondigas, or taking styrofoam containers full of her breaded milanesa back to work with them.  More came after their work shift, and the restaurant would fill with their laughter and clinking beers as they unwound from their workday, telling Teresa that not even their own madres cocinaban tan bien como ella.

And all it took was a single phone call para joder todo. A phone call and they came, packing the parking lot of the motel Calvin owned, knocking on doors and interrogating the guests who answered. They descended upon the farm, lining up the brown looking workers who plucked the lettuce and cilantro the entire state of Texas ate. In a couple of hours, the town on Concepción, Texas, three hours south of Houston and famous for nothing at all, lost more than one hundred residents, all taken out of town in gray buses.

“Hey, chica!” Calvin shouted, slamming his empty bottle on the table. He stretched
out the syllables in the Spanish words tumbling out of his mouth, setting Teresa’s teeth on edge. “I think your Jefé said something about a free dessert?”

“I got it,” Juan said, opening the cooler where the restaurant kept the beverages and desserts and walking to Calvin table with a pastel de tres leches encased inside a plastic container. “To take back to work,” he told him, setting the dessert and picking up Calvin’s plate, which, Teresa noted with immense satisfaction, had been licked clean (something she wouldn’t put past Calvin, el cochino).

In theory, no one knew who made the phone call. But ask anyone in town, and most would point to Calvin. Calvin with his red hat, currently resting next to him on an empty chair and who complained loudly and often about the farmworkers living in his motel. They, Calvin, would tell you, brought in crime, drugs, and prostitution to the fifty-room motel that stood on Interstate 45. Most galling to the motel owner, they always had more people in the room than what they paid for.

“If I didn’t know any better, Juan,” Calvin said, his eyes on the dessert placed in front of him. “I’d say you’re trying to rush me out.”

With a thin smile on his face, Juan said, “No, sir, no. I just know you’re busy.”

“Never too busy to visit two of my favorite people,” Calvin said, reaching for his wallet. “You guys are two of the good ones, have I told you that? Work hard. Keep your head down. Mind your business. Not like the ones staying at my motel. I swear they’re worse than the last batch.” Placing a twenty on the table, which covered the meal and drink, while leaving Teresa with a dollar for herself, he grabbed his red hat and added, “Though that said, Juan, I gotta tell you, I’m worried about my little investment here.”

“Just a little slow. It’ll get better. You’ll see.” The smile was etched in Juan’s face, betraying nothing.

Teresa hated this. Hated to see the way Juan groveled, apologized, and made excuses. Es tu culpa, cabrón, Teresa thought in Calvin’s direction, balling a napkin she’d been setting at one of the tables. Even knowing what Calvin carried in his belly wasn’t enough to quench the fury building in her throat.

“I really hope so,” Calvin picked up the dessert, the cake sliding inside the container. “When you came to me, you assured me this place would make me money. And to your credit, the first few months, you delivered. But last month,” he paused to open the lid of the container and dip his finger into the icing of the cake, “it wasn’t your best, was it?”

Teresa couldn’t track the entire conversation, her English not as good as Juan. But she didn’t need to understand to speak up.

“They still won’t come,” she said, stepping towards the two men. She hated the way her accent fractured the English words coming out of her mouth, how she had to consider each word, each phrase before speaking it aloud. “They know you own this.”
Calvin eyed her, then turned back to Juan. “The lease is coming up,” he told him, “and I would hate to have to pull back on our little venture.”

“Dile, Juan!” Teresa said. “Dile como nadie viene porque tienen miedo de el.”

“They’ll come,” Juan said, answering both of them at the same time. “They just have to hear about the place. Taste Teresa’s cooking.”

“We’ll see.” Adjusting the cap on his head, so the white font was clearly displayed, Calvin walked over to the exit and stopped, hand on the doorknob. “By the way, Teresa,” he asked, “Have you heard from Maria?”

Hearing him use Maria’s name filled Teresa’s ears with a loud drumming sound, the edges of her vision dimming as she stepped through the restaurant’s tables.
“It’s a shame we lost, her,” Calvin said with a head of a shake. “Had no idea she was an illegal. Her paperwork all looked good, but I guess they always do, right?” He paused to pick some a bit of grain from his teeth and continued, “I tell you Juan, you’d be surprised about the quality of the papers. They’ve even fooled my receptionist when they check-in.”

The knife from the table she’d been prepping was in her hand, the blade pressing against her skirt, the cool touch of it seeping past the thin fabric and kissing her skin. The world around her closed, and Teresa found herself in her abuelo’s pig pens, the old man straddling the wall above her, watching a young Teresa move towards the pig and smoking one of his thin, drooping cigarillos. The pig and its smell took up almost the entire enclosure, leaving Teresa with little room to maneuver. It stood blissfully unaware of its approaching death, its eyes staring at her. She heard her grandfather’s instructions, then and now—no pienses, soló hazlo, the grip on her blade tightening, then and now.

Her blade skimmed across the pig’s throat, the animal providing so little defense Teresa thought maybe she hadn’t done it right until she felt the warmth of the blood cascading down her entire hand. She remembered looking into the animal’s eyes and watching how they faded and grew smaller.

A low, guttural moan vibrated in Calvin’s throat, his blood spraying unto Teresa’s grease stained apron. He stumbled backwards, a wheezing noise escaping his lips as his back slammed against the door. A trembling right hand pressed against the wound on his throat, blood squeezing through his fat fingers and rolling down his wrist.

“Teresa!” Juan shouted, his arms around her waist. He lifted her off the floor and threw her back, the knife slipping out of her hand and sliding across the restaurant tile floor. Her head hit the edge of one of the tables when she landed, her vision doubling on itself.

 “¿Qué hiciestes, Teresa?” Juan asked, standing over Calvin’s body. “What did you
do?” he asked again.


Teresa kept the radio tuned to the local Spanish station.

The sounds of horns and accordions crammed into the small truck cabin alongside her, the instruments joined by a trio of baritone singers whose voices dipped and rose with each turn of the road.  Occasionally, the music was swallowed up by a crackling static spilling out of the one working speaker, like wasps coming out of their nests. During those moments, Teresa gritted her teeth, clutched the steering wheel harder, and resisted the urge to fiddle with the radio.

 “Esa fue ‘Mayores’, por Becky G y Bad Bunny,’ the DJ said, just as Teresa pulled into her parking spot in front of El Paseo Rico. Turning the volume up, she put the truck in park and listened to the DJ advertised his sponsors and brag about how quickly tickets were selling for an upcoming show in Dallas. Her heart pressed against her chest, and a tingling, nervous sensation bubbled up in her stomach.

Apúrate, she thought.

As if reading her mind, the DJ wrapped up his spiel on a car dealership guaranteeing no credit checks for the month of September and dropped his voice. The braying persona receded along with the background music. Teresa could almost picture the DJ leaning into his microphone to whisper, “Y porque todos quieren saber, no parece que nuestros queridos relativos nos visitan hoy.”

No relatives visiting today.

Unclenching her hands from the steering wheel, Teresa breathed through her nose and stared out at the restaurant’s storefront.  Tuvimos suerte, she thought. They’d been lucky. Luckily, there hadn’t been any people strolling past the restaurant that day, lucky how the opaque, tinted glass of the door obscured the splotches of blood she spent the rest of the day cleaning off, while Juan mopped the floor around them.
Afterward, Juan told Teresa to go home and stay there until she heard from him.
That’d been two weeks ago. Ever since then, she’d holed herself up in a small trailer in the outskirts of Concepción, keeping the shades drawn and her television on, sinking into the embrace of broadly acted telenovela, sitcom repeats, and cheap mota she bought from a neighbor kid months ago. She ate whatever leftovers she could scrounge up from her refrigerator. The only time she was tempted to disobey Juan was when she ran out of pepper and considered venturing across the Dollar Store across the street. At night, she laid awake in a bed which felt too big and thought of Maria. She would have approved of what she did, Teresa decided on the first night, after she had gotten home and taken, a long, lukewarm shower.

She slept peacefully ever since then.

Juan’s call came last night, just as she sniffed the heavy cream and wondered if it was still good to use. “Ven temprano mañana,” he told her, his voice cold, distant. Corre, a small and fearful voice, ordered her as she gripped her cheap cell phone and waited for Juan to say more. Run, run as far and fast away from here as possible. Squashing the voice down like she would squash a fly invading her kitchen, Teresa said she’d be there.

Besides, she had nowhere to go. What little money she and Maria have been saving was gone now, a portion of it first used to try to bring Maria back home, and then the rest sent to her via wire transfer, so she could at least make her way back to her hometown in Guatemala. And even if she had any money, she doubted she could get more than a couple miles out of Concepción before coming across one of the many checkpoints now loitering the roads of Texas, where men sweated inside of their neatly pressed uniforms, waiting to politely, but firmly, ask for proof of citizenship. Calvin—pinche mendigo podrido—might have been right about just how good a lot of the paperwork people used had become; however, if the recent raids were any indication, they still weren’t good enough to fool the United States government.
Unlocking the restaurant’s door, Teresa paused, her hand on the doorknob and her heart beating out of her chest. Pasa lo que pasa, she decided, turning the doorknob and stepping through.

The restaurant looked much like she remembered leaving it two weeks ago. Glancing down to the floor, she struggled to find any signs of Calvin on the tile. Flicking the lights on, she moved across the restaurant, setting the tables and slowly falling into a familiar rhythm consisting of smoothing out the tablecloths, refilling salt and pepper shakers, and topping up all the hot sauce bottles.  Reaching the front of the counter, she checked the beverage stock, making a mental note to remind Juan they needed to order more cans of Jumex. Plugging the coffee machine, she grounded some fresh beans and started a new batch of coffee to be ready when Juan arrived. She then made sure he had a new order pad by the register and walked over to her kitchen.
Teresa thought of the trail of blood Calvin’s body left behind as she and Juan dragged it towards the kitchen’s freezer. How heavy and unwilling the body had been, and the way Calvin’s head lagged from side to side, striking the edges of the counter. She spent the most time afterward in the kitchen, using every available rag to erase their hard work, and as she turned the kitchen lights on and slowly inspected her area, she felt she did an exceptional job.

She did such a good job wiping down the area, Teresa decided, running a hand through her grill, that Calvin would have been proud. Maybe even asked her to come back to work at the motel.

She laughed, too loud and for too long, her laughter frayed around the edges. For the last two weeks, she’d successfully managed to hold it together, surrounding herself with anything that reminded her of Maria. But now, far away from those items to buoyed her, waves of panic slammed against her.

 “¿De qué te ríes?”

The question stifled Teresa’s laughter. Turning around, she found an old woman staring at her, long wrinkled arms across a chest draped in a shawl. At first, Teresa thought she was una enana, the woman being that small, but no, she quickly realized the shawl hid the curvature of the woman’s spine. Black eyes, magnified by the wireframe glasses sitting atop a landmass of wrinkles, stared at Teresa, waiting for an answer.

“Who let you in?” Teresa asked, taking a step back and trying to think if the door was left unlocked.

 “I let myself in,” the woman said. Her Spanish was different than Juan and Teresa’s, every letter accented and strong. She pulled a cane from the depth of her shawl and pointed the long, bony thing towards the refrigerator. “That’s where he’s at?”
Teresa froze. She flashed back to the last night she was at the restaurant, how Juan and she each grabbed one of Calvin’s legs and dragged him into the kitchen’s walk-in freezer, setting him next to the ground beef.

The woman grinned, flashing Teresa two rows of perfectly white and lined teeth, like a wall that Teresa’s lies and excuses wouldn’t climb over.

“I’ll take that as a yes,” she said, the cane dropping to her side. Clearing her throat,
she then shouted, “¡Está aquí, cabrones!”

Before Teresa could react, two men stepped into the kitchen. Or tried to, the space so narrowed and tight that only one of them fit, the second one poking a shaved head through the door. They were both big men as if making up for the stature of the small woman. The one who stood in the kitchen with the old woman and Teresa, a man with bushy eyebrows and a forehead you could cook salcichas on carried a large duffel bag and scowled at Teresa. “Muévete.”


The order shoved her away from the kitchen and back to her knees at Calvin’s motel, the cold linoleum floor of the bathroom of whatever room she was cleaning pressing against her skin, sweat pooling around her armpits as she worked to clean the mold from between the tiles, all the while Calvin stood above her and every so often pointed out, “You missed a spot,” nudging her with his boot.

After one too many nudges of his boot, Teresa finally had stood up, thrown the rag at his face, and said she quit. Said it in English nice and slow to make sure he understood.
Reaching into the nearest kitchen drawer, Teresa grabbed the handle to a large wooden spoon and pulled it out. “Hazme,” she told the man, raising the spoon above her head.
The man’s eyebrows furrowed and drew close together like fuzzy caterpillars coming to mate, while behind him, the old woman barked out a laugh, gripping her cane with both hands as boney shoulders rose and fell with her laughter. “Juan was right. Estás loca, muchacha,” the old woman said after she finished laughing.

Teresa kept her stance, her shoulder muttering an ache she feared would grow louder the longer she remained standing. “You know Juan?”

Pushing one of the men aside, the old woman limped forward, her walk slow and deliberate, placing the cane ahead every time she took a step. “He’s my nephew.” Reaching Teresa, she poked her with the end of her cane and said, “has he never talked about me?”

Teresa shook her head. Despite working together every day for the last few months, she suddenly realized how little she knew of her coworker. Part of it was that even though they spent eight to ten hours in a restaurant, for most of those hours, they were portioned away from each other, with Teresa sequestered to the kitchen while Juan manned the register and was the face of the restaurant. Even when business took a dive, and there’d be hours between customers. Each of them stayed in their sections, Teresa organizing and reorganizing the kitchen while wondering what Maria was doing, and Juan usually on the phone, his voice low and fast as he spoke to what Teresa assumed were bill collectors.

“Tráeme a Juan,” the old woman told one of the two men, who nodded and disappeared

Juan’s here?

Relief should have poured over Teresa when she found this out, but her body remained tense, the start of a headache crawling to the back of her head. The hand holding the wooden spoon remained raised above her head, something the old woman noticed. “Put that down,” she said, staring at Teresa with those black eyes of hers.

“Aquí está, Doña Clara,” the man who’d left to retrieve Juan said, reentering the kitchen and dragging Juan alongside him. Juan stumbled and almost fell, but was kept upright by the man’s hand on the back of his neck. He wore a loose pair of sweats and a ratty old t-shirt, a far cry from the pressed pants and collared shirt Teresa usually saw him in. His face had a sheen of sweat, the fluorescent lights of the kitchen highlighted, and there was a big, dark bruise, the color of the skin of an avocado on his right eye.

“She,” Doña Clara said, prodding Teresa with her cane again, “says you never told her about me, is that true?” Slamming the cane on the ground, she started to make her way towards Juan, who remained frozen. “Never talked about how your tía raised you when your mother couldn’t, how I taught you how not to burn the rice in too much oil.” She stood in front of him now, much as she’d done with Teresa, and prodded him with his cane. “How I’m the one who gave you money for,” she stopped, waved her cane high and around the air, to the point the men all flinched and stepped back against the kitchen wall, “all this.”

“Lo siento,tía” Juan muttered, flinching any time the cane came close to his head.

Leaning against her cane, Aunt Clara said nothing. One of the men approached her, placing a giant, callused hand on her shoulder, only for Aunt Clara to brush it away.

“You said you’d make me money, Juan.”

“I was,” Juan muttered, rubbing the spots in his arm where her cane had struck him.

“We were doing really good for the last few months, you know that. I was sending Carlos more than the agreed amount.”

“And then the payment stops,” one of the big man, the same one who’d told Teresa to move, said.

“I already told you why. The raids really hurt us. Hurt the whole town. But things were getting better.”

“No, they weren’t,” Teresa said.  She could feel everyone’s eyes on her when she spoke, and a little voice in the back of her head told her cállate. But she was suddenly so tired, and just wanted to get to what was coming, whatever it might be. “People were still afraid. Some just wouldn’t come out of their houses, but others knew who owned this building. And knew what that man did to us.”

“Is that why you killed him?” Aunt Clara asked.

“No,” Teresa said and didn’t elaborate. Wouldn’t, not to Juan or his Aunt. What she did was between her, Calvin, and Maria, if she ever saw her again.

Sighing, Aunt Clara adjusted her shawl and looked to Carlos. “Can you believe these two? One,” she motioned with her head to Juan, “es tan tonto that he signs a lease with a man who destroys his business…”

“He gave me a good price,” Juan muttered and flinched when his Aunt glared at him.
“The other,” now it was Teresa’s turn to bear the brunt of Aunt Clara’s gaze, “decides to kill the man. Which maybe wouldn’t be such a bad thing if she didn’t choose to do it in the middle of my restaurant.”

Teresa didn’t think it would help if she mentioned it was more at the front of the restaurant than the actual middle.

“Dime sobrino, ¿Qué hago con ustedes?”

“Burn the place down,” Carlos said. “With those two and the body inside.”

Juan’s eyes grew wide at the suggestion, and he took a step towards, “Tiita,” he said, his voice shaking, “you wouldn’t do that, would you?”

Aunt Clara said nothing, only put her cane up between her and Juan.

 “I can fix this,” Teresa said.

Aunt Clara looked at her with a tilt of her head. “Can you?”

Teresa nodded,  mind racing, trying to think of something, anything she could say or do which would correct everything. Bring business back to El Paseo, make this woman and her men go away. Remove Juan’s black eye. Bring back Calvin. Bring back Maria. Bring back everyone taken.

There was a good chance she was going to die here, Teresa realized. The thought should have sent her spinning, but there was an odd calmness to the realization. Looking around the kitchen, her kitchen, she thought there would be worst places to die. At least she made this place her own, as much as she could anyway.

No puedes morir aqui, Maria whispered, her voice kissing the back of Teresa’s neck. “I still need to you see you again.”

Teresa thought of Maria. The way she’d spent so much time with Teresa in the kitchen, tasting everything she cooked and telling her when it needed salt, balancing multiple plates to take to the front of the restaurant, or leaning against the counter and watching Teresa cook, sometimes humming to herself.

“¿Qué es todo ese tarareo?” Teresa often asked Maria, rarely recognizing the tunes she heard her hum.

Maria’s answers always proved to be diverse and eclectic. It could be something her mother sang to her as a child, a song Maria heard playing from a car speaker as she walked to work, or a tune from a musical. Maria loved musicals, even though she’d never seen one in real life. Sometimes, as they laid in bed at night, Maria would talk about driving up to Houston to see one. Or, if they were really dreaming high, talked about booking a flight to New York City to see one there.

Theresa never understood her love for them, tried listening to a couple, and couldn’t get past all the singing. It felt so fake.

Now, standing in the kitchen, trying to think of a way to save everything around her,
musicals came back into her head, stories Maria told her about them, about how they could be about so much. About revenge, death, joy, and happiness. And Teresa remembered one in specific.


“You’re going to burn the rice,” Clara told Teresa for the third time.

Teresa ignored her and tilted the large pan on the stove, all the golden oil she poured into it sliding down to one side, while Teresa used a wooden spoon to keep the mountains of rice grains on the opposite side.

“I never make it this way,” Clara muttered, her attention on the small strips of pink meat sizzling on the grill.

“My way is better,” Teresa said, moving the spoon as she slow introduced portions of the rice into the scalding pool of oil, watching and turning them over, waiting for them to turn the same gold color as the oil.

Clara flipped the meat, smoke from the grill filling the kitchen. Without saying anything, Teresa grabbed the pepper shaker sitting on the counter and passed it to Clara, who accepted it without taking her eyes off the grill. One hand continued to flip the meat, while the other hand flipped some corn tortillas lined up next to the meat.

The old woman could still cook and cook fast. The latter part had become especially important in the last few days. More and more people filled El Paseo Rico’s tables, all wanting to try the new dishes Teresa (with some suggestions from Clara) created.

“I still can’t believe that’s supposed to be your husband,” Teresa said, setting the pan back down on the stove and reaching for the blender and its soupy red mixture.

“Asi es como lo recuerdo, siempre era flogo,” Clara said.

Pouring the chicken broth and tomato mixture into the pan, Teresa thought of the mural out in the front of the restaurant.  She wanted to ask Clara if having her husband up there was meant to be a sign of love or hate. Before she could ask, Flora stepped into the kitchen.

The new girl came from Oaxaca and still didn’t know a lot of English, but she was learning and hardworking.  Seeing her do Maria’s job, didn’t sit right with Teresa, but they needed the help, Juan barely able to move from the cash register nowadays.

“Una orden de tacos de sesos porfa,” Flora said, placing the written order down next to the others.

“Te toca,” Clara said.

“Yeah, I know it’s my turn. Can you please watch the rice? And don’t add any more cayenne. It’s perfect as it is.” Wiping her hands down on the apron, Teresa lowered
the heat and walked to the freezer.
It took them a full day and night to break down Calvin. At first, it’d been the men who’d gone into the freezer with saws, butcher knives, and later, even a small portable chainsaw. But Teresa soon stepped in, first to direct the job, and then went in and stripped the meat herself. It was the only way to ensure a quality job; the men more focused on separating the body parts than making them cookable.

It wasn’t too tricky, Teresa found. It wasn’t Calvin anymore, just a big lump of meat, like the dead pigs in the pens after her abuelo killed them. The meat was tough to cut and cook, but she experimented, boiling and tenderizing the meat, adding spices like cilantro and garlic, mixing the stuff with hatch chiles and spinach.

The stuff which still didn’t taste great they grounded into beef and used for burritos
and chimichangas. The thighs made good strips of fajita meat, and despite Juan saying otherwise, Teresa was pretty sure she could make of good menudo out of Calvin’s tripas. The weather just had to get cold enough.

Opening the freezer door, she walked past the newly labeled plastic containers to the back of the walk-in freezer. After moving some more containers around, she found for what she was looking for: Calvin stared at her from a freezer shelf, frost around his cheeks and eyes.

Grabbing the head, Teresa put her hand around the scalp and twisted. The top portion of Calvin’s head gave way quickly, like a container already jarred loose. Teresa scooped a handful of Calvin’s frosted, gray thoughts, which she would then braise and lay atop tortillas along with some cilantro and onions. Out of all the new recipes, this was her favorite to make, as she could imagine all of Calvin’s memories and thoughts being burned away as she good the portion of his brain.

Ya mero, she thought, walking out of the freezer and shutting the door behind her.

She planned to save enough money to leave Concepcíon. She’d already talked to Maria, and they’d made plans to move to Mexico City, maybe start a small taco place there.

But before that, she was planning a trip. Up to New York, to see a musical for the both of them.

Teresa smiled as she prepared the fryer. Sondheim played in the background.

Hector Acosta is an Edgar and Anthony nominated writer, as well as the author of the wrestling inspired novella Hardway. He's contributed to several anthologies and is an editor of Shotgun Honey.