some.
“You see how many customers come in, the prices we charge and the percentage that the Angels take,” George reasons, tilting his head at me. “What do you think?”
“I think there’s no way he can come up with the kind of cash they want,” I reply, the enormity of what I’m saying dawning on me. If there’s no diner, there’s no job—not for me, not for Suzie, and not for George, and it’s not like Painted Rock is overflowing with employment opportunities. If the Angels are going to torch Sunny Side Up, then I need to be out of this town before that happens.
“Bingo,” George says. “Now why don’t you grab that bottle of whiskey and bring it back here and pour us a couple of glasses. I think we could both do with a drink,” he suggests.
I don’t bother to tell him that I don’t touch the hard stuff—it’s something he already knows. But I figure he’s right. If there was ever a time to become a serious drinker, now would be it. As I head out to the front of the diner, I watch as the cops leave their cash on the table and I can see they’ve left a bigger tip than necessary. As if that’s going to make all the difference.
Most of the cops in this town are dirty, getting pay-offs from the Angels left, right, and center to keep them sweet and in line. I want to shout after them that it’s because of people like them that this town is in the state that it’s in. But it wouldn’t make any difference—it’s not like I’d be telling them something they didn’t already know anyway. They walk out, studiously avoiding eye contact, leaving the diner empty except for an older guy who is nursing a coffee like he’s afraid of what’s going to happen when he finishes it.
George and I hang out in the kitchen, him virtually downing the whisky shots I’m pouring while I take small sips, wondering why people decide to drink this stuff when it tastes like liquid fire running down your throat. I don’t ask why George refused to go to the hospital to fix his hand—I already know.
One night when I’d asked him why he doesn’t date, he’d confided to me that he had been married once. He didn’t go into a whole heap of detail, but he told me that she’d been in accident, he’d taken her to hospital, and she’d died there. Since then, he doesn’t go to the doctor and he avoids hospitals like the plague.
He figures the doctors just pretend to know what the hell they’re talking about, when really they have no idea and they’re just trying to play God. I’d tried to reason with him, asking whether or not, if he had a car accident, he would want to go to the hospital. George had replied without even having to think about it. He had said that he would rather die on the street than in a white building with people poking and prodding at him like an experiment.
“How long?” George asks eventually and I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Fifteen days and counting,” I tell him sadly. Every few hours brings Jake’s birthday closer.
“You got enough saved to get out before then?” he asks innocently, and I do a double-take, wondering if I’ve heard him correctly.
“How do you know about that?” I ask, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“I’m big, not stupid, guapa .” George lets out a low rumble of a laugh. But his eyes are kind as he says, “You and that boy of yours should get as far away from here as you can as soon as possible.”
“He’s not my boy,” I tell him, and try to pretend that it doesn’t hurt me to say. “Besides, he has other plans,” I add, staring down into the amber-colored liquid in the glass.
“Plans change, Aimee, especially when feelings get in the way,” the big man says wisely, and I wonder, not for the first time, what his life was like in Mexico before he came here. Something tells me that he wasn’t a fry cook.
“What feelings?” I ask him as I take a long
“You see how many customers come in, the prices we charge and the percentage that the Angels take,” George reasons, tilting his head at me. “What do you think?”
“I think there’s no way he can come up with the kind of cash they want,” I reply, the enormity of what I’m saying dawning on me. If there’s no diner, there’s no job—not for me, not for Suzie, and not for George, and it’s not like Painted Rock is overflowing with employment opportunities. If the Angels are going to torch Sunny Side Up, then I need to be out of this town before that happens.
“Bingo,” George says. “Now why don’t you grab that bottle of whiskey and bring it back here and pour us a couple of glasses. I think we could both do with a drink,” he suggests.
I don’t bother to tell him that I don’t touch the hard stuff—it’s something he already knows. But I figure he’s right. If there was ever a time to become a serious drinker, now would be it. As I head out to the front of the diner, I watch as the cops leave their cash on the table and I can see they’ve left a bigger tip than necessary. As if that’s going to make all the difference.
Most of the cops in this town are dirty, getting pay-offs from the Angels left, right, and center to keep them sweet and in line. I want to shout after them that it’s because of people like them that this town is in the state that it’s in. But it wouldn’t make any difference—it’s not like I’d be telling them something they didn’t already know anyway. They walk out, studiously avoiding eye contact, leaving the diner empty except for an older guy who is nursing a coffee like he’s afraid of what’s going to happen when he finishes it.
George and I hang out in the kitchen, him virtually downing the whisky shots I’m pouring while I take small sips, wondering why people decide to drink this stuff when it tastes like liquid fire running down your throat. I don’t ask why George refused to go to the hospital to fix his hand—I already know.
One night when I’d asked him why he doesn’t date, he’d confided to me that he had been married once. He didn’t go into a whole heap of detail, but he told me that she’d been in accident, he’d taken her to hospital, and she’d died there. Since then, he doesn’t go to the doctor and he avoids hospitals like the plague.
He figures the doctors just pretend to know what the hell they’re talking about, when really they have no idea and they’re just trying to play God. I’d tried to reason with him, asking whether or not, if he had a car accident, he would want to go to the hospital. George had replied without even having to think about it. He had said that he would rather die on the street than in a white building with people poking and prodding at him like an experiment.
“How long?” George asks eventually and I know exactly what he’s talking about.
“Fifteen days and counting,” I tell him sadly. Every few hours brings Jake’s birthday closer.
“You got enough saved to get out before then?” he asks innocently, and I do a double-take, wondering if I’ve heard him correctly.
“How do you know about that?” I ask, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice.
“I’m big, not stupid, guapa .” George lets out a low rumble of a laugh. But his eyes are kind as he says, “You and that boy of yours should get as far away from here as you can as soon as possible.”
“He’s not my boy,” I tell him, and try to pretend that it doesn’t hurt me to say. “Besides, he has other plans,” I add, staring down into the amber-colored liquid in the glass.
“Plans change, Aimee, especially when feelings get in the way,” the big man says wisely, and I wonder, not for the first time, what his life was like in Mexico before he came here. Something tells me that he wasn’t a fry cook.
“What feelings?” I ask him as I take a long
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