Taco Noir by Steven Gomez

fortune and reputation making sure that this season’s Pagliacci is performed flawlessly.” She paused, looking down over the frames of her pearl glasses, searching for understanding in my eyes. There was none.
                “Pagliacci is a timeless story …” she sighed, as if she were explaining Calculus to sixth-graders.
                “Yeah, yeah,” I mumbled. “Everyone loves a clown.”
                That stopped her in her tracks, and her jaw dropped floor-wards. As I said, Ma used to drag me to the opera.
                “Well, at any rate,” Mrs. Bancroft muttered, regaining her composure. "I have invested heavily in this production, both in monetary and social equity, and I stand to lose substantially should anything disrupt this premiere.”
                I had to hand it to her. She certainly could talk up a storm.
                “And is there any reason that this production could suffer…disruption?” I asked, and immediately regretted it. As soon as the words left my mouth, she broke down, sniffles, tears, and a strange ‘neighing’ sound erupting from her all at the same time. Her hand fluttered behind her, and it looked to me as though the old broad might swoon. I stood up quickly, figuring I might have to catch her before she hit the deck. As I maneuvered in behind her to try and catch the old bird, I had visions of hazard pay in my future. Luckily the old dame righted herself before I abused my sacroiliac.
                She sat on the edge of her sofa and took a few deep breaths before she was able to speak. It was real emotion in her eyes when she turned back to me, instead of the fake society stuff that passed for it. I gave her a moment to wipe her tears and catch her breath before she spoke. When she did speak, it was as if a little girl had taken the place of the woman.
                “Have you ever been guilty of a youthful indiscretion?” she asked me. I answered yes to the ‘indiscretion’ part, but no to the ‘youthful.’ She smiled an actual smile and continued.
                “When I was a bit younger, and a bit more naive, I met a man. I was married to my late husband Randolph at the time, but this man was young, vigorous, and exciting.” I imagined that they are all young, vigorous, and exciting when you are married to a mug like the late Randolph Bancroft.
                “We made vows to each other. Promises were made, oaths were taken….”
                “Letters were exchanged?” I added with a sigh.
                “Letters were exchanged,” she sighed back in resignation. In my trade, I’ve noticed that letters were always exchanged.
                “The man for whom I had fallen vanished into the ether! He had asked for a thousand dollars to arrange for us to run away and have a fresh start. Another life, if you will. And on the day he was to come and collect me…” She broke down, and the words dried in her throat.
                “He never showed.”
                “No,” she sobbed. “He never came.” She reached over and pulled a handkerchief from off of one of those chiffarobes, or highboys, or whatever the hell the society dames call those fancy little dressers. After a moment, she regained her composure.
                “After Maurice left me…”
                “Maurice?” I asked.
                “Maurice.” She answered. “After Maurice left, I resigned myself to making my marriage work. I finished my education and Randolph and I left for the continent. It was there I immersed myself in the life that is the opera. Randolph and I made the best of our lives, and fell once again into love. It was only after Randolph passed that I left the continent to return to the city.”
                With full control of the Randolph fortune, I thought. But the meter