The Empanada Brotherhood Read Online Free

saying, “Bienvenido, blondie. Mi casa es tu casa.”
    He wore a filthy T-shirt, baggy boxer shorts, old blue flip-flops. The apartment was very hot; I began perspiring like an empanada in the grease bin. I followed him to the kitchen where an enormous turkey sat on a platter on the table. He indicated a chair for me and settled down on the other side with the bird between us. There was an open bottle of wine and he poured me some.
    â€œTake whatever meat you need, muchacho. It’s a big bird. Want me to cut a chunk for you?”
    â€œNo. I can handle it.” Being alone with Roldán made me uncomfortable. His TV was tuned to a football game.
    â€œHave any of the patota been by?” I asked.
    â€œNo, nobody from the gang. They’re all out eating with Pilgrims who intend to shoot them later on.” He chuckled.
    I felt tongue-tied. Roldán was vaguely soused and had a slight lisp. His clothes were soaked through with sweat. Huge droplets of salty moisture had gathered across his forehead, creating rivulets down to his cheeks. I filled my plate with turkey and stuffing, cranberry sauce, a sweet potato. Then I raised my glass in a toast:
    â€œSalud, amor, dinero—”
    â€œâ€”y muchisimo tiempo para gastarlos.”
    Health, love, money … and all the time in the world to spend them.
    The cook proffered his own glass with awkward gusto, slopping out a few drops. Then we consumed food quietly until he asked me, “Why aren’t you eating with your family?”
    â€œThey live far away in California.”
    I asked him about his own family.
    â€œMy mother died when I was three. My father shot himself with an antique firearm. I lived with my grandmother until she tossed me out. They are all dead and buried, rest in peace.”
    â€œDo you have brothers and sisters?”
    â€œEleven. We split up early. Seven of us survived, but I lost track when I was still very young. You know, during the Depression.”
    When I inquired, “Have you ever been married?” Roldán laughed, saying, “Good God, no.” Yet he dug into a back pocket for his wallet, removing from it a tattered arcade photograph rubbed almost illegible. He handed it over to me. I could barely make out a youngster with an angelic face framed by curly blonde hair.
    â€œA long time ago I fell in love with that girl. We lived in my room at a boardinghouse for six months. Then she left and never returned.”
    He reached for the picture and I gave it back to him. “If she had stuck around I would have married her.”
    â€œWhy did she leave?”
    â€œI don’t know.” He studied the picture thoughtfully. “We screwed each other like babies and she cuddled every night in my arms. She could fall asleep in ten seconds, and I watched her snooze for hours completely relaxed like a puppy.”
    â€œAfter she left did you receive any letters?”
    He shook his head. “She was illiterate. I remember that her hands were smaller than mice and very quick. She could pinch flies off the windowpane between her thumb and forefinger.”
    â€œWhat was her name?” I asked.
    â€œTeresa Mono.” He made a small gesture of dismissal and put away her photograph. He had trouble stuffing the chunky wallet back into his rear pocket. Then he said, “When she left me my heart was broken and I ran away from Argentina for consolation.”
    Roldán had worked in Bolivian coal mines. He started a restaurant in Lima, Peru, that was successful until he offended the gangsters who made his liquor deliveries. In Nicaragua he repaired tractors and other large machinery on a finca near the ocean. Then came Guatemala. There he owned a street cart from which he sold popcorn, potato chips, peanuts, and soda pop. The refrain he cried out all day long, every day for three years, was: “Poporopo, papalina, maní y agua!”
    The cocinero opened his first empanada stand in