The Best Mexican Place in the Whole Town

The Best Mexican Place in the Whole Town

“This is the best Mexican place in the whole town,” the man said. He grinned, revealing a top row of tiny teeth, the canines short and sharp and razor thin. “It’s also the only Mexican place in town.” His gums were almost white. Tiny eyes twinkled in the late afternoon sun, and there was a glare on his bulbous nose. He was a fat man with huge fingers that tapped incessantly while he waited for his food. He had told Riley to call him Junior.
“You like Mexican, Gus?” the fat man asked.
“I like it okay.”
Riley lit a cigarette and put an elbow on the table. He was trying to look calm, like this was no big deal, like he knew the score. He didn’t want this guy to think he was sap, or worse, a pussy. If the fat man thought Riley was a pussy, then he could try to extort Riley, he could blackmail him. Riley didn’t need that—god, how he didn’t need that. He needed a good clean job, and he needed Junior to do that job and disappear like a wisp of smoke afterwards. Become a ghost. Go back to the place that he came from, wherever that was.
“I recommend the el Presidenté. Giant burrito loaded with steak and chicken, topped with shredded lettuce, diced tomato and guac. That is to say, guacamole, for the uninitiated. You’re not allergic to avocados are you?”
“No. I know what guacamole is.”
“Forgive me,” Junior said, then he laughed, a wheezing, fat man laugh.
“Don’t you people usually eat Italian?”
The fat man laughed again, harder this time. “You think you’re in a movie or something? I’m polish, Gus! You think the Pollacks sit around trying to eat soup with forks all day?”
“I don’t think that. Never said that. Just trying to make a joke.”
“Well, anytime you’re ready,” said the fat man, and he laughed again. People were beginning to stare. “So, you from around here?”
“This town? No. I didn’t think it would be a good idea to meet in my home town.”
“You’d be right,” Junior said.
“What are you having?” Riley asked. He wanted to ease into this. Get to business later, maybe somewhere else.
“I’m having the enchilada, chicken, not steak. Got to watch the cholesterol, you know? Wouldn’t it be crazy if I died of a heart attack?”
“Guess so.”
“Oh, loosen up, Gus. You act like I’m asking you to kill someone.”
“For god sake, shut the fuck up!”
“Why? Look at these people, they don’t care what we’re talking about. We’re just two friends, possibly lovers, meeting at a small Mexican restaurant on the outskirts of Pennsylvania. We’ll be like ghosts, you know? Outta here before anybody even knows our hair color.”
“Still,” Riley, said, “Still. Keep it on the down low, please.”
“Yes sir. You’re the boss, Gus. You know that? You’re the boss. You need to get into that mindset—you tell me what to do, I do it. I’m your employee, so to speak.”
“Could we talk somewhere—private?”
“This is private. Look, we got a corner table, just like you asked for. Ah! There he is.”
The waiter was a thin Hispanic man in a green apron. He flipped open a memo pad, and said, “You know what you drink?”
“We’re ready to order,” Junior said. “I’ll have the chicken enchilada with two soft tacos, no tomatoes on any of that, hold the tomatoes, got it? Yeah, you got it. Oh, and diet Pepsi to drink.”
“And you?”
Junior stepped in. “He’ll have the el Presidenté, extra guac,” then, as if he forgot, “Cerveza, Corona, as well. That okay with you, Gus?”
Riley nodded. “That’s fine.”
The waiter nodded and walked away.
“See, I’m your servant, I’m here to serve you,” Junior said, and laughed. Riley wondered what kind of game the fat man was playing. Then he knew. He wanted to see how Riley would react to having his food ordered for him. He acted like a pussy, then. He failed the test. He was in dangerous territory.
“You paying for this?” Riley asked.
“Eh? Ah, nah. Figured that went into the bill. You know, my expenses.”
“No. You just bought yourself a steak burrito and a beer.”
“Ooh! Getting tough on me. That’s the way you act like a boss, Gus.”
“I’m not discussing our arrangement here. I’m leaving. You can stay here and eat, then call me and we’ll meet somewhere…”
“Okay,” Junior was laughing, laughing hard. “Okay, okay, you’re killing me. Don’t get you panties in a twist, Gus. You’re not a pushover, I get it, you’re nobody’s doormat, I get it.”
“I’m serious. I’m leaving.”
“No you’re not. You’re still here, you haven’t even made an attempt to get out of your seat. Look at you—who are you, Gus? You’re not in the army, you don’t got the look, and you’re not a cop, you don’t got that look either. You’re just some guy getting ready to regret something.”
“Am I?”
“Probably. Hey, if you want to call it off, we can call it off. I don’t even know what we’re calling off, you know?” he laughed again, and picked up the salt shaker. He shook a small white hill of grains into his hand and threw them in his mouth, still laughing. The waiter returned with their drinks, placing the beer in front of Riley. Riley picked the beer up and sat it in front of the fat man.
“Eh? Oh no, no thanks, I’m a teetotaler, you know? No alcohol. No cigarettes, no pot, no fun at all, except for food. I eat what I want, mostly. Heck, I could have the steak if I really wanted it. But you know, chicken’s the smart meat.”
Riley stared at Junior, who was leaning back in his chair—if there was ever a test of that chair’s strength, this was it. But it held. Junior kept popping grains of salt in his mouth, one by one, smiling all the while.
“Now,” Junior said, “you gotta drink your beer. You gotta eat your Presidenté. You’ll look suspicious.”
Riley kept looking at him, trying to see through all this stuffing, all this idle talk. Junior let his chair sit on all four legs and leaned his bulk on the table, propping himself up on both elbows. He stretched his neck toward Riley and, still smiling a little, began to talk under his breath.
“You can tell me you don’t want this. You can tell me to get the heck out of your life, and I’ll go. I’ll be a ghost, and you’ll never see me again, even if you want to. We’ll just sit here, eat the best Mexican food in town, shoot the breeze. Then we’ll shake hands and part ways. Or you can even just get up and leave, and I’ll sit here and eat both our dinners, and trust me, I’d love to have the excuse.” He paused. “Or you can cut this tough guy routine, admit what you are and that you need me to do something dirty, really dirty and really wrong, because you can’t do it yourself. You’d do it if you could. You wouldn’t waste the money on me. But you got a hold of me, somehow, someway, and that tells me two things—ah! Food’s here! Jeez Louise, that was fast! I told, you, best Mexican restaurant in town!”
The waiter sat down the hot ceramic plates in front of the men, and walked off without a word. Junior scooted his plate right under his head and began cutting into the enchilada with the edge of his fork. He popped the piece into his mouth, chewed and tapped his fork on the edge of the table. People looked. Junior looked back.
“Just a fat man enjoying his enchilada, folks. Sorry to bother you.” The people laughed a little and went back to eating, talking, snickering and any number of other things that didn’t involve Riley and Junior.
“See? People don’t give a shit, Gus. In fact, in a restaurant, most people try to ignore the other patrons. One of the few places in the world where people aren’t nosy.”
“So,” Riley said, “what are the two things?”
“Eh?” Junior said through a mouthful of food.
“The other two things that my…demeanor…tells you.”
“No. Not your demeanor—your presence. Your existence, even.”
“Well?”
“One,” Junior said, raising his finger. “It tells me you’re a dirty man, with dirty friends—but you got an image to keep up. You’re crooked—you might be a cop, but like I said, I doubt it. Probably a politician. Two, whatever problem you have that you need me to fix, it’s bad enough to warrant hiring me. That’s pretty terrible then.”
Riley picked up a napkin from the table and reached into his inside breast pocket. He pulled out a folded white envelope and laid it in front of Junior.
“What’s that?” Junior said, looking amused.
“That’s all you need to know.”
“Jeez, you typed it out. You’ve never done this before, have you?”
“Better than talking about it.”
Junior laughed. “Let me give you some advice,” he handed the letter back to Riley. “Take that and burn it, then flush the ashes. You’re only incriminating yourself. I like the napkin though, nice touch, most people wouldn’t have thought about that.”
Riley put the letter back into his pocket. “Fine. I’ll tell you what you need to know then. His name is Charley Conner. He’ll be waiting in a motel beside the Jiffy Mart and eight o’ clock on Sunday. In Galesburg. Room 22.” Riley’s palms were sweating and his voice was beginning to crack. He wasn’t cut out for this, and he didn’t care if Junior knew it. “Go in, fuck him, and kill him.”
“Okay,” said Junior. “So you’ve decided. You’re making the wrong choice, you know. You should just tell me to get out of your life, right now.”
Riley scoffed despite himself. “What do you care? Do you know him?”
“No, I know you, and I’ll tell you something—no matter how weird or dark your life seems right now, you don’t want to do this. These things you do not want to set in motion. Once you tell me what to do, once we shake hands, it’s as good as done and nothing will keep me from killing this boy.” Junior paused. “There’s no way you can know how big this will be for you. It will consume every spare moment you have to yourself until you die. It will overshadow ever other milestone in your life.” Junior paused again, let it sink in, and put down his fork. He looked at Riley. “Is this what you want?”
Riley gritted his teeth and pushed the image of Charley out of his head.
“Yes.”
Junior smiled. “Well! Okay then. Brass tacks—what do you want it to look like? Anything in particular?”
“No. When I hear that you’ve done your job, I’ll arrange for your receipt of the money.”
“Okay. I’ll make it look like a lovers spat, then? That okay? That’s why you want me to have sex with him, right?”
“No. I want him to know what it’s like to be fucked, just like he’s fucking me with this whole mess.” Riley paused and worked his toes inside his shoes. He rubbed his forehead. He could feel the regret already. “You don’t have a problem with that?”
“Other than having to wash my penis in a motel sink, no. I’m a professional, unlike you, sadly. I’ll use a knife, make it messy. Make it look amateurish.”
Riley felt like he was going to throw up. It wasn’t what the fat man was saying—it was the finality with which he said it. “You don’t have prints on file? No DNA?”
“Not in this country, no.” Junior laughed. “You look surprised. I’m well traveled, Gus. Next time your hire someone for a job like this, that guy will probably be well traveled too. We people get around.”
“I’ll never make a mistake like this again.”
“Loving a man behind your wife’s back or hiring someone to clean up your dirty mess?”
“I don’t love Charley. He’s blackmailing me. We had sex one time.”
Junior nodded and put the last bite of his enchilada in his mouth. “You know, my daughter is gay. And I don’t have a problem with it.”
“I’m done here. You’ve got enough information?”
“More than I needed. You’re picking up the bill right?”
“You’ll get it when I give you your money.” Riley got up from the chair, his legs as weak as water, and began to walk away from the table. Junior put his hand out and Riley shook it reluctantly, the fat man’s fingers wrapping around his own in a suffocating grip. Junior wasn’t smiling, his face was as serious as stone, and his eyes were locked on Riley’s. As he walked out the door of the best Mexican restaurant in town, the bells chimed and he promised himself that he really wouldn’t make this mistake again. He knew himself better than that.