Stuart Kaminsky - Denial

“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 looking for little boys to run over.”

“How do you know this?” she asked.

“I think he was just after one fourteen-year-old boy.”

“You know this for sure?”

“No, not for sure.”

“Then I think maybe we’ll keep Carlos inside till he’s caught, this driver,” she said.

“It can’t hurt. How are the tacos?” I asked.

“How are the tacos?” she repeated, shaking her head and smiling. “What do you expect me to say? The tacos are terrible? The tacos are good, the best.”

“Two tacos,” I said, “and a Diet Coke.”

“He’s a good man, Arnoldo,” she said. “A very good man and a good father.”

My turn to nod. She walked away and I waited and looked out the window. The clouds were white cotton. The sun was behind one of them heading for the Gulf of Mexico.

I had finished the first taco when Arnoldo Robles sat down across from me still wearing his apron, a bottle of water in his hand. Corazon Robles was right. The taco was good and big.

“I’ve got maybe five minutes,” he said.

“You look tired.”

He shrugged.

“You know this song? The one playing?” he asked.

“‘La Paloma,’” I said.

“Yes, ‘The Dove.’ People think it is a Mexican song, but it is not,” he said, looking at the tablecloth. “It is Spanish and the other famous song in Spanish, ‘Granada,’ about a city in Spain, is a Mexican song. Ironico. You understand?”

“Ironic,” I said. “Almost the same word. You look tired.”

“Bad dreams,” he said. “My wife told you?”

“Yes.”

“I dream about that boy, that car,” he said.

“I have nightmares too. My nightmares are about my wife. She was killed by a hit-and-run driver.”

“I’m sorry,” he said. “When?”

“Four years, one month and six days ago.”

I took a bite of the second taco.

“Good taco,” I said.

“You talked to the police?” asked Robles.

“Yes,” I said.

“I don’t have anything more to tell you than I told them,” he said after a long drink of water. “I was walking home. I see this kid in the street. There’s a car behind him. Kid runs down the street, right in the middle, you know? Kid turns, holds up his hand, but the guy in the car just…”

“Ran him down,” I said.

“Ran him…?”

“Hit him on purpose.”

“Looked that way to me,” said Arnoldo.

“What was the boy doing in the street?”

“I don’t know. I could see him like I see you now. He turns, headlights on his face, and the guy in the car steps on the gas, screeches the tires. I can hear it.”

“What did the kid’s face look like?”

I kept my eyes on him and worked my taco.

“Look like? I don’t know. Afraid and then another look. Don’t know what it was and he puts up his hand maybe like he wants the guy to stop, but the guy in the car steps on the gas and I’m just standing there.”

“You couldn’t see the driver?”

Robles shook his head.

“In my dream, he’s a big guy, big shoulders, but I didn’t get a good look at him. In his car he was just…”

He held out his hands.

“… like a shape. Like the one in the backseat.”

I put down my taco.

“In your dream there’s someone in the backseat of the car?”

“In my dream? Yeah, but in the real car too. Someone not so big. Maybe a girl. Maybe a kid.”

“You tell this to the police?”

“Yeah, sure, cop named Ralston.”

“Ransom,” I corrected.

“Ransom, whatever. I told him. He said maybe I was seeing things. I said maybe but I didn’t think so. He said maybe the kid who got hit had run onto the street. I said no way. He said maybe the screeching I heard was the driver trying to stop before hitting the kid. I said for sure, no. I could see.”

“Anything else you remember?”

“Blood, maybe brains on the street. Boy was dead when I got to him. Car was driving fast down the street. Boy’s body all twisted. When I was a kid, I wanted to be a doctor. No more. You really working for the boy’s mother?”

I nodded.

“Find the guy,” he said. “Find out what it was all about. Let me know. I need to sleep. My wife and I need to know our son is safe on the streets, at least safe from that crazy guy.”

He got up. So did I. We shook hands. His was damp with cool moisture from the water bottle. He went back to the kitchen and I dropped six dollars on the table and left.

I started across the parking lot toward my car, reaching into my pocket for the car key. I didn’t see it coming. I heard the screech of tires close by and started to look up. I sensed it almost on me. Maybe I held up my hand the way Kyle McClory had done about a week ago. I didn’t freeze. I dived over the edge of the fender, my knee hitting something, maybe the headlight, as the car passed by and made a sharp turn at the end of the aisle onto Lime. I didn’t see it turn. I heard it. I was sprawled on my back, knee throbbing, left shoulder numb, Cubs cap still on my head.