soldier—the soldier nodded. “I invite you.” He pointed at Pope. Then at her. Then at me. “You, you, and you. Right here. Berry expensive.” He drained the martini and snapped his fingers at the waiter. “An’ I sit here an’ wait.” The waiter hurried over and took the glass and scurried away.
“Me an’ my brother, Arnulfo.”
He put his hand on the soldier’s arm.
“We wait for you.”
Popo said, “Dad …”
“Callate el osico, chingado,” his father breathed. He turned his head to me and smiled. He looked like a moray eel in a tank. Another martini landed before him.
“You,” he said. “Why you dress like a girl?” He sipped. “I wait for you, but you don’t care. No! Don’t say nothing. Listen. I wait, and you no show up here to my fancy dinner. Is okay. I don’t care.” He waved his hand. “I have my li’l drink, and I don’t care.” He toasted me. He seemed like he was coiled, steel springs inside his gut. My skin was crawling and I didn’t even know why.
“I wait for you,” he said. “Captain Arnulfo, he wait. You don’t care, right? Is okay! I’m happy. I got my martinis, I don’t give a shit.”
He smiled.
He pulled a long cigar out of his inner pocket. He bit the end off and spit it on the table. He put the cigar in his mouth. Arnulfo took out a gold lighter and struck a blue flame.
The waiter rushed over and murmured, “I’m sorry, sir, but this is a nonsmoking bistro. You’ll have to take it outside.”
The old man didn’t even look at him—just stared at me through those gray lenses.
“Is hot outside,” he said. “Right, gringo? Too hot?” I nodded—I didn’t know what to do. “You see?” the old man said.
“I must insist,” the waiter said.
“Bring the chef,” the old man said.
“Excuse me?”
“Get the chef out here for me. Now.”
The waiter brought out the chef, who bent down to the old man. Whispers. No drama. But the two men hurried away and the waiter came back with an ashtray. Arnulfo lit Poppa’s cigar.
He blew smoke at me and said, “Why you do this violence to me?”
“I …” I said.
“Shut up.”
He snapped his fingers again, and food and more martinis arrived. I stared at my plate. Snails in garlic butter. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t even sip the water. Smoke drifted to me. I could feel the gray lenses focused on me. Pope, that chickenshit, just ate and never looked up. Amapola sipped iced coffee and stared out the window.
After forty minutes of this nightmare, Poppa pushed his plate away.
“Oye,” he said, “tú.”
I looked up.
“Why you wan’ fock my baby daughter?”
Sure, I trembled for a while after that. I got it, I really did. But did good sense overtake me? What do you think? I was full-on into the Romeo and Juliet thing, and she was even worse. Parents—you want to ensure your daughters marry young? Forbid them from seeing their boyfriends. Just try it.
“Uncle Arnie,” as big dark Captain Arnulfo was called in Cuca’s house, started hanging around. A lot. I wasn’t, like, stupid. I could tell what was what—he was sussing me out (that’s a word Pope taught me). He brought Bass Pale Ale all the time. He sidled up to me and said dumb things like, “You like the sexy?” Pope and I laughed all night after Uncle Ar-nie made his appearances. “You make the sexy-sexy in cars?” What a dork, we thought.
My beloved showered me with letters. I had no way of knowing if my own letters got to her or not, but she soon found an Internet café in Nogales and sent me cyber-love. Popo was drying up a little, not quite what you’d call sober, but occasionally back on the earth, and he started calling me “McLovin.” I think it was his way of trying to tone it down. “Bring it down a notch, homeboy,” he’d say when I waxed overly poetic about his sister.
It was a Saturday when it happened. I was IM-ing Amapola. That’s all I did on Saturday afternoons. No TV, no cruising in the car, no movies or pool time. I fixed a huge vat of sun tea and hit my laptop and talked to her. Mom was at work—she was always at work or out doing lame shit like bowling. It was just me, the computer, my distant girlie, and the cat rubbing against my leg. I’ll confess to you—don’t laugh—I cried at night thinking about her.