Speak of the Devil by Allison Leotta Page A

bundled into a hairnet; her normally smiling face was contorted with fear. She was not the type of woman Rooster was attracted to. But this was not about attraction. It was about power and intimidation.
    “I told you, old man,” Gato said in soft Spanish. “Rent’s gone up. Everybody must do their part.”
    “We can’t,” the cook whimpered. “We don’t have the money. There just isn’t any money.”
    Gato pushed the man’s head closer to the grill. His own hands were getting uncomfortably hot. The old man was shaking. But what almost rattled Gato was the terror in the cook’s eyes when he looked at his wife. Rooster had pulled up her T-shirt and was pinching her nipples through her sturdy white bra. She tried to slap his hands away, but this just made him laugh and press himself harder against her. Gato knew if this took much longer, Rooster would become too excited, and would take this woman right here in the truck, even with the side window open. Gato didn’t feel like watching that today.
    Gato shook the man’s neck. His fingers skimmed the grill, burning a knuckle. “Fuck!” Gato screamed, and let go. The man yelped, too. A corner of the man’s forehead was seared from the grill. A little circle, like a bright red coin. The old man was trembling all over. Gato’s finger throbbed with pain. Inside, too, he was burning with rage and frustration.
    “Do you want to see your wife get fucked right here?” Gato screamed.
    “No! God, no! Open the cash register, take what you want!”
    Gato tried to open the register, but couldn’t figure it out. He pushed the cook toward the machine. The pupusa maker punched in some buttons and the drawer sprang open. Inside were a bunch of crumpled bills. Gato pulled them out and counted: $252.
    “That’s plenty,” he said. “Your rent is only two hundred a week.”
    “Sir, please, you must understand. Everything in here costs money. The dough, napkins, forks, equipment, renting this space to park. We’re still paying off this truck. We missed the last two payments to cover your rent. The truck is all we have. If we can’t make the payments, we lose it.”
    Gato grunted as he pocketed the money, keeping the extra fifty-two dollars for all the trouble these pendejos had given him. Everyone had a sad story. How hard life is, blah blah blah. He had his own problems to worry about.
    “Don’t give me that shit. When your rent goes up, you raise your prices. You’re a smart businessman. Don’t treat me like a fool. And next week it’s two hundred and fifty.”
    “We can’t do it!”
    “Then we’ll bring the Devil.”
    “No!” The burn on the cook’s forehead turned brighter red. “God, no, not the Devil. We’ll find a way.”
    “Yes, you will.” Gato looked at the other side of the truck. Rooster was pushing the old woman farther into the corner, unbuckling his belt. Idiot. Sometimes, Gato felt like the only grown-up in the entire gang. He pulled Rooster’s shoulder. “Come on. They paid.”
    “I want a tip.”
    Gato narrowed his eyes at Rooster. He would not stand for insubordination, not anywhere, but especially not in front of these suckers. “I said , they paid.”
    Rooster released the woman. She sobbed into her hands. Gato and Rooster hopped out of the back of the truck. The cool night air was a relief after the heat of the truck.
    An older woman at the gas pumps watched them nervously as they ambled past. They put their heads down—making it harder for her to see their faces—and clambered up the little embankment to Piney Branch Road. They walked by sprawling garden-style apartments where immigrant families lived several generations to a unit. Gato didn’t worry that the pupusa makers would call the police. The couple feared deportation and gang retribution more than they trusted the system.
    He and Rooster walked the gravel shoulder as cars sped by on Piney Branch. The swishing vehicles seemed to mock them, showing all they didn’t have.