The Empanada Brotherhood Read Online Free Page A

MexicoCity. It kept him afloat for two years until he grew bored and purchased a bus ticket to New York.
    I said, “You’ve been to a lot of countries. You’ve witnessed many things, Roldán.”
    â€œYes, I’ve seen a lot of shit, blondie.” He hefted another sweet potato, devouring it like an empanada. “Our planet is a truly remarkable pigpen. I have seen children with their throats slit in the gutter, and a man with a machine gun preparing to kill a woman. On a Nicaragua beach I saw a dead shark twice the size of a car. The Lima homeless sleep on cold streets in beds of piss, but there is a library more fabulous than a cathedral. More turkey?”
    â€œNo, gracias.” I looked at my watch and got up to leave. I had to wash dishes at the Night Owl. Roldán shook my hand, telling me to go with God. I thanked him for the meal and for the stories. At the door he said, “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow night at the empanada stand?”
    â€œMaybe,” I said, and then I blurted, “Listen, I’d like to meet one of the girls in Chuy’s book but I don’t know how to arrange it.”
    He said, “It’s simple. Ask Chuy when next you see him.”
    â€œTengo vergüenza.” I felt ashamed.
    â€œDo you want me to ask him for you?”
    I nodded my head desperately,
yes,
and hurried down the stairs.
    Outside, a few flakes of dry snow were swirling and it had almost gotten dark. I scurried up MacDougal Street with my head bowed against the wind, gasping in big gulps of icy air. I felt as if I had jumped out of an airplane and pulled my rip cord, but I did not know if the parachute would open.

9. Cathy Escudero
    When I met Chuy under the Washington Square arch it was snowing lightly. The big Christmas tree displayed hundreds of shining lights. A bum wearing a Santa Claus outfit stood beside a Salvation Army kettle ringing his bell monotonously. Fifth Avenue buses coughed out black fumes at busy shoppers who hurried back and forth around us.
    Chuy said, “Come on, we’ll catch a cab.”
    I had never been rich enough to hail a taxi in New York. It carried us up to Fourteenth Street, then west to the corner of Eighth Avenue. Chuy gave the driver a one-dollar tip. We entered a dilapidated building located mid-block and rode a ramshackle elevator to the fourth floor. Chuy said, “It’s rare for an Argentine to dance flamenco. But this girl is a true disciple.” Way down the corridor he opened a thick metal door and we stepped into a bare room lined by mirrors and with ballet barres about waist high along one wall. Seated against the far windows was a skinny young man in a thin coat and scarf and porkpie hat playing a guitar. The coils of a small electric heater glowed red at his feet.
    Cathy Escudero wore a black practice skirt and flamenco shoes and a baggy T-shirt knotted at her navel. Her dark hair was pulled back in a bun. She was barely five feet tall but the clatter of her shoes sounded like thunder. Chuy patted my shoulder, wished me, “Suerte, nene,” and disappeared.
    I sat down against the east wall, clasped my knees, and let out a quiet sigh. I could see my breath on the cold air. Neither guitarist nor dancer acknowledged me. They were concentrating on the music and the footwork.
    Cathy moved abruptly, hard and choppy, with fanatical precision one second and then with a delicate and sinuous counterpoint the next. Her style was graceful but shocking. The guy played his guitar like hammer blows, then shifted into a poignant ripple. He and Cathy started and stopped in unison. The dance seemed angry and sexual and very fast. Some of Cathy’s hair shook loose and strands were pasted against her damp cheeks. She spun and stomped and built to a crescendo. The guitarist watched her every move like a fanatic planning an assassination. He was good, a Spaniard it turned out, and no older than seventeen.
    They ended with a