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It’s just past 10am. The air is crisp, and the sun is shining on a clear Albuquerque morning.
Manuel Varga is leaning back against the brick sidewall of A-to-Z Upholstery, letting the sun’s rays and mug of coffee balanced on his knee warm him from the cool June air. He’s taking a rare break, mostly at the insistence of his senior upholsterer, Xavier. He’s a smoker, and a terrible gossip, but Manuel is willing to let his prattle and the smell of cigarettes wash over him if it means ten minutes away from his work.
While Xavi babbles about the argument he overheard between Sr. and Sra. Estrada at church last Sunday, Manuel flexes the fingers on his free hand. They’re aching so much more this winter than they were last. He thinks briefly about what his options will be if the arthritis keeps him from his work.
If only he had an honest, hardworking son who knew the trade, and whom he could pass the shop onto, then he wouldn’t have to worry about his future, or who would take care of him in his old age. He sighs to himself and takes another sip of his coffee. If only.
It’s just past 10:15 and his coffee is down to dregs when he feels it. A chill races up his spine in cold, tight coils. He lurches, and the folding chair he sits in creaks with his movement.
“And then Luiz said-” his fit catches Xavi mid-sentence. “Ey, Manuel, what’s wrong with you? What happened?” He asks.
“Nothing,” he tries to brush him off, even as his stomach pitches down. He’s never had a shiver like that before in his life.
“You’re sure you’re alright? Because you don’t look so good. You know, when my old man had his heart attack-”
“Ay, for God’s sake Xavi, it wasn’t a heart attack!” That’s just what he needs, a reputation as an arthritic heart attack survivor. At this rate he’ll be an invalid by lunch time.
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, he feels someone standing behind him. Their presence is overwhelming, like they’re only a hair’s breadth from touching him. He jumps when whoever-it-is lays a hand on his shoulder. Where the Hell could they have come from? He was certain he hadn’t heard any footsteps coming towards him.
Manuel’s question answers itself. When he turns around, there’s no one there. He sighs and shakes his head. He has some high school kids that work weekends. They must be playing a joke on the old man. Either that or he’s just been visited by a –
The mug falls out of Manuel’s hand, smashing into a hundred pieces. Xavi is quick enough to leap out of the way before any of them can land on him. He’s yelling something at him, either what’s going on with you, Manny?, or what the Hell’s wrong with you, Manny?, but everything sounds distant compared to his own blood rushing in his ears.
His mind races, catching and stumbling on the other day. That phone call from Ignacio. His strange tone. I just wanted to hear your voice.
All the pieces fall into place, and it suddenly becomes horrifically, terribly clear what’s happened.
Please God, no. Not his son. Not his boy.
Manuel rushes to his feet, the chair clattering over in his wake. He hears Xavi distantly, demanding an explanation for his strange behaviour, and he senses his staff gathering and looking on behind him. They all might as well be on another planet. He stumbles through the shop and grabs the phone receiver like a life preserver in the ocean. He’s got two numbers for Ignacio. He has to answer one of them. He has to.
Domingo Molina is sitting in the back of El Michoacano, spinning a poker chip between his fingers as he oversees the days payments. He tries to mask his fidgeting with a fixed, determined glare. This isn’t his seat, and this isn’t his job. He should be where Blingy is, counting bills and calculating totals, and Nacho should be where he is.
But he hasn’t seen Nacho in days. He hasn’t heard from him since he called him late one evening, the day before collection. He had that same guarded, overcompensating tone in his voice that he’d used when they were kids – the one he used whenever he didn’t want to show he was scared.
“I’m taking Lalo home. You’re in charge of collection,” he said simply.
“Okay,” Domingo said, “for how long?”
He could almost hear Nacho’s glare through the phone. “Until I get back.” And then the line had gone dead. That had been nearly a week ago, and Domingo’s being doing as he was told, overseeing collection and keeping dealers in check, and Nacho’s given no indication that he’s on his way back. Domingo keeps his phone on the table, waiting with bated breath for a call from him, saying just that. He’s tired of this top-dog shit. It makes him twitchy.
So there Domingo sits, clenching his teeth and spinning his poker chip, when his stomach falls into his feet. He gasps in surprise at the sensation and doesn’t have a chance at supressing the shudder that runs through him.
The dealer in the hot seat – some punk kid friend of Emilio’s, Jackie? Joshie? – looks at him in confusion. Blingy follows his gaze and turns in his seat, to see him leaning hard on the table top, sucking in short breaths through a tight jaw.
“Yo, Domingo, you good?” he asks.
If there was ever a lesson from Nacho that stuck with him, it was to never let the street guys see you cracking.
“What are you, my nurse?” He snaps. “I’m fine. Now turn your ass back around and do your job. I gotta make a call.”
His legs are strong until he’s out of their line of sight. Once he’s around the corner to the bathrooms, Domingo doubles over, knees almost knocking with how badly his legs are shaking. There’s a hard, heavy lump in his throat that wasn’t there a moment ago. He shakes his head, willing away the awful thoughts about where that chill might have come from.
“He’s okay,” he whispers to himself. “He’s alright.” He repeats the mantra softly as he opens his phone, hitting the first number on his speed dial. He listens to the dial tone for longer than he hopes to.
“C’mon, pick up,” he mutters. “Pick up, pick up, pick up.”
His only answer is a curt voice mail message. “Nacho. Leave it.”
“Nacho, hey.” Domingo’s throat is surprisingly dry, and he coughs past his first few words. “Just wondering when you’re getting back, man. Uhh, give me a call when you get this, okay?” He considers his next words before finishing, “I’m worried about you.”
He hits the end call button and slams the phone closed before he can second guess his wording. His logical brain tells him that Nacho is fine. Maybe his stomach just turned because he’s sick. Yeah, he’s probably got a 24-hour flu or something. But just to be sure, he’ll stop by Nacho’s on the way home tonight. Amber will know when he’s getting back, for sure.
He touches his forehead and his fingers come away damp, and he suddenly realises how badly he’s kidding himself. With no other options left, Domingo does something he hasn’t done in years – he prays.
“Please, God,” he thinks as he crosses the restaurant floor back to his seat, “please tell me that wasn’t Nacho. Please don’t let him be dead. Don’t tell me he’s left me here alone with these fucking people.”
Somewhere in the desert - he’s not sure where, he’s been driving for hours and still has hours to go - Lalo feels a weight pressing down on his chest. It’s not particularly painful, but it’s persistent and drawn out. He pulls onto the shoulder of the dirt road, just to make sure it doesn’t develop into anything worse. He doesn’t take his health for granted anymore, not since tío Hector’s stroke. He sits for a moment, hands open on his thighs, and takes two deep, measured breaths. Then, as soon as the feeling arrived, it goes. It takes Lalo a few moments for it to click as to what it must have been. When it does, a smile spreads across his face. He’s been party to enough executions now to know an unfriendly presence when he feels it. By his own guess he’s so haunted and has so many curses on him that he should be charging ghost hunters to shake his hand.
It’s not the first time someone’s tried to get theirs back at him on their way out, and it probably won’t be the last. He presses his own palm hard into his sternum, just to savour the feeling. Looks like Varga’s luck finally ran out. It’s only a shame he couldn’t have done it himself. He would have given anything to be there when it ended for that pumped up little rat.
He pulls the truck back onto the road and kicks up a cloud of golden dust. Damn being spotted. The next bar he sees, he’s stopping for a beer.
“See you on the other side, lgnacio.”