Chapter 16
“Alberto’s Margaritas” was written in large white cursive letters on a sign atop the pink metal stand. A little man with a toothpick in his mouth stood behind the counter.
Scott laughed when he saw him. Behind the counter was none other than Alberto himself, the little man who handed him the pamphlets at the airport and told him to visit his “brother’s” margarita stand.
“So it was your margarita stand all along,” Scott said.
A sparkle of recognition twinkled in Alberto’s eyes, then a toothy grin. “I never like to promote my own business, Zapatos, so I tell people it’s my brother’s stand. Most times, they don’t remember me. But I can’t fool you; eh, Zapatos?”
“I’ll take three margaritas, you rascal,” Scott said with a laugh.
“Comin’ right up.” He moved quickly: mixing, shaking, pouring, garnishing with salt. One movement flowed into the next, a margarita martial artist.
“Here you go.” Alberto handed over three margaritas in mason jars covered in condensation. The sunlight reflected off the drinks, making them sparkle.
Scott started to turn when he heard the familiar snap of Alberto’s fingers. “Tips are always appreciated, se?or.” Alberto held out his sombrero just like at the airport. Scott dropped 5 dollars in the hat.