drinking for two hours, Tecate with whiskey chasers, but had brushed his teeth to fool the world, downshift his rage-a-holic transmission into sweet and innocent. In his present blurry condition his movements were like a Tejano gunslinger, deliberate and pointed.
He checked his face in the rearview to make sure he was composed, handsome as ever, teeth straight and white, black hair thick as a brush. He was in his early twenties and perhaps losing that lousy job was the best thing that could happen to him.
When he stepped out, he watched his reflection, liking the way he looked in the window glass of his gold El Camino. Things would work out. He was young. He had potential. Plus he owned a car the color of good tequila. He smoothed back a shock of his hair and straightened his bushy eyebrows, then stood as tall and straight as he could for being a bit on the short side of things.
He headed toward the door and grimaced, noting the license plates of the vehicles filling the lot. Wisconsin. Minnesota. Saskatchewan. Iowa. The place was full of old Yankee tourists and if there was one thing he hated it was the fucking tourists. Fucking old white tourists. Snowbirds. They were always smiling and friendly. They lived their whole fat lives in good moods. They had pink noses and white hair like lab rats. The only thing they needed now was whiskers and a cage. They discussed the flavor of gumbo like it was the weather or local gossip. Like I think the gumbo is especially good today, don’t you? Just the right amount of shrimp. And the okra! You can’t get okra like this in Madison! It was enough to make you want to jab an oyster knife in a snowbird’s gut.
Staring at all the Northern license plates in the parking lot, Gabriel felt like Sitting Bull at the Little Big Horn.
Good moods came easy to these Yankee tourists. They had all the money they needed and then some. Gabriel spat on the tire of an RV from Michigan as he passed by. Stepping into the Black Tooth, lost in his brain, in his enojo sombrío, he calculated a vehicle like that must cost a hundred grand, easy.
Behind the counter stood the owner of the Black Tooth Café, a Russian émigré named Gusef Smurov. He saw the steady demise of Goodnight as an end of this world. But he knew another would arise in its place. Gusef could always recognize the sooty under-feathers of bad times. When the old fisherman Mr. Buzzy had his leg amputated after a catfish wound infection set in, Gusef helped him more than any other person in Goodnight. To cheer him up he said, Yes well think of money you will now save on shoes.
Gabriel walked in and took a place at the counter. He stared at the menu in fake concentration, as if pretending to read the Gospel of Luke and not getting what all the fuss was about. His face took on a resemblance to the bronze statue of a vaquero. He wore blue jeans, workboots, and a plain white T-shirt. Around his left wrist was tattooed a bracelet of mesquite thorns, no wider than a pencil. The barbs of the thorns were graceful, blue and sharp.
Gusef asked how he was doing.
Gabriel did not look up from the menu. He said, You want to know the truth?
No. But this you will tell anyway.
The truth is I lost my job. The owner is throwing in the towel on the shrimping business.
Gusef looked out the window and shrugged. Yes well it is not such bad thing. So you fishermen catch no fish. You will have more time to drink. Or stay at home and get much amusement out of shouting obscenities at your wife and gruesome children.
This time Gabriel gave the Russian a sharp look. Not me, he said. I don’t have any wife or children.
Perhaps someone is lucky.
Gabriel put down the menu. You think you’re a funny man, don’t you?
Perhaps you should learn to take joke, Mr. Tough Guy.
Maybe you should tell one, said Gabriel. He looked around the dining room. Is Una here?
She is here but has no time for love talk. She is busy now.
I’ll wait, he said.
Before long a pretty girl walked up and put her hand on Gabriel’s arm. She was four years out of high school but so small she could have passed for a junior high student. Her hair was blue-black and shimmery, like grackle wings. Her lips the pink of boiled shrimp. She brought Gabriel a glass of iced tea with two lemon wedges. She wore a plain blue dress and flip-flops. She’d lived in Goodnight all her life, but her father was Vietnamese, her mother Mexican. Her name was Una.
She touched Gabriel’s cheek and asked him what was the matter.
He told her how he’d been laid off. The injustice of it all. How the pendejos could have given him some warning. It wasn’t right. I’m not worthless, he said in a loud voice. They treat me like I’m nothing, less than nothing.
Una made a pained face. She said, I’m sorry.
Well so am I, said Gabriel, but it doesn’t matter. He started to go on about the coldhearted bastards that owned the shrimpboats, but Una took a step away. She said, I’m kind of swamped.
Okay. Sure. Go.
Don’t be like that.
Like what?
Have you been drinking?
Don’t start, okay? He directed his attention to the menu. Who’s the new guy?
What new guy?
The one in the apron.
Oh. He’s just a high school kid. He’s not new. He’s been here a couple weeks already.
First I’ve seen of him.
He got kicked out of school.
For what?
He got caught with a knife. In class.
Shit. I did that. You didn’t see me getting kicked out.
Well. He did.
What makes him so special?
Gabriel? I’m kind of busy right now?
He reached over and squeezed her hand. Don’t worry. I’ll be here.
She nodded. I better go. I have orders.
Sure, he said. Don’t let me keep you from feeding las turistas.
He went back to considering the menu. After a moment he realized she had not even asked what he wanted to eat. A grilled cheese would have been nice.
Beside him at the lunch counter, perched on a stool as pleased as punch, sat a chubby bald man with a white beard, wearing a loud red and yellow Hawaiian shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals. He looked like Santa Claus on vacation. He beamed at Gabriel and said, The gumbo is wonderful today. I don’t know how they do it, but really, it’s to die for. I give it four stars.
Gabriel looked at the white-haired tourist without smiling. In a low voice he said, If I was you but I knew what was going on in my head? I think I’d just scoot the fuck over and shut the fuck up.
The Santa Claus man quit smiling and moved away.
THROUGH THE ROUND ship’s portal window in the door that divided the kitchen from the dining area, Falk Powell stood watching. He’d only been working at the Black Tooth for two weeks, an orphan and seventeen years old. He watched Una bend and wobble in the orbit of the shrimper Gabriel, the tough dude, who in Falk’s eyes seemed small and sinewy as a snake. A snake or a monkey. All wiry limbs and veins bulging beneath golden skin, a simian brow. To him Gabriel resembled the other bullies in school, Anglo or Chicano, goons who grew angrier as they grew older, as they realized that with each passing day their backs got closer to the wall.
When Una returned to the kitchen for a dessert order he followed her into the walk-in cooler. She was getting a slice of key lime pie for a customer. They kept the pie in the cooler beside a stack of chilled white plates. Falk pretended to be searching for something, standing near her in the cold air. He picked up a bucket of cherry tomatoes for the salad bar.
Una? Why do they call you that?
It’s