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Lalo inhaled deeply, smiling as the smell of seared vegetables and carne asada wafted through the run-down kitchen of El Michoacáno. The sizzling of the grill was drowned out by the radio, which blasted throughout the tiny restaurant. Even at this time of night, Lalo still enjoyed humming and dancing along to the music as he cooked.
Although he wasn’t quite sure what to expect when word had come down the line from Don Eladio that he would be heading north taking over Hector’s wing of the family business, Lalo had to admit that being in Albuquerque did have its charms.
Charms, he thought to himself, like Ignacio Varga.
Lalo looked up, letting his eyes scan the perimeter of the building’s interior. For the headquarters of a wing of one of the biggest Cartels in the Americas, El Michoacáno was a remarkably run-down establishment. Granted, it was just a front, but some corners of the wallpaper were peeling, revealing the red brick underneath, and the cheap wooden tables were covered in scrapes and miscellaneous stains that Lalo surmised were not there before the Salamanca family set up shop.
But it wasn’t the tacky wallpaper or the banged-up tables that caught Lalo’s eye - no - it was the coiled spring of a man sitting at the center of it all, closing up shop and bidding his dealers farewell for the night.
From the moment he had set a crocodile-skinned foot in Lalo’s presence, Nacho had fascinated him. Juan Bolsa had mentioned him, of course, “vigila a Varga, Lalo, es demasiado listo para su propio bien”. At the time Lalo had obliged the comment with an easy smile and a dismissive wave of his hand - after all, how smart could a low-level player really be - but he could see now that the warning hadn’t come from nowhere.
Even now, when all other dealers would be relaxed, in their element, in the comfort and safety of their own turf, Varga looked like he was expecting an ambush. As Lalo cooked he watch the muscles in Varga’s back shift and contract- the silk of his shirt gliding over them as he shook hands with Krazy-8 and ushered him to the door.
There’s a small smile on his lips as he sees him out and bids him goodnight, but the expression didn’t reach his eyes. The second Molina is out of sight, Nacho’s shoulders deflate, making him look smaller than he already is.
Lalo has watched this same pattern night after night - Varga conducts business like the dutiful lieutenant he is, but he hardly ever seems to be anything other than haltingly efficient. Dealers saunter in and out with their chains clanging together and boots scuffing the floor, but Varga remains silent and solid.
There’s no one in the building but the two of them no, and Varga still doesn’t look like a man who feels safe or anywhere near relaxed. Now, Lalo’s not stupid enough to think that his own presence doesn’t have anything to do with it, but he’ll swear up and down on the bible or la Virgen de Guadalupe or six keys of product that he’s not trying to antagonize Varga.
Quite the opposite, in fact. Usually, when Lalo tosses a smile someone’s way (in the game or otherwise) it gets them to relax, let down their guard. Lalo knows the effect his smile has on people, so he thought it couldn’t hurt to toss on Varga’s way. Much to his dismay, though, it only seems to raise the man’s shackle’s higher.
Lalo begins to whistle, scraping at the charred remains of pork and peppers as he plates his concoction. He switches the grill off and watches as Vara’s head (predictably) snaps over to the sudden lack of noise. Lalo raises an eyebrow, holds up a plate, and makes a peace sign with his other hand.
Varga responds with a curt nod of his head and an expression Lalo can’t quite read and heads to grab two Modelos from the icebox. For a man so wary of being watched, Varga has a remarkably consistent routine, and in the few months that Lalo has been here, he’s begun to incorporate these late-night dinners into his schedule.
Making his way out from behind the grill and towards the dining room, Lalo sets two plated down - one for him and one for Varga. “Nacho”, he thinks to himself. He wonders vaguely how Varga would react if Lalo cooked up a plate of Nachos instead of their standard carnitas or tacos. Although he’d like to hope for some kind of reaction, Varga would more than likely eat them in silence, just as he does every other meal Lalo makes for him.
He’s drawn from his musings as Varga returns with the beers, a bottle opener tucked deftly between sturdy hands. Weeks ago Varga would have stood, waiting for Lalo’s “ok” to sit, but by now he’s learned that standing in silence will earn him little more than an eye roll - one of the precious few ways he’s shown any kind of familiarity or trust towards Lalo.
Lalo settles into a chair himself, taking one of the proffered beers and letting the pad of his thumb slide over Varga’s hand, just a little. There are calluses there, and the back of Lalo’s mind asks where they came from. What, or who put them there.
Varga’s gaze flashes up to Lalo’s at the sudden contact - big brown eyes surrounded by long lashes look up at him instantly. Lalo holds his gaze, but as always Varga averts his eyes and takes the seat across from his.
They don’t eat in silence - there is, of course, the music of the radio, and the bustling of downtown Albuquerque on a Friday night- but for all intents and purposes, Lalo feels as if he’s drowning in quiet. Lalo doesn’t like the quiet - it must be a Salamanca family trait, he supposes. As usual, Lalo is the one to start the conversation.
“So-” he starts casually, taking a sip of his beer. “What do you do around here for fun?”
Varga looks at him, eyes searching for something on Lalo’s face.
“Fun?”
Lalo laughs.
“Yes, Nachito, Fun. Jesucristo, you say it like it’s a dirty word.”
He leans forward with his elbows on the table and his chin in one hand, a slow smile spreading across his face. He lets his eyes flicker up and down Varga’s features, lingering for a moment on his lips before meeting his gaze again.
“Come on, don’t tell me at the end of a long, grueling day of work you go home and do what- twiddle your thumbs? You’re in the game, Varga, you have to be letting loose every once in a while. C’mon, I want to know.”
It’s bait, and they both know it. For a moment, Lalo thinks he sees something in Varga’s eyes, but it’s gone just as quickly as it arrived.
“I don’t really have time for that kind of thing.”
Lalo scoffs - that’s a cop-out if he’s ever heard one - but leans in even closer, almost conspiratorially.
“All work and no play for little Ignacio Varga, huh?”
He leans back in his seat, takes another swig of beer.
“Maybe we should do something about that.”