Denial: A Lew Fonesca Mystery (Lew Fonesca Novels) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page B

their voices.
    A harried waitress, thin with long dark hair tied back, hurried from table to table taking orders, delivering orders, giving orders when she went back to the kitchen.
    “Sit anywhere,” she said with a smile.
    She had a pile of dirty dishes cradled in her left arm. A wisp of dark hair escaped the band that touched the nape of her neck. She brushed the stray strand away with her hand. She looked tired, satisfied, pretty.
    “Looking for Arnoldo Robles,” I said.
    A trio of men at a back table called to her by name, Corazon. She held up a single finger to let them know she’d be with them in a second or a minute, depending on how much time I took.
    “Arnoldo’s busy,” she said, smile gone, starting to turn away.
    “Just take a minute,” I said, holding up one finger as she had done.
    “You know Arnoldo?” she asked.
    I shook my head no. She looked at me from stained loafers to Cubs cap.
    “You’re not with Immigration?”
    I shook my head again.
    “Arnoldo has his green card,” she said.
    “Good.”
    “Corazon,” called one of the trio in the back.
    “Then what do you … ?”
    “The dead boy,” I said. “I’m working with the boy’s family.”
    It was her turn to nod.
    “He’s in the kitchen.”
    She looked at the back of the restaurant, turned and headed for the three men. I followed and moved past her through a swinging door decorated with bright paintings of flowers, musical instruments and a single word, GUADALAJARA.
    To my left was the open doorway to a small kitchen, barely big enough to let the two men in white aprons working in it move. The griddle was sizzling; a red light glowed above the oven in the corner. The air was steamy in spite of an old wall-mounted air conditioner that rattled noisily.
    Both men were slightly built, about my height. Both were dark. Both had neatly shaved heads. One man was probably in his sixties, the other in his forties. Both men were moving quickly, hands flying, conducting a kitchen symphony, maybe about to do a juggling act. They were perspiring. The older one quickly reached for a half-full bottle of water and took a few quick gulps. The younger one looked over at me. He had a knife with a broad flat blade in his hand.
    “Arnoldo Robles?”
    His grip on the knife got tighter.
    “Can we talk?”
    The older man looked over his shoulder at me.
    “What about?”
    “What you told the police,” I said.
    “Who are you?”
    “Not the one who was driving the car,” I said, looking at the blade. “I’m working for the boy’s mother. I could use your help.”
    “Busy,” he said.
    “He’s busy,” the older man added.
    Corazon came through the swinging door, looked
at the two cooks and me and then went on through another door where I heard dishes clacking.
    “I can wait,” I said.
    “I don’t want any trouble,” Arnoldo Robles said.
    “I worry about people who want trouble,” I said. “I’m not bringing trouble.”
    The two men’s eyes met, and Arnoldo sighed and looked at the ceiling. They said something to each other in Spanish. The older man wasn’t pleased or cooperative. He finally shrugged and went back to work.
    “Have a seat out there,” Robles said to me. “I’ll be out in a few minutes.”
    I went back into the restaurant and found a small table near the window. A few people had left. The waitress named Corazon came up to me, hands on hips, but there was no challenge in the move, just a weary resignation.
    “Arnoldo can’t sleep,” she said. “He says he keeps seeing that boy in the street and the car … . He thinks he should have done something.”
    “You’re his … ?”
    “Wife,” she said. “We’ve got a little boy, eight. My mother watches him when he gets home from school. She thinks some crazy man is out there trying to crash into little boys. She won’t let him out to play. Is she right? Is there a crazy man out there?”
    “There may be a crazy man out there, but I don’t think he’s out