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window open. Cathy coughed from the empanada smoke. “He’s the best flamenco guitarist in New York City,” she bragged. “Isn’t that right, blondie?”
    I leaned forward, my head turned sideways so I could see her past Carlos. “That’s right,” I said.
    Carlos wanted Jorge to play a song. “Play ‘Bésame Mucho,’ kid.”
    â€œHe only plays flamenco,” Cathy said. “He doesn’t sing. He’s a purist, not a sentimental puppy dog.”
    Embarrassed, Jorge turned his back on the window, staring at a slant across MacDougal to Dante’s Café. How did he keep from shivering?
    Carlos said, “I heard flamenco was invented by retarded gypsies in order to make fun of themselves.”
    Fast as he could, Roldán folded napkins around the empanadas, wrapped them with tinfoil, then carefully placed them in a small brown paper bag. He added clean napkins and put tops on the coffee cups and dropped two creamersand sugar packets into the sack, along with a thin plastic swizzle stick to stir the coffees.
    Cathy paid, put a quarter tip on the counter, told Jorge to take the sack off the window ledge, and pressed backward out the door holding the coffee cups.
    She paused at the window. “Thank you, maestro. Toodle-oo, blondie. Adiós, Carlos the Artist, don’t get your cape caught in a fan blade.”
    The boss closed his window. Three seconds later Carlos said, “Who was that uppity viper?”
    I could tell, however, that he liked her.
    â€œShe’s not a viper,” I said.

24. Cops and Sobbers
    Uh-oh. Eduardo’s ex-wife, Adriana, descended from a taxi and walked purposefully into the empanada stand as if she owned it, trapping Luigi, El Coco, and me in the alley. She had on a Russian imitation-rabbit-fur hat and a spiffy leather overcoat with a turned-up collar. Her face looked very gaunt and pale and her lipstick was a shade of crimson so bright it almost hurt our eyes. The high tension crackling off her body gave all three of us goose bumps. She stuck a cigarette between her lips and ignored the match Luigi struck, clicking open her own lighter. Adriana exhaled into Roldán’s face, saying, “Qué tal, pelotudos?” That’s when we knew she was plastered.
    â€œWe’re not assholes,” Luigi said. “We’re just lonely guys looking for a bit of warmth and laughter to mitigate the horrors of this cold, cruel world.”
    â€œYou’re assholes in my book,” Adriana said. “Where is Eduardo, the chief asshole in this city of assholes, which is the asshole capital of the Western Hemisphere?”
    The cook asked politely, “Querés tomar algo?”
    Adriana ignored him and addressed me. “Let me ask you something, blondie. You don’t have a Latin temperament. You’re very slow like a caracol. You’re probably still a virgin. That haircut reminds me of an aircraft carrier. I bet if you ever get married you’ll be faithful to your wife. So tell me: How come you hang out with this pack of oversexed dogs who always treat women like shit?”
    Because I didn’t understand the word
caracol,
I asked, “What is a caracol?”
    Before Adriana could explain, El Coco unleashed a startling tirade: “Go away, you Nazi. Leave us alone. We were having fun here until you came along and stunk up the kiosk like a fart. Maybe the devil thinks you’re pretty but you look like lizard crap to me.”
    Adriana paused with the cigarette held pensively in front of her cheek. El Coco was wearing a threadbare hooded parka and gloves with the fingers cut off. His unruly black beard reminded me of Rasputin.
    Finally, Adriana belched, checked her watch, and addressed Roldán: “Fijate, tubby, it’s nine P.M. —time to close. So why don’t you grab your human mop over there in the corner and clean up this dump?”
    Luigi said, “I know it’s