Page 538 of Devil’s Disciples

Mister Reeves and Mister Ortiz were exchanging tales over the backs of their booths. I found it funny that Mister Reeves had been reading the same book for the two weeks that I’d worked at the diner, but then again, he didn’t read near as much as he talked and gawked.

“Looks like you two are having far too much fun,” I said, topping off Mister Ortiz’s coffee.

“Someone needs to talk to him,” Ortiz said. “I doubt his wife will. He’s difficult to get along with.”

“Oh, she’ll talk to me,” Reeves said. “It’s getting her to shut up that’s tough. She’s like that rabbit on the battery commercials. She just keeps going, and going, and going…”

“Maybe she’s trying to tell you something,” Ortiz said over the back of his seat.

My eyes were darting back and forth between them as they spoke. Seeing their friendship develop was cute. From what I could see they were both set in their ways, with Ortiz reading the daily paper and eating biscuits and gravy, and Reeves reading a novel and eating scrambled eggs, toast, and ham.

The same thing, every day, for both of them.

“You two should join each other,” I suggested. “It’d be easier for you to communicate.”

“I’m doing fine just the way I am,” Ortiz said.

“Likewise,” Reeves chimed.

I looked at each of them and shook my head. “Suit yourselves.”

I visually checked from table to table, seeing if anyone needed anything. Halfway through my tables, George shouted at me from the kitchen.

“Carma!” he bellowed. “You’ve got a phone call!”

A phone call?

My cell phone, as always, was in my purse. I didn’t believe in carrying it when I was at work. If I did, it was all too easy to be tempted to use it. If I used it, it looked unprofessional.

Fearing that something happened to Reno’s motorcycle, and that he wouldn’t be able to pick me up, I sauntered toward the kitchen.

George poked his head through the doorway. “You might want to hurry. It’s your mother, and she sounds upset.”

I sped up my pace, stepped into the kitchen, and looked around. “Where’s the phone?”

George pointed to an office at the rear of the kitchen. “In the back.”

I rushed to the office, leaned over the edge of the desk, and picked up the phone. “Mother?”

“Carmelita,” she said, clearly in tears. “They’ve picked up your…they took your…they’ve got your father.”

She was frantic. My immediate thought was that the cartel had kidnapped him. I hoped that wasn’t the case. “Who? Who picked him up?”

“Immigration,” she sobbed.

My heart sank. I wished it was the cartel. At least there’d be a chance that Reno could save him. With Immigration, there was no chance of him being released. He’d be jailed, deported to Mexico, and released to a country where he had no money, no home, and no family.

“What can we do?” I asked. “What do we do. What…who has him?”

She didn’t immediately respond.

My perfect little world began to crumble around me. After my father was deported, my entire family would have to cross the border to be with him. If he attempted to come back the United States to be with us, he’d be placed in prison. Returning to the United States wasn’t an option. Being caught and then sent to prison was a chance he couldn’t afford to take.

“Mother,” I stammered. “I’m…I’m scared.”

“They picked him up when he came…on his way out of the store. It was a raid for those construction workers…the ones that hang out by the fruit stand in the morning. Mister…Mister Valsaquez…he saw them take him away.”

My mind began to go in a thousand different directions. I wanted Reno to fix it, but there was nothing anyone could do.