She yanked my hair.
“Do,” she said. “You. Love me?”
Yank. It hurt.
“Yes!” I said. “Okay! Jesus! Love you!”
We went upstairs.
Get up! Get up! Get the fuck up!” Popo was saying, ripping off the sheets. “Now! Now! Now!”
Amapola covered herself and rolled away with a small cry. Light was blasting through the windows. I thought he was going to beat my ass for sleeping with her. But he was in a panic.
“Get dressed. Dude—get dressed now!”
“What? What?”
“My dad.”
He put his fists to his head.
“Oh shit. My dad!”
She started to cry.
I was in my white boxers in the middle of the room.
“Guys,” I said. “Guys! Is there some trouble here?”
Amapola dragged the sheet off the bed and ran, wrapped, into the bathroom.
“You got no idea,” Pope said. “Get dressed.”
We were in the car in ten minutes. We sped out of the foothills and across town. Phoenix always looks empty to me when it’s hot, like one of those sci-fi movies where all the people are dead and gone and some vampires or zombies are hiding in the vacant condos, waiting for night. The streets are too wide, and they reflect the heat like a Teflon cooking pan. Pigeons might explode into flame just flying across the street to escape the melting city bus.
Pope was saying, “Just don’t say nothing. Just show respect. It’ll be okay. Right, sis?”
She was in the backseat.
“Don’t talk back,” she said. “Just listen. You can take it.”
“Yeah,” Pope said. “You can take it. You better take it. That’s the only way he’ll respect you.”
My head was spinning.
Apparently, the old man had come to town to see Pope and meet me, but Pope, that asshole, had been so wasted he forgot. But it was worse than that. The old man had waited at a fancy restaurant. For both of us. You didn’t keep Big Pop waiting.
You see, he had found my letters. He had rushed north to try to avert the inevitable. And now he was seething, they said, because Pope’s maricon best friend wasn’t queer at all, and was working his mojo on the sweet pea. My scalp still hurt from her savage hair-pulling. I looked back at her. Man, she was as fresh as a sea breeze. I started to smile.
“Ain’t no joke,” Pope announced.
We fretted in silence.
“Look,” he said. “It won’t seem like it at first, but Pops will do anything for my sister. Anything. She controls him, man. So keep cool.”
When we got there, Pope said, “The bistro.” I had never seen it before, not really traveling in circles that ate French food or ate at “bistros.” Pops was standing outside. He was a slender man, balding. Clean-shaven. Only about five-seven. He wore aviator glasses, that kind that turn dark in the sun. They were deep gray over his eyes. He was standing with a Mexican in a uniform. The other guy was over six feet tall and had a good gut on him. What Pope called a “food baby” from that funny movie everybody liked.
The old man and the soldier stared at me. I wanted to laugh. That’s it? I mean, really? A little skinny bald guy? I was invincible with love.
Poppa turned and entered the bistro without a word. Pope and Amapola followed, holding hands. The stout soldier dude just eyeballed me and walked in. I was left alone on the sidewalk. I followed.
They were already sitting. It was ice cold. The way I liked it. I tried not to see Amapola’s nipples. But I noticed her pops looking at them. And then the soldier. Pops told her, “Tapate, cabrona.” She had brought a little sweater with her, and now I knew why. She primly draped herself.
“Dad …” said Pope.
“Shut it,” his father said.
The eyeglasses had only become half-dark. You could almost see his eyes.
A waiter delivered a clear drink.
“Martini, sir,” he said.
It was only about 11 in the morning.
Big Poppa said, “I came to town last night to see you.” He sipped his drink. “I come here, to this restaurant. Is my favorite. Is comida Frances, understand? Quality.” Another sip. He looked at the soldier—the soldier nodded. “I invite you.” He pointed at Pope. Then at her. Then at me. “You, you, and you. Right here. Berry expensive.” He drained the martini and snapped his fingers at the waiter. “An’ I sit here an’ wait.” The waiter hurried over and took the glass and scurried away.
“Me an’ my brother, Arnulfo.”
He put his hand on the soldier’s arm.
“We wait for you.”
Popo said, “Dad …”
“Callate el osico, chingado,” his father breathed. He turned his head to me and smiled. He looked like a moray eel in a tank. Another martini landed before him.
“You,” he said. “Why you dress like a girl?” He sipped. “I wait for you, but you don’t care. No! Don’t say nothing. Listen. I wait, and you no show up here to my fancy dinner. Is okay. I don’t care.” He waved his hand. “I have my li’l drink, and I don’t care.” He toasted me. He seemed like he was coiled, steel springs inside his gut. My skin was crawling and I didn’t even know why.
“I wait for you,” he said. “Captain Arnulfo, he wait. You don’t care, right? Is okay! I’m happy. I got my martinis, I don’t give a shit.”
He smiled.
He pulled a long cigar out of his inner pocket. He bit the end off and spit it on the table. He put the cigar in his mouth. Arnulfo took out a gold lighter and struck a blue flame.
The waiter rushed over and murmured, “I’m sorry, sir, but this is a nonsmoking bistro. You’ll have to take it outside.”
The old man didn’t even look at him—just stared at me through those gray lenses.
“Is hot outside,” he said. “Right, gringo? Too hot?” I nodded—I didn’t know what to do. “You see?” the old man said.
“I must insist,” the waiter said.
“Bring the chef,” the old man said.
“Excuse me?”
“Get the chef out here for me. Now.”
The waiter brought out the chef, who bent down to the old man. Whispers. No drama. But the two men hurried away and the waiter came back with an ashtray. Arnulfo lit Poppa’s cigar.
He blew smoke at me and said, “Why you do this violence to me?”
“I …” I said.
“Shut up.”
He snapped his fingers again, and food and more martinis arrived. I stared at my plate. Snails in garlic butter. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t even sip the water. Smoke drifted to me. I could feel the gray lenses focused on me. Pope, that chickenshit, just ate and never looked up. Amapola sipped iced coffee and stared out the window.
After forty minutes of this nightmare, Poppa pushed his plate away.
“Oye,” he said, “tu.”
I looked up.
“Why you wan’ fock my baby daughter?”
