Acting Badly. Michael Scofield
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waitress asked.
“I think the last.”
Maxine cocked her head. “Con mucho gusto, señor.”
The green-and-red bow at the base of the waitress’s braid bobbed as she dipped her gaze to her computer, tapping its keys. “You?” she asked Ron.
“Huevos rancheros. Heavy on the cowboy beans and mucho red.”
She turned to Chuck.
“Crunchy granóla and bananas. Add plain yogurt if you can.”
“You got it.”
“No Christmas on that?” Bret laughed.
“Who’s for coffee?” the waitress asked.
“I got mine upstairs between my legs. Mint tea will do me nicely.”
“Cup runneth over,” Maxine laughed. She began to cough.
A young Hispanic in baggy pants, hair shaved except at the top of his scalp, brought four fluted glasses of water.
“These people make good warriors,” Ron said when the boy sauntered off. “My son was trainin’ to be one. Hey, Bushie, get a move on. We want that black gold, boy. News this morning said Turkey still won’t let us through.” He jerked his head toward Chuck. “How you feel about this? That symbol on your blazer Anasazi or peacenik?”
Holding the big man’s turtle eyes, Chuck said, “Preemption bothers me. We’ve thumbed our noses at more weapons inspections, we’ve told China and Russia and France and Germany to fly a kite. True, we need the oil, we use a fourth of the world’s supply. My big concern is what happens after we level Nasiriyah and Baghdad. Have Donald Rumsfeld and Paul Wolfowitz developed a strategy for fighting the guerrillas who sabotage those pipelines we’re going to re-open? Or the electrical grid we’re going to repair or the water we plan to make potable? I doubt Iraqis want our democracy, I think Iraq is Arabic for Vietnam. So yes, this pin speaks for peace.”
“Where’s that drink?” Maxine muttered. With her left hand she fingered Pixie a few kibbles from her bag.
Licking the crack in his thumb, Ron swiveled toward Bret. “You a peacenik too?”
“Wars do happen. If I can make a profit, lovely. This morning, though, I’m here to buy property.”
“You’re neutral?”
“Yes, for now. Ten years ago when I was a data-security contractor in Kuwait, I smelled too many intestines spilling from both Christians and Muslims.”
Eye pain pounding toward his tongue, Chuck reached for his laptop and opened it on his thighs. Hoping to quiet Ron, he spread paperwork between his silverware and the silk hibiscus.
“He wants to talk real estate, Ronald.” Lowering her voice, Maxine faced Bret. “Ron’s and his wife’s son died in basic training at Fort Ord. A seagull that waddled into the mess hall startled a cook who spilled boiling water on Jonathan while he was scrubbing grease off the bricks under the stove. Two months later he died at Fort Benning from third-degree burns. I’ll take that.”
Tilting from her chair, Maxine grabbed the vodka and spiced tomato juice from the tray the waitress balanced on her palm. Glaring at Maxine, she grabbed the tray’s edge and swung it to a square table set against the wainscoting.
While the waitress doled out plates, Maxine gulped half the Bloody Mary and cleaned her upper lip with her tongue. Glancing to her right, “Good,” she began, “Chuck’s brought a paper trail—ah, jeez, another stinkbug. Waitress! Climbing that table leg! Pixie: calm.”
The Pekingese had straight-legged himself off the mat and knocked his skull against the cage’s woven willow. He scuttled back and forth, yapping. With each bark his jaw dropped like a Chinese puppet’s as the waitress, gripping the tray, strode to the side table to dislodge the insect with her shoe. Feelers and legs thrashed until she pile-drove her foot to the flagstones, squashing it.
“There’s a long, black hair in my beans,” Ron bellowed.
“Mister, I’m doing my very.” The waitress rushed over Bret’s cup, tea tag dangling, and Ron’s coffee, then returned with Pixie’s water. Sweeping up Ron’s plate, she hurried toward the kitchen’s swinging doors.
“Bring me another hair of the dog,” Maxine called, brandishing her glass in her left hand. From the next table a blond man flanked by a woman in a yellow smock and a girl with a tattooed dagger slanting up her cheek stared.
Bret flicked up the underside of his wrist to consult his watch.
“Not one of your typical Santa Fe desayunos,” Maxine simpered, leaning to pass the water glass into Pixie’s cage. “You’re looking for an acre and a half, pueblo style, Northside or in Las Campanas, right? Views and viga-and-latilla ceilings. Guest house for your daughter and baby girl if possible, expecting she’ll want to repair her relationship with you. Looking to spend eight hundred thousand to a million two, Giordy says?”
Bret was nodding when a series of flute-like whistles issued from his hip. He unbuckled the leather holster, jerked out his cell phone, and thumb-flipped its cover. “Yes? Yep. Lovely.” He swiveled his wrist again. “Probably half an hour, outermost. The Museum of Fine Arts? Okeydoke; jake.”
“That was your husband,” he told Maxine. “He wants to show me a couple of tin-shade lamps with little stick figures on horseback chasing horned toads.”
“Good. I’ll follow you, then we’re gone. I’ve lined up four properties before lunch at Geronimo.”
“Lunch?” Ron scowled. “I promised our manager—”
“Bret and me. Maybe I’ll call you later. Chuck? What do your figures show? Oh, Ronald, your huevos smell fabulous. Scrumptious with salsa.”
Emptying his lungs, Chuck rubbed the stubble on his cheek and, turning toward Bret, took in air. “Your preliminary tax return shows that from an investment standpoint, you should focus on income property; sorry about that, Bret. Perhaps take three hundred thousand from blue chips and look for office space or a fourplex.”
Chuck realized that his feet were pumping out as much pain as his eye. His hand shook as he spooned up a slice of banana.
“Son of a peccary, Ridley, you think defense stocks aren’t goin’ to rock-and-roll? Build this man’s portfolio fast, before we invade. Except for high-end restaurants and Canyon Road, commercial here is dead. Fourplexes? No way. High-end homes with views is what the real money wants in Santa Fe. Fort Worth, a different story. Agreed, Max? Say yes,” he wheezed.
“Hunh? We could look at the Lofts, I guess. I know a fourplex priced to sell near the Unitarian Church—perhaps tomorrow. Monday or Tuesday we can study Chuck’s figures if Bret can stay over. Bret?”
Like the rage Ron felt steaming up inside him, streamers of heat rose from the pink beans heaped next to the cheddar-topped eggs the waitress had clunked down before him. She returned to set Maxine’s Bloody Mary on its coaster and left. To Ron, something still looked wrong with his eggs, but Bret’s words broke his focus.
“Chuck’s tax counsel the last couple of years has played nicely for me, though his stock picks the last six months have been iffy. I tell you what. Maybe I can let my CFO handle Valley appointments next week if the hotel here has an extra blanket and forgets room service.” He spread a thin-lipped smile at Maxine.
Ron stabbed one of the eggs and sawed it open with his knife. He hoisted into his mouth a bite dripping yolk. Little of the hot, red-chile sting he’d expected accompanied the clicks his jaw made. He stared at Maxine, then Chuck, then Bret, then down at his plate. The cook had confettied his eggs green. He hated the mildness of green. Hispanic motherfucker.
Wheezing, he scraped his chair backward across the flagstones and stood, clutching the plate as though it held the cook’s head. Rising on his toes, he hurled the plate onto Pixie’s cage. It cracked, spattering