Chapter Eight #2
We all sat back and finished our drinks after polishing off our food.
“So, you’re all set on Candy’s plan?” I asked, changing the subject to the Op.
I’d much rather talk about anything other than Cachi, but it was really hard not to check my phone to see if he’d called.
I’d done little else since waking up this morning.
I slid it out of my pocket, keeping it in my lap under the table as I covertly glanced down at it.
“Yeah, and it’s a good one, as long as Castillion does what he’s supposed to do, and shows up at the party,” Mickey replied.
I looked up sharply as I realized that the table had gone quiet again. Everyone was looking in my direction. “What?”
Nash pointed to the phone still in my hands. “You’ve been looking at that phone since we sat down. What’s going on?”
I sighed, tucking the phone back into my jeans. “Waitin’ for a call.” I glanced around to see some of them smirking, others looking sympathetic. “Okay, so Cachi blocked my calls when I missed our date last night due to the fact that I was stuck washin’ the BearCats. There. Are y’all happy?”
“Trust me, buddy, no one wants to see you happy more than us,” Napoleon said. “But we’ve just never seen you like this over a guy before. When you talk about him, it’s like you’ve got stars in your eyes.”
“’E’s right,” Mars said. “Listen, I’m sorry I told everyone about Cachi and we’re all sorry we teased ya. If it’s meant to be then it’s meant to be. You must ‘ave a little patience, mate.”
I looked around at all of them. “Okay, thanks.” I smiled. They really were my best friends in the world. After breakfast, we headed back to the office to change into our camo and gear up for the operation.
I must have checked my phone ten times on the way back.
CACHI
Tio never expected me at the store on Sunday until around noon because I took Mamá to early morning Mass.
If she’d had her way, I’d go every morning, but she knew that wasn’t possible.
She let me sleep in because I normally worked late at the bar, and I felt relieved at even that small concession, considering how badly she hated me working at a bar of any kind.
If she knew I was a go-go dancer rather than a bartender, she would’ve flipped out.
I really didn’t mind going to church. Father Leo at Our Lady of The Valley was very kind, led the early mass in Spanish, and knew all his parishioners by name.
Since missing church was a nonstarter with Mamá, I usually drove downtown to the store after dropping her off at home which was her only day off.
I was glad Tio normally closed the store by three because today, an hour after I’d arrived, I didn’t feel like putting on a happy face for his customers, the way I always did.
Besides feeling shitty about not getting a whole lot of sleep the night before because I couldn’t stop thinking about Rex, I’d woken up with a killer headache.
Tia Carlotta could tell I was off, so she sent me to the backroom to unpack boxes, convinced I was scaring her customers away.
I didn’t feel bad about that at all and when my phone rang and Marcello Biagi’s number came up, I answered right away.
“Marcello?” I asked. “?Qué es lo que? What’s up?”
“Cachi! I’m so glad you answered.” His slight Italian accent always made me smile.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“I need you to come over right away. I have a great job, but it starts in like an hour and a half. Where are you?”
“I downtown at my tio’s store.”
“Shit. You’re working? I forgot.”
“Yeah. Why?”
“When do you get off?”
I looked at the clock on Tio’s desk. “At three.”
“Shit. That’s three hours from now. Can you get off early? I’ve got a great job, but they need two guys and no one else has answered the phone. Please, please, please, ask your uncle if you can get off early.”
He talked fast, even faster than I did in Spanish. “What kind of job this is, Marcello?” Hopefully I was dressed correctly since I obviously didn’t have time to go home and change and he seemed to be in a hurry.
“That’s the best part! It’s really easy.
Some rich guy is having a big party and all we gotta do is park cars.
The job pays three hundred dollars each, but we have to stay until the party’s over at like three in the morning.
And it’s all under the table! All we need is a driver’s license to show we can drive legally.
Come on, Cachi. You’re the last person I can think of to call. ”
Getting paid three hundred dollars under the table for one night’s work was huge.
It was more than I got paid working two whole weekends at my uncle’s store.
I glanced at the clock again and knew my aunt and uncle would let me leave early as long as I promised to make up for it by working a few extra hours next week.
“Okay. Let me ask mi tia. When I need to be there?”
“Thank God! Meet me at my house in an hour. The job isn’t far.”
“Okay. I leave now if she say okay.”
“Good.”
“See you then.” I hung up the phone, changed out of my dirty pants into some clean ones I always kept when I worked in the stock room, and went to talk to Tia.
Five minutes later, I jumped onto the freeway and drove back to Van Nuys.
It took me nearly forty-five minutes and when I got there, Marcello was pacing on the sidewalk outside his apartment building.
He smiled when he spotted me and ran over, ripping the Thunderbird’s passenger door open, and bending down to talk to me.
“Thank God you’re early. I just talked to the guy, and he said if we aren’t there by four, we shouldn’t bother coming.”
“Where it is?” I asked, used to my friend’s anxious tone.
We’d been friends ever since I’d gotten my first job in California, shortly after moving here.
I’d been lucky enough to land a job as a stock boy at the local Jons Market where Marcello worked as a cashier.
He was a hustler like me, always looking for side jobs to earn extra money.
His mamá was also a single parent but she was raising not only him but three of his siblings.
She worked long hours at Valley Presbyterian Hospital as a nurse, and Marcello and his older brother, Franco, took turns babysitting their younger sisters, Francesca and Stefania.
The whole big Italian family were genuinely nice people and his mother, Georgiana, was an amazing cook.
When she wasn’t working, she was cooking, feeding not only her whole brood, but any friends of her kids who dropped by.
He’d told me that their father, Antonio, had brought the entire family over from Italy almost ten years ago, but had been tragically killed when the cab he’d been driving had been involved in an accident only a few months after they’d gotten settled in the States.
I looked up to Marcello because of our shared immigration story but also because they’d overcome so much to survive here, similar to Mamá and me.
They were hard-working, decent people who took care of each other.
“It’s in Bel Air.” Marcello held up his phone. “I have the address right here. Can you drive? I’ll go in half for the gas.”
I nodded, glad that I’d filled the tank before church. “Get in.” We drove back to the freeway, jumping on the 405. We’d have just enough time to get to Bel Air by four as long as we didn’t hit heavy traffic. “Thanks for calling me, Marcello. I needed the money.”
He reached over and slapped me on the shoulder. “No problem, Cachi. Just get us there on time. “
“I will.”
We turned onto Roscomare Road at one minute before four, parking near a guard gate when Marcello pointed out a valet stand which had been set up.
He jumped out of the car and ran over to a guy behind the stand as I pocketed my keys, walking at a slower pace.
The guy looked us both up and down and seemed satisfied.
He bent down and pulled out two white polo shirts and baseball caps with the valet company logo, handing them to us.
“Let me see your pants.”
I stepped back and lifted my T-shirt to show him the black Dickies I’d changed into at work. He nodded to me and then looked at Marcello who did the same. He wore dark brown khakis. “Okay, change into the shirts and wait over there. I’ll talk to all of you at the same time.”
I glanced at a group of guys who were standing in the shade near a guard shack by the electronic gate.
All of them wore dark pants, similar shirts, and baseball caps.
Marcello and I headed in their direction, pulling the plastic wrappers off the shirts as we walked.
We joined the other six men who were standing around talking in Spanish.
They all looked Latino and spoke with South American and Mexican accents.
Everyone seemed excited about how much money they’d be making just like we were. I glanced over at Marcello.
“How you find out about this job?” I asked, taking my shirt off and pulling the new one over my head. I grabbed his plastic wrapper, balled it up with mine and shoved it into a plastic grocery bag one of the guys was passing around.
“Do you remember Marco De la Cruz?”
I had to think about it and snapped my fingers when a face popped into my mind. “The guy who works at Pacoima Auto Body?” If it was the same Marco I was thinking about, he’d done really good work on my Thunderbird.
“Yeah, that Marco.”