The Sound of Broken Ribs(45)

Belinda wanted to say that, technically, they’d never been on track, but she only nodded.

“Gonna go out in that?” Carl asked. “Not judging, just wanna know if I need to wait on you to get ready. I’m starving.”

Belinda looked down at her jeans, the loose ones Carl liked to call her Lesbian Wranglers, and her red silk blouse. The blouse was one of the few clothes items she’d allowed herself to bring with her from her previous life in Ohio. The shirt had belonged to her mother, was one of the last items of Mom’s that she still owned. She’d been wearing it the day Tony was killed.

“Lemme change my shirt, at least. I don’t need a guacamole stain on my favorite shirt.”

“Good deal.”

Forty minutes later, they were led to the bar at Miguel’s on the Border and given a complimentary bowl of chips and a bowl of mild salsa. Carl gently shoved the bowl away and asked for the hottest salsa they had on tap. The dark-skinned Mexican woman who was their server flashed bleached teeth and grabbed the edge of the bowl to take it away. Carl lay a hand on the woman’s wrist. She looked at his purple nail polish and visibly flinched.

“Some guacamole, too, please?” he said without a hint on his face that he’d noticed the server’s reaction. He had, though. Belinda was sure of that.

The server disappeared into the kitchen and Carl said, “You know, Mexicans get a lot of shit. Almost as much as black folks do. Makes you wonder how a hated people can hate anyone. Doesn’t seem logical.”

Belinda shrugged. “I think that if you know hate it’s easier to hate. Think about kids. It’s hard for them to hate anything or anyone that isn’t Brussel sprouts.”

“I guess you’re right.” The bartender—a chubby Hispanic man in a white dress shirt and bow tie the colors of the Mexican flag—stepped up to them with a questioning look etched upon his features. He never asked what they wanted, and Belinda figured this might have been because the man spoke limited English. He likely only knew the names of the drinks they served here: Bud, Bud Light, Coors, and Margaritas.

“Two grande margaritas, mi hermano,” Carl said. His smile was genuinely welcoming. Belinda thought she saw a flicker of interest in her friend’s eye. She knew he liked his men short and fat, which was one of the reasons she thought he’d been okay with leaving Frank behind. Frank had been much shorter than him, but he’d also been rail thin, something she knew Carl didn’t find attractive.

When the bartender nodded and stepped away, Carl, confirming Belinda’s suspicion, said, “He’s cute.”

“What did you call him? Hermano?”

“Mi hermano. It means ‘my brother’. Grande means ‘big’. I like ‘em big.” Carl’s eyes shimmered.

Belinda stuck her tongue out at him. “I know what grande means. I know you like ‘em big, too. No need to remind me.”

“Isn’t that what girls do, though—sit around and drink wine and mixed drinks and talk about dick size?”

“Not the girls I hung out with.”

“You hung out with girls?”

She laughed. “Good point.”

Carl threw an arm around her. “No worries, girl. You have me. And we can talk about all the dicks we like… or don’t like, for that matter.”

They were still laughing when the bartender came back with their drinks. Carl made a subtle pass at the guy by running his fingers over the other man’s fingers while accepting the fish-bowl-sized glasses. The chubby bartender did not look shocked or even uninterested. He simply smiled and walked away.

“You think he wants the D?” Carl whispered.

“Oh yeah.”

“Think he can handle my tower of power?”

“He’s definitely a pitcher.”

“Oh well.” Carl stirred his drink with his finger. “Mines an exit only for the foreseeable future. Cheers?”

Belinda clinked her glass, which she had to heft with two hands, against her friend’s punch bowl. “Cheers.”

Dinner was delicious, but Belinda figured that was probably because they were both drunk by the time her enchiladas and Carl’s stuffed poblanos arrived. After dinner, they enjoyed one more drink each, and then decided to walk home to save some money.

It felt good to be drunk and carefree. She tried to remember the last time she had imbibed so deeply and had as much fun. Her wedding night? A flash of her and Dan fucking that evening flashed into her mind and she shoved it down the stairs, back into the basement of her mind whence it came.

Thirty minutes later, they strode hand-in-hand under the awning of the Imperial Hotel.

“Is that our room?” Carl asked, his voice slurred.

Up ahead, some woman was attempting to look into the window of their hotel room. Belinda recognized her immediately. She tugged Carl backward out of sight around the corner of the office.

“What’s wrong with you,” he hissed, as if he already knew he should keep his voice down.

“That bitch from the grocery store—the one I told you about? She’s who’s looking into our room.”

“Really?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, let’s go have a word with her.” Carl dropped Belinda’s hand and made for the corner of the office.