The Empanada Brotherhood by John Nichols Page B

va!” Eduardo flung up his hands. “Marcello was a jerk. And why didn’t Claudia help him out with a blowjob? That icy girl reminded me of Adriana.”
    â€œWhat do you think, blondie?” Alfonso asked.
    â€œI felt sorry for Marcello,” I answered. Truth is, the movie had terrified me.
    At the empanada stand Roldán was talking sign language to the blue-haired amazon who knew Popeye—toothless Martha.
    â€œJust my luck,” she crowed. “The three most attractive studs in New York City.”
    Alfonso ordered coffee; Eduardo demanded a mate; I asked for a Coke. Martha sidled over to Eduardo, casting her arm around his shoulders.
    â€œWhattayou say, big boy?”
    Eduardo shook her off, rolling his eyes around. “No hablo inglés,” he grumbled.
    â€œHe doesn’t speak English,” I lied.
    She laughed. “Who cares what he doesn’t speak? Language is not at issue here.”
    In Spanish Roldán asked, “How was the movie?”
    Alfonso said, “Eduardo didn’t like it.”
    â€œWhy not?” The cook began washing stuff in his tiny sink.
    â€œBecause Claudia wouldn’t give Marcello a blowjob.”
    â€œWhat are they talking about?” Martha asked me.
    â€œIt’s all slang,” I said.
Hello, déjà vu.
“I really don’t understand a word.”

35. See You Later, Alligator
    I was prowling around the neighborhood at three A.M. when I bumped into Roldán and Santiago Chávez heading north past St. Anthony’s Church on Sullivan Street. Inside the two cardboard boxes they carried were nestled tomorrow’s empanadas. A tall, melancholy man, Santiago never visited the stand during commercial hours. But every night he helped the fat man cart the next day’s product up to the kiosk.
    Santiago ran a bakery hidden in his basement on Sullivan Street. You would never know it existed except for the wonderful odors seeping onto the sidewalk between midnight and five A.M. Roldán set his alarm for three each night so he could get up, walk south, and fetch his empanadas. Then he went back to sleep until noon.
    Santiago made the pastelitos also. He didn’t have a business license because it was cheaper to pay off the cops and the city inspectors.
    I joined the two older men, relieving Roldán of his burden. With the cast on his arm it was harder for him to carry things.
    â€œYou came along just in time,” he gasped. “I was getting tired. What are you doing up at this hour, blondie?”
    â€œI’m always up at this hour,” I said. “I’m a night owl, a murciélago, a vampire.”
    The cook laughed. “When I was young I used to stay up all night with my pals playing billiards or chasing women at the milongas. Believe it or not, I didn’t used to be such a hippo.”
    Santiago never said a word. For a baker he sure was morose … and skinny.
    We crossed West Houston which did not have a moving car visible in either direction. It always amazed me that Roldán could locomote at all. He walked sort of spread-legged and waddling like a penguin, puffing loudly, though he seemed pretty strong except when climbing stairs.
    At the kiosk he removed a padlock and opened the door, squeezed into the alley, flipped a light switch, lifted the gate on the counter, and accepted one box from me and stashed it in the refrigerator. He took the other box from Santiago, who spun right around and retreated down the block to West Houston, returning to work.
    Roldán handed me his portable TV so he could lock up. He’d forgotten it earlier. “I need television to sleep.” I followed behind him on the stairs; we took a while to reach his apartment. His Christmas tree was still up, decorated by tinsel and a string of little lights. Half the needles had fallen off and been swept clean, but the lights were still blinking. I set the TV down on the kitchen table.
    Roldán