Deadly Gamble

Chapter 10 (Part 2)

Pedro's is a tiny Mexican restaurant, just six blocks from my house. It's a couple of streets off the main plaza in Old Town, so most of the tourists miss it. We've been coming here since we were children, and Pedro and his wife Concha have practically adopted us. Tonight, there were two other vehicles out front when we pulled up.

One was a dusty pickup truck of indeterminate color belonging to another regular, Manny. The other was local but I didn't recognize it. Rusty began to get excited as soon as he saw where we were. Pawing at the side window, he whimpered impatiently.

"Hold on, hold on," I told him. "We'll be there in a minute."

Pedro relaxes the city health code regularly for us, keeping a corner table for us where Rusty can lie in the shadows, keeping watch for fallen tortilla chips. None of the other regulars seem to mind, but I usually take the precaution of checking the room first before letting Rusty in.

It's a small place, with a long hand-carved bar from Mexico dominating the entire back wall. Six tables fill the tiny room to capacity. Manny sat at his usual table in the far right corner. His clothes were as dusty as his truck, nothing unusual, and he sat with his back to the wall as he watched the room and silently tossed back tequila shooters. I've seen him do five or six during the time it takes me to eat a meal, and he'll still be going at them when I leave. Pedro says Manny has the insides of a teenager.

Another table, this one on the right hand side of the room near the windows, was occupied by a couple who seemed far more wrapped up in each other than anything else. Otherwise, the place was empty. Pedro stood behind the bar. He caught my eye and nodded. Rusty was overjoyed when I let him out of the Jeep.

The three of us took our usual table in the front left corner. By the time we were seated Pedro had appeared with a basket of chips, a small bowl of salsa, and two foamy margaritas. Just the right amount of salt on the rim, the right amount of tangy lime, the drink was what I needed at the moment to unknot my cramped neck muscles. We munched on the chips while he delivered a check to the couple's table. Manny raised his grizzled gray and black whiskered chin to us, the only show of recognition we ever get from him.

"Here you go, move those glasses please," Concha bustled toward us carrying two plates so hot she had to carry them with potholders. Pedro had apparently signaled our usual order to her even before we were seated.

The smells of meat, cheese, and chile assailed the senses, making me eager to dig right in. Concha patted me on the shoulder as she walked away, leaving us to do just that. I tossed Rusty an extra tortilla chip to pacify him while I cut into my chicken enchiladas, smothered in green chile and sour cream. It was a good ten minutes before either Ron or I stopped to say a word.

"How was everything?" Concha came back to check on us, wiping her hands on her apron. She and Pedro are almost like Latino caricatures of the old Jack Sprat nursery rhyme. She is short and round, obviously having sampled much of her own cooking. Pedro is not much taller than his wife but skinny as a pole, probably attributable to his constantly being in motion. He flits around like a hummingbird, serving drinks, rinsing glasses, wiping the tables and the bar. You rarely see him sit.

"Umm, wonderful as always," I assured Concha.

"Good. You finish now, we'll visit later." She waddled back toward the kitchen. She and Pedro live here, too, in a small apartment they've made for themselves at the back.

"So, how's the case coming?" Ron asked, wiping red chile from the corners of his mouth.

"I feel kind of stumped," I admitted. "I've talked to so many people, but I just don't feel like I'm getting any answers."