Read Online The Empanada Brotherhood by John Nichols - Free Book Online Page A

Garbo asked, “What was
that
all about?”
    â€œNone of your business,” Roldán said. He flicked his fingertips scornfully.
    To me, the accountant said, “I hear you think you’re a writer. What do you write about?”
    â€œI’m working on lots of stuff,” I said. “But I haven’t completed anything worthwhile.”
    â€œWhat sort of
stuff
?” she asked, blowing smoke in a thin stream up toward the stars. “Have you published anything?”
    â€œNo, not yet. I write novels and short stories. They aren’t any good, though.”
    â€œOh my, Mr. Self-Confidence. What sort of novels?” she persisted.
    I didn’t like talking about my work but feared even worse being impolite. Feeling squeamish, I said, “One is a collegeromance, another is about a Bowery bum. A third concerns the lives of a robber baron family on the North Shore of Long Island.”
    â€œHow fascinating,” she said, already bored.
    Roldán wrapped a napkin around the bottom half of my empanada and set it on a paper plate. I took a bite and reached for the Tabasco sauce. The cook plucked Greta Garbo’s five-dollar bill off the window ledge instead of my own. He gave her the change and she pointedly left him a one-dollar tip. My five-dollar bill just sat there.
    â€œHave you ever read any books by Ernest Hemingway?” the accountant asked.
    â€œOf course. I’ve read all his novels and short stories, plus
Death in the Afternoon.
He’s my hero.”
    She said, “I think Hemingway was just a little boy with an enormous dick looking for a big fish to fuck.”
    Then she picked up my five-dollar bill and tucked it into my jacket pocket and trotted off to call a cab.

23. Inside, Outside
    A strange thing happened. I was standing in the kiosk’s alley watching TV, hemmed against the wall by Carlos the Artist, when Cathy Escudero and Jorge appeared at the window. Roldán slid it open a third. Cathy had on a green Santa Claus cap with a white pom-pom and her shabby overcoat. Jorge wore the porkpie hat and carried his guitar case. He had no gloves and seemed half frozen to death.
    â€œCome on in,” the fat man said, turning down the TV sound. He added in English: “Baby, it’s cold outside.” For two weeks I had been teaching him to say that.
    Carlos pushed open the door and, after stamping snow off her feet, Cathy came inside. Jorge stayed on the sidewalk.
    â€œDale, dale,” Roldán said. “You look like a frozen Popsicle.”
    Jorge held up one hand to indicate that he felt more comfortable exactly where he was. He continued smoking a cigarette.
    Cathy said, “We each want a pork empanada and a cup of hot coffee with a top. In a bag to go, please. How are you, blondie? And what are your friends’ names, if I may be so bold?”
    â€œI am Carlos the Artist,” Carlos said. “And this is the boss himself, Don Áureo Roldán.”
    â€œMucho gusto conocerles,” Cathy said, shaking hands with them both and doing a double take on the artist’s getup. He had on a top hat and a bullfighting cape, and a third eye was carefully painted in the middle of his forehead. “What kind of artist are you, Carlito, a bullshit artist?”
    Carlos replied, “No, I’m a professional womanizer. But you’re not my type. I prefer girls that have graduated from kindergarten.”
    Roldán said quickly, “He’s only joking. He’s really a good artist. He’s having a show uptown in the spring.”
    â€œWhat kind of show?” Cathy asked. “Finger painting? Connecting the dots with crayons?”
    Roldán said, “Oíme, nene, at least put the guitar inside.” He was talking to Jorge, who had never set down the guitar case. “Your hand will fall off in this cold.”
    Jorge said, “On the street I never let go of my guitar.”
    So Roldán left the