Fang.
He had on a ball cap and was without his characteristic soiled apron, but I’d recognize that tubby gut anywhere. He galloped down the stairwell and though I told myself he’d only given Andre a ride home, somehow I knew it was more than that. I’d torture myself with suppositions later. Fang was still in the closet, which might have been the reason he was so angry and resentful all the time. He also had a wife and kid. I wasn’t sure about his sexual equation, but I wanted Andre out of it.
Andre hopped down the stairs, shirtless and barefoot, with only his jeans on. He had a Styrofoam container and a handful of plastic forks. When he got to the bottom, he cracked open the container, and he and the gang all dug in.
I’d bet anything the food had been prepared by Fang.
5. Pretty Boy
I CHOSEto forget that I’d ever seen Fang leaving Andre’s apartment. I’d pretend it never happened. Except the more I avoided thinking about it, the more it crept back into my mind like the hook of some incessant pop song.
“Vera’s sick and Cici’s kid has the chickenpox, so I need someone from the front and someone from the back to volunteer to host,” Hector said. He did a quick scan of the kitchen, his gaze alighting on Andre. “You. Pretty boy. Take off the bandana. I need you up front.”
Andre looked like a deer in headlights as he began to protest, “I’m not—”
“Now,” Hector snapped. “Who from the front wants to volunteer?”
Nobody would volunteer. It meant losing hundreds of dollars because the hosts only earned a fraction of what we did in a night. It usually came down to drawing straws, but I didn’t want to take the chance.
“I’ll do it.” I raised my hand. Melissa shot me a look.
Hector nodded. “Good man, Martin. I need someone experienced with the new kid. Make sure he doesn’t fuck my shit up.”
La Candela, though a Latin fusion restaurant, was owned by an American investor named Bill, whom we seldom saw, and managed by Hector, a man in his early forties, also of Cuban descent like me. I’d had no experience when he hired me, only Melissa’s recommendation, but he was impressed that I spoke fluent Spanish, as did he, and he liked my look, which he described asexpensive.
Hector was a hardass, but he was fair. And he gave you time off if you needed it, like whenever I had an art show. He yelled at everyone, sometimes over stupid shit, but it was his way of reminding everyone who was boss, including Fang, who liked to forget. The only person he didn’t raise his voice to was Melissa. I’d often wondered if it was because they were sleeping together, which I was pretty certain they were, or if it was because he was scared of her. Melissa had a way of drilling into people to get what she wanted.
I took post at the front of the restaurant at the black lacquered podium where we received guests. Andre still hadn’t arrived, and I wondered if he’d escaped out the back and just left. I didn’t know why, but it seemed like something he would do.
Andre came out a few minutes later wearing a suit, likely one of Hector’s spares. The jacket was a bit snug in the shoulders and the pants showed his socks peeking out the bottom. The tie, if there was one, had been discarded, but the effect was nonetheless striking. He looked like a men’s clothing model, or a high-priced escort. That was the snot in me speaking.
“I don’t want to do this, Martin,” he said. “I’m not good with… people.” I noticed the hesitation and wondered what he’d left out. Was itrichpeople,whitepeople,fussypeople? I had no idea what kind of people he thought he wasn’t good with.
“You’ll be fine.” He’d charmed his scary-looking neighbors at the bottom of the stairwell. A few high rollers should pose no challenge.
I gave him a rundown of his duties, which was basically seating people where I told him. After the first few groups, he seemed to relax, until a waiting list formed. He didn’t like all the people crowding around, or the pissy looks on their faces, which said they were not used to having to wait.
“I need a cigarette.” He tugged at his collar like it was choking him.
“Just relax.” I doodled one of the patrons on a pad of paper. His head was very bald and his expression made him look like a frowning frog.
Andre chuckled, glancing over my shoulder. “That’s good. Do another one.”
I sketched a woman in a slinky silver dress, making the most of her bust and adding a few feathers to her hair, which seemed appropriate.
“Wow, you’re really good,” he said with genuine admiration.
I wanted to tell him that he had no idea. These hand-drawn caricatures were the stuff of carnival acts. With paint and a canvas, I was a genius.
“Do me,” he said. I glanced over at him.
I’d paint him in my studio, bathed in morning light to bring out the honeyed tones of his skin, the ripples in his muscles, the hollow of his throat. I’d paint every curling eyelash. I’d paint him painstakingly slowly.
I penned a few strokes, highlighting his strong jaw, high cheekbones, full lips, almond eyes, and the small divot under his nose. Though I hadn’t meant it, something about his eyes looked sad.
“Wow,” he said. The expression on his face wasn’t one of satisfaction. More like discomfort. He stared at it a moment longer, then said, “Is that how you see me?”
I shrugged. I didn’t know what to say. I drew it like I saw it.
