looking for you last night.”
“No, no one’s looking for me.” The only person who wanted to find her, Allie thought, was Vice Versa. She had no idea what he looked like but she pictured him as a blood orange–colored gryphon: half-lion, half-eagle, with claws that would slice through her flesh like a box cutter into butter.
“You can call anyone from our phone. Roger gives Jorge the codes for calling long-distance so that we don’t have to pay for it. I think Roger’s company pays for it. And, you know, I hate that dirty movies are paying for my phone calls to my mama in Mexico, but Roger is a good guy, and he treats our children well. They don’t know he makes dirty movies.” Consuela laughed.
“He seemed like a good guy.” Allie unwrapped the corn husk off each tamale and took a bite. They were so good she didn’t want to talk. She tried forking a little of each together to get just the right salty-savory balance.
“Yeah, he gives pornos to Jorge and Jorge brings them home and gives them to the garbage men. They think it’s better than the six-pack of beer our neighbors leave them at Christmas.” Consuela was watching Allie as she ate. “You like that, don’t you?”
“They’re amazing,” Allie said, taking another bite. She couldn’t say anything else. She was too focused on eating.
“Have some more.” Consuela got up and went to the pot on the stove.
“You know,” Allie said, “if you really don’t have to pay for long distance, there are a couple people I should call.”
“Honestly!” Consuela plopped down two more tamales on Allie’s plate. “It doesn’t cost us anything.” She rubbed Allie’s shoulder and looked down at the Wonder Bread bag. “It’s nice that you always have your parents with you.”
“Yeah,” Allie said. “It’s like free long-distance day and night.”
C onsuela let Allie use the phone in her and Jorge’s bedroom. The bed was made with a poinsettia-red quilted bedspread that reminded Allie of a roadside motel. There was a thick wooden cross over the bed, with a dried brown palm frond stuck behind it at an angle. On the dark, wide dresser were framed photos and a small colorful statue of the Virgin Mary with a crown on her head and a cross at her heart. Allie imagined it would be nice to have Catholicism, to believe in the power of a Hail Mary. Wai Po’s words had always been Allie’s prayers—incantations she repeated over and over again, the rabbit foot clutched in her hand like a rosary.
Allie sat on the edge of the bed, dropped the bread bag down next to herself, and picked up the receiver. She looked at the telephone number printed in the center of the dial. Area code 213. Wherever she was, she was still in Los Angeles. Allie dialed the long-distance code Consuela had written on the back of a business card that had NOBGOBBLERS, INC. printed in cherry-red. Roger’s name and a telephone number were also on the card . When the dial tone returned, she punched in Beth’s number. The digital clock on the nightstand said it was eleven thirty-eight.
Beth answered with a quiet, trembling voice.
“What’s wrong?” Allie asked.
“What do you mean what’s wrong ?!” Beth was whisper-yelling. “There’s, like, a fucking seven-foot black man taking a dump in my bathroom right now . And the guy isn’t fucking leaving my apartment until you come back with my car and the, like, seven tons of coke you stole from Jonas!” Her words came out like the swish of a washing machine.
“Is it Vice Versa?” Allie whispered, too, although there really was no reason.
“No. His name’s Rosie.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously!” Beth’s whisper was sounding hoarse. “And where the fuck are you? You were supposed to be back in two hours ! Are you on, like, the fucking Gilligan’s Island cruise with my car?!”
“Are you tied up?” Allie pictured Beth bound at the feet, with her arms tied behind some chair and duct tape over her mouth.
“No, no one’s looking for me.” The only person who wanted to find her, Allie thought, was Vice Versa. She had no idea what he looked like but she pictured him as a blood orange–colored gryphon: half-lion, half-eagle, with claws that would slice through her flesh like a box cutter into butter.
“You can call anyone from our phone. Roger gives Jorge the codes for calling long-distance so that we don’t have to pay for it. I think Roger’s company pays for it. And, you know, I hate that dirty movies are paying for my phone calls to my mama in Mexico, but Roger is a good guy, and he treats our children well. They don’t know he makes dirty movies.” Consuela laughed.
“He seemed like a good guy.” Allie unwrapped the corn husk off each tamale and took a bite. They were so good she didn’t want to talk. She tried forking a little of each together to get just the right salty-savory balance.
“Yeah, he gives pornos to Jorge and Jorge brings them home and gives them to the garbage men. They think it’s better than the six-pack of beer our neighbors leave them at Christmas.” Consuela was watching Allie as she ate. “You like that, don’t you?”
“They’re amazing,” Allie said, taking another bite. She couldn’t say anything else. She was too focused on eating.
“Have some more.” Consuela got up and went to the pot on the stove.
“You know,” Allie said, “if you really don’t have to pay for long distance, there are a couple people I should call.”
“Honestly!” Consuela plopped down two more tamales on Allie’s plate. “It doesn’t cost us anything.” She rubbed Allie’s shoulder and looked down at the Wonder Bread bag. “It’s nice that you always have your parents with you.”
“Yeah,” Allie said. “It’s like free long-distance day and night.”
C onsuela let Allie use the phone in her and Jorge’s bedroom. The bed was made with a poinsettia-red quilted bedspread that reminded Allie of a roadside motel. There was a thick wooden cross over the bed, with a dried brown palm frond stuck behind it at an angle. On the dark, wide dresser were framed photos and a small colorful statue of the Virgin Mary with a crown on her head and a cross at her heart. Allie imagined it would be nice to have Catholicism, to believe in the power of a Hail Mary. Wai Po’s words had always been Allie’s prayers—incantations she repeated over and over again, the rabbit foot clutched in her hand like a rosary.
Allie sat on the edge of the bed, dropped the bread bag down next to herself, and picked up the receiver. She looked at the telephone number printed in the center of the dial. Area code 213. Wherever she was, she was still in Los Angeles. Allie dialed the long-distance code Consuela had written on the back of a business card that had NOBGOBBLERS, INC. printed in cherry-red. Roger’s name and a telephone number were also on the card . When the dial tone returned, she punched in Beth’s number. The digital clock on the nightstand said it was eleven thirty-eight.
Beth answered with a quiet, trembling voice.
“What’s wrong?” Allie asked.
“What do you mean what’s wrong ?!” Beth was whisper-yelling. “There’s, like, a fucking seven-foot black man taking a dump in my bathroom right now . And the guy isn’t fucking leaving my apartment until you come back with my car and the, like, seven tons of coke you stole from Jonas!” Her words came out like the swish of a washing machine.
“Is it Vice Versa?” Allie whispered, too, although there really was no reason.
“No. His name’s Rosie.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, seriously!” Beth’s whisper was sounding hoarse. “And where the fuck are you? You were supposed to be back in two hours ! Are you on, like, the fucking Gilligan’s Island cruise with my car?!”
“Are you tied up?” Allie pictured Beth bound at the feet, with her arms tied behind some chair and duct tape over her mouth.
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