Page 5 of Reno

“Your twenty is under my plate.”

I flashed a smile. “Thank you.”

“Food was fantastic,” Crip said with a nod. “We’ll be back.”

I waved. “Thank you.”

They left with the same jovial sense they entered with. Poking and slapping one another like children, they joked and laughed their way to the parking lot. As soon as I finished tallying my night’s tips, I went to clear their table.

A mountain of money was neatly stacked beside a bowl of salsa. My heart skipped a beat. I thumbed through the bills, mostly hundred-dollar notes, and nearly fainted. With the wad of money clenched in my fist, I rushed to the restaurant’s entrance and shoved the door open.

Their motorcycles were parked in a perfect line, all equally spaced from one another. The men were gathered in front of them, talking.

“Excuse me,” I said, walking in their direction. “I can’t…I can’t accept this. It’s several thousand dollars.”

The bearded man who was sitting next to Reno turned around. “It’s roughly thirty-six hundred. Thirty-five twenty, I think, including Reno’s twenty-dollar bet.” He shrugged. “It’s all the cash we had.”

I tried to digest his response but couldn’t quite make sense of it. “I can’t…” I stammered. “This is crazy.”

“You put up with us for three hours without complaining. It’s two hours after closing time. Great service is hard to get—for us, anyway.” He gave a dismissive wave of his tattooed hand. “Keep it. You earned it. It’s yours.”

I hadn’t done anything but treat the men with respect. I was raised to treat everyone respectfully, and never expected doing so would result in such a reward. Overcome with emotion, I looked at Reno and mouthed the words thank you.

He gave a nod and reached for his helmet.

I stood just outside the front door and watched as they put on their helmets and started their motorcycles. Revving their engines as if the sound brought with it proof of their testosterone, they maneuvered two by two, into the street. Once centered in the road, they accelerated like they were being chased by the law. The thunder-like rumble dissolved as their taillights disappeared over the hill.

Rewarding interaction with men wasn’t something that happened often. When it did, I cherished it. Typically, it was with a fifty-something Hispanic male who was pleased with the portion sizes, authenticity of the food, and the speed in which I refilled his glass of water.

Laughing and joking with a man who seemed as interested in me as I was in him was a nice change of pace. Happy with my evening’s rewards but sad that they had gone, I turned and reached for the door handle.

“A dondé vas?” A distant voice asked from behind me.

My spine straightened. If I ran inside the building and locked the door, he’d likely burn it down to flush me out. I dropped the money into my apron’s front pocket and turned toward the familiar voice.

Standing at the far side of the parking lot beside a truck with a man I didn’t recognize, El Pollo looked no differently than he had the last time I’d seen him. Wearing khaki chinos and a ribbed white tank top, his muscular arms dangled at his sides. The many tattoos that peppered his body warned Mexican officials of his affiliation with the Tijuana Cartel. In the United States, he looked like every other Hispanic gangbanger.

I knew otherwise.

He was the devil himself. Negotiating with him wasn’t an option. One of Angel’s many thugs, violence was his only means of resolve, and conflict resolution was his job.

I swallowed heavily. “Please,” I pleaded. “It’s been four years. I’m here, he’s there. That’s how it needs to stay.”

His skin-tight shirt did little to hide the outline of a pistol that was tucked into the waistband of his pants. He rested his hand against it and shot me a glare. “Te vas conmigo.”

There was no way I was going with him. Angel would make sure I didn’t escape this time. If I somehow managed to do so, returning to my family would be impossible. The border was crawling with Border Patrol Agents.

At a loss for words, I stood there, shaking.

He tilted his head toward the truck. “Vamonos.”

The sound of motorcycles in the distance brought with it a glimmer of hope, but the possibility of the men returning was miniscule. One in a million. Maybe worse. Comparable, I decided, were the odds of me escaping the night unscathed.

Headlights pierced the darkness behind El Pollo. Two at a time, the motorcycles cleared the top of the hill. Upon seeing the eight headlights, relief got tangled in my throat.

They pulled into the parking lot one by one and rode between me and the man who wouldn’t hesitate to kill any—or all—of them if they opposed him. Reno came to a stop right in front of me.

He lifted his leg over the seat of his motorcycle and removed his glasses. Wearing his helmet and a look of embarrassment, he sauntered toward me.