“Table four is getting impatient,” said Marisa. “They’ve already mouthed off to Gabi once tonight.”
Carlo Magno glowered. “Tell them if they try it again, les echo por la calle.”
“Your heart rate is approaching the upper end of its normal range,” said Triste Chango, lurking under a preparation table nearby. “You should take a break.”
“Here’s the last of twelve’s fajitas,” said Carlo Magno, sliding the protein and vegetables onto a plate. “Garnish ’em up and get ’em out of here, and then do me a quick favor and chop this nuli into pieces with an ax.”
“You got it,” said Marisa. She gathered table twelve’s plates onto her tray, added scoops of rice and beans and pico de gallo, and bustled back out into the dining room.
“Four’s getting sassy again,” said Gabi, passing her on the way.
“Grabby or just antsy?”
“Antsy.”
“Don’t tell Papi,” said Marisa, “just tell him to hurry it up.”
Gabi ducked into the kitchen, and Marisa brought the tray to table twelve. “Here we go, listen to that sizzle! Chicken fajitas, tacos de chapulín, tacos de hongo, and a General Tso’s burrito smothered with our own chile verde.”
“I’m trusting you on this,” said the man, winking as he did. Marisa gave him a flirty smile.
“You’ll love it,” she said. “It’s literally my favorite thing on the menu.”
He raised his eyebrow in playful disbelief, and Marisa giggled just long enough to get out of earshot. If he didn’t tip well . . .
“Oye,” said Marisa’s mother, summoning her to the side with a single finger. She was a large woman, thick and solid, like a tree trunk. She was also a full head taller than Carlo Magno, but all that height had apparently gone to Chuy and Gabi; Marisa and Sandro weren’t short, necessarily, but they’d inherited their father’s compact size. Pati could still go either way, but Marisa expected her to sprout like a weed sometime in the next year.
Marisa walked quickly to Guadalupe, who pointed to table fifteen. “Just seated them,” she said. “Seven was open, but they’re already kind of drunk so I made them wait a bit and put them in your section.”
“Gabi can handle it,” said Marisa.
“Gabi’s got her hands full with four,” said Guadalupe.
“Frakkin’ four,” muttered Marisa.
“We can’t afford to lose any customers tonight, okay?” said Guadalupe. “Don’t tell your father or he’ll throw them out.”
“I won’t,” said Marisa, and handed her mother the tray. “Take this in the back for me?” Guadalupe took the tray, and Marisa grabbed a handful of menus on her way to table fifteen. “Welcome to San Juanito’s,” she said, handing out the menus. “I’m Marisa, I’ll be your server tonight. Would you like to order some drinks or should I give you time—”
“You have Mexican beer?”
“Corona, Tres Equis, and Gusanito,” said Marisa. “Would you like a round for the table?”
“Gansitos for everyone!” said the man, and Marisa smiled. Her mom was right: these guys were already pretty drunk. She walked back into the kitchen and went straight to the fridge.
“Table two is almost up, Gabi,” said Carlo Magno.
“I’m Marisa,” said Marisa. Two was in Gabi’s section.
Carlo Magno glanced at her, then back at his grill. “Sorry. Busy.”
Marisa pulled out beers and started popping off the lids with a bottle opener. “One of my tables just ordered a round of Gansitos—should I run to the corner store for snack cakes, or should I just give them these Gusanito beers instead?”
Carlo Magno smiled at her. “Gringos or Japanese?”
“Latinos,” said Marisa with a wink. “But they’re drunk.”
Gabi stuck her head in the door. “I need four!”
“Take two!” shouted Carlo Magno.
“I don’t have time for two!” shouted Gabi, and closed the door with a whoosh.
“Mari, just take two,” said Carlo Magno. “I’m drowning here, I don’t even have space to plate anymore.”
Marisa shoved lime wedges into the mouth of each open bottle. “So buy some nulis.”
“That is the last possible thing I want to hear from you right now, mija.”
Marisa looked up, halfway to the giant bag of tortilla chips looming high in the back corner. “Not the last thing.” She put her metal hand on her hip. “Tell me about the accident.”
“Your heart rate has gone above your normal range,” said Triste Chango. “You should take a break.”
Carlo Magno turned on his stool and pulled a plate of enchiladas from the oven; the molten cheese on top of it bubbled and hissed. “You say that one more time,” he said, “and I will bolt a tray to the top of your head and make you wait tables.”
Marisa frowned. “You talking to the nuli or me?”
“Take your pick,” said Carlo Magno. “And get this table two order out of here before I throw it on the floor!”
Marisa scooped a bowl full of chips, ladled a smaller bowl of dark red salsa, and put them on a tray with the beers. Then she grabbed a second tray, wiped it down, and started loading up table two’s plates.
“You can’t take two trays at once,” said her father.
“Want to bet?”
“I was talking about permission, not ability.”
“Here’s the deal,” said Marisa, and picked up a tray with each hand, balancing them carefully on her arms. “I get this out of your way, and when I come back, you tell me who the Severovs are.”
“I don’t know any Severovs.”
“Yes, you do,” said Marisa. “I’m talking about those Severovs. Don Francisco’s old rivals, from back in the day. You remember them?”
“Mari—”
“Or I could leave this here,” said Marisa, starting to put the tray back down. “Your choice.”
“I’ll fire you.”
“Don’t I wish.”
“I’ll give you extra shifts, then.”
“You’ll punish me for asking a question?”
“Some things you just have to let go, okay?” He finished rolling another burrito, slapped it on a plate, and covered it with red sauce and cheese. “The past is past. It’s gone. Nothing we do now is going to change it, so we keep our heads high, and we look to the future.”
“I’m not even kidding about this tray,” said Marisa, moving to set it down. “I’ll leave it right here. Maybe all night.”
“Take it,” said Carlo Magno. “We’ll talk when you get back.”
Marisa smiled and lifted the tray again, maneuvering expertly through the swinging door and out into the dining room. She gave fifteen their chips and beers, and worked her way over to two.
“Chiles rellenos—my personal favorite—some enchiladas, and three different orders of tacos.” She waited for hands to go up, identifying who ordered what, and sorted them all out. From the corner of her eye she saw Gabi talking to table four, trying to mollify the group of unruly twentysomething men. She couldn’t hear what they were saying, but watched as one of the men reached out and grabbed Gabi’s butt.
Marisa handed out the last plate of tacos and stalked straight to table four, her hands gripping the tray like a club.
Gabi stopped her, eyes wide, and leaned in to whisper: “Don’t tell Papi.”
“I don’t have to tell Papi,” Marisa whispered back, “I’m throwing them out myself.” She handed the tray to Gabi, just to be sure she didn’t smack anyone with it, and planted herself next to the table. “All right: you’re gone.”
“What?”
“You’re gone,” said Marisa. “Out. Afuera de aquí. Chūqù.”
“You can’t just throw us out,” said one of the men. “We’ve been waiting for, like, fifteen minutes!”
“Look around,” said Marisa, gesturing at the full restaurant. “We’re kind of busy. Now hit the road so we can give this table to someone who deserves it.”
“Bring us food or we’ll sue you!”
“You grabbed my sister’s ass!” shouted Marisa. “Get out in the next thirty seconds, or I call Maldonado’s enforcers and tell them we have a child sex predator here!” The men stared at her, but obviously the threat meant something because they started gathering their things. “You know what the Maldonado family does to child sex predators?” she asked, watching them slowly stand up. “You know how long it takes them to do it?”
“Perra,” said the man, and as he walked away from the table he picked up a glass and threw the water in her face. She put up her human hand and blocked some of it, but she and the two customers behind her still got soaked. She stood still as a statue, watching the men until they left, and rolled her eyes when the other customers gave her a round of applause.
Marisa turned to the people behind her, pulling a towel from the waistband of her apron and helping to sop up the water on their table. “I’m so sorry about that,” she said. “Your dinner’s on me tonight, okay?”
“Don’t worry about it,” said the man. “I saw what he did to her. You’re a hero.”
“Thanks,” said Marisa. “But next time you see a fourteen-year-old girl getting groped, don’t wait for a seventeen-year-old girl to step in and save her.” She spat the last few words with more venom than she expected, and walked back into the kitchen to another smattering of applause.
“Four’s almost done,” said Carlo Magno, then looked at her and stopped. “Why are you wet?”
“You didn’t hear the applause?” snapped Marisa, hunting through a side closet for a dry towel. “We had a wet T-shirt contest.”
“She threw out table four,” said Gabi, barging into the room with a sneer. “I needed those tips, Mari.”
“You can have mine,” said Marisa, dabbing the towel at her hair.
“They got out of line?” asked Carlo Magno, standing up with an angry grunt. “Grabby or antsy?”
Marisa and Triste Chango said the line in unison: “Your heart rate is reaching dangerous levels. You should take a break.”
“I can take care of myself,” said Gabi.
“Then start doing it,” said Marisa. Gabi rolled her eyes and left the kitchen. Marisa stared at her father, who stared back in silence, until finally she broke it by throwing the wet towel across the room. “I know, okay? I know we can’t afford to lose any customers.”
“You did the right thing,” said Carlo Magno, and sat back down with a grimace. “Thank you for watching out for your sister.”
Marisa stared at him a moment longer, not sure what to say, then nodded and grabbed another towel. “You’re welcome.” She grabbed a pair of menus, ready to take them sheepishly to the table in the splash zone and offer to comp their dessert as well as their meal, but her father stopped her with a sentence:
“The Severovs were a crime family,” said Carlo Magno. “Russian mob, but they’d only just moved into LA so they were more or less evenly matched against this upstart Mexican gang trying to push them out of their territory.”
Marisa turned around slowly, almost as if her father were a deer or a squirrel, some fragile forest animal ready to bolt into the trees if she made any sudden moves. She looked at his chest, and then, in a burst of courage, his eyes. He stared back, and didn’t stop talking.
“It got bad,” he said, “the hits got bad, and the level of ‘I can’t believe this is happening’ got higher and higher until everyone in Mirador feared for our lives.”
“Were you a part of it? This . . . war?”
He scowled. “What kind of question is that?”
Marisa nodded. “But Zenaida was in the middle of it.”
Carlo Magno nodded slowly. “Lav came after her—Lavrenti Severov, the leader of the Russian group. Don Francisco stopped him—was furious they’d come after his family. Hit back, hard. Lavrenti lost both of his children.”
“Santa vaca,” breathed Marisa.
“The Severovs were pretty much done then, but they broke everything they could find on their way out. We were rebuilding this neighborhood for years after that—do you remember the upstairs hallway window?”
“I remember it had a sheet of plastic over it when I was little.”
“Severov thugs broke every window we have—that was the last one, and we couldn’t afford to fix it for a while.”
Marisa spoke hesitantly, not wanting to break the spell. “Is that who caused the car accident?”
Carlo Magno stared at her a moment, then shook his head. “No. That was a few months later. I guess I can tell you that much.”
“You can tell me more.”
“No, I can’t,” said Carlo Magno, and the spell broke. He turned back to the oven, saved a pan of almost-burning Chikn™, and dumped it on a plate. “Back to work.”
ELEVEN
When her shift ended, Marisa went straight to Sahara’s house, pausing only to wave at her father through the door of the San Juanito kitchen. “Hey, Papi, I’m going upstairs.”
Carlo Magno was frying green chiles on the big flat griddle. “Homework?”
“Lots. I’m going to stay the night, okay? There’s a big project we’re working on.”
“You’re supposed to ask permission,” said Carlo Magno, flipping a chile with calloused fingers. “Not just tell me things.”
“I never ask permission for anything,” said Sandro, ducking through the kitchen to grab a bowl of salsa. It was his turn to wait tables.
“Because you never do anything I disagree with,” Carlo Magno shouted after him, but Sandro was already gone. Carlo Magno looked at the swinging door, then looked back at Marisa. “He never does anything I disagree with.”
“Good thing you have me, then,” said Marisa, and slipped in to grab a grapefruit soda from the fridge. She kissed her father on the cheek and jogged back to the door. “You’d be so bored without me.”
“Be good!” he shouted.
“I will!” she shouted back, and pounded up the stairs to Sahara’s apartment. The house computer recognized her and unlocked the door, and a slight imbalance in the old hinges caused it to swing open about five inches. Marisa let herself in and closed it behind her. “Hey, Diggs.”
“Hello, Marisa,” said Sahara’s house computer. Marisa didn’t know how much Sahara had paid for the voice module, but it was smooth as silk. “You look lovely today.”
“Marry me,” said Marisa, and walked back into Sahara’s bedroom. “Ready?”
Sahara turned around, holding up two different outfits: both black, but one was made of faux leather and the other was covered with hundreds of tiny rubberized scales, like dragon skin. “Which is better for trapping and interrogating a group of murderers who sell body parts? Classic, or techy?”
“Which is which?”
“You’re the worst friend ever.”
“I’m also the worst daughter,” said Marisa, and blinked into her djinni’s GPS settings. “I just told my dad I’d be good, and now it’s like forty seconds later and—” She blinked, activating a program. “I’ve just spoofed my djinni’s GPS signal onto Cameron.” The camera nulis would be staying behind, looping old footage of the girls doing homework at Sahara’s beat-up kitchen table.
“I’m already spoofed to Camilla,” said Sahara. “They’ll think we’re here all night long. And Diggs won’t tell, will you?”
“Anything for you, baby,” said the computer.
Marisa widened her eyes. “I feel like maybe that’s a little inappropriate.”
“You’re just jealous.”
“Always,” said Marisa. She dropped her backpack and picked up a carrying case filled with modified nulis. “Let’s do this.”
Chuy had chosen their ambush site: Bao’s shantytown, built inside of another abandoned construction project, though this one was above the ground instead of below it. A ten-story hotel, with a foundation and a metal frame and enough concrete to act as floors and ceilings and stairs. A handful of interior walls were finished as well, but th
e company had run out of money before completing anything else. The lower floors were full of squatters, an entire miniature city living in the ruins of one company’s tiny apocalypse, but the top three floors had long ago been claimed as La Sesenta territory, and even with the whole gang in hiding, the locals respected their rule.
“Don’t worry,” said Chuy, “we’ll be a few floors up from the civilians, so no one will get hurt.”
“Can’t we do this somewhere with fewer people?” asked Marisa.
“This is Los Angeles,” said Chuy. “Anywhere we go will have people in it.”
Marisa frowned, but she couldn’t disagree.
“Watch out for the elevator shafts,” said Bao, leading the group past a row of tents and blankets toward the stairwell. “The hotel has two basements, so they’re basically twelve-story death pits.”
Marisa peered into one as they passed it; even on the ground floor it made her shiver to look into the inky black holes.
“We’ve walled them off on the other floors,” said Bao, “so nobody accidentally falls in, but we keep this one open as a warning, and La Sesenta kept theirs open for . . . I shudder to think.”
“Persuasion,” said Chuy. Marisa didn’t like the sound of that at all.
The stairwell was enclosed in cement walls, so they trudged up in relative safety in a somber single file: Chuy, Marisa, Bao, then Anja, with Sahara bringing up the rear. Chuy had wanted to bring more, but Marisa insisted; she didn’t want this to turn into a bloodbath, just a fast ambush and interrogation. Too many trigger fingers made her nervous. Even so, they weren’t completely unprepared. They had their modified nulis, ready to knock out each attacker’s sight and hearing, and they were all armed with stun guns. Chuy was armed with a real gun—a Cirrus-7 handgun with magnetic accelerators. If all else failed, he could shoot straight through a concrete wall.
It occurred to her that the chop shop boys could probably do the same. She swallowed nervously, and thought about happier things.