“How was everything?” he said.
“Awful, as usual,” I replied. “The chile was green, the sopaipillas were full of hot air…all that sort of thing.”
“Good, good,” he said, and favored the two wide-eyed children with a vast, perfectly capped grin. “Those kids are sure growing up, eh?”
“Kids do that,” I said. “And by the way, what’s with the sign on the door? How can you do that to me?” I nudged my empty plate. “What’s life without a green chile burrito, especially tomorrow?”
“How’s it feel, eh?” Fernando said. “You finally going to do it?”
“I have no choice.” I grinned. “And it’s a good time, Fernando. Robert will do a fine job.”
“I’m sure he will. So what are you going to do with yourself? All this time on your hands.”
“I don’t need to worry about that until tomorrow,” I said.
Fernando grinned. “I hear that you’re going to take over Cliff Larson’s job.”
“This is indeed a small town,” I said. “I’m going to help Cliff out for a few weeks. That’s all. It’s a favor.”
He regarded me through narrowed eyes, and then swung his gaze to Estelle. “What do you think about this guy?”
“El resolvera su problema aunque le lleve toda la noche,” she said.
Fernando Aragon laughed and clapped me on the shoulder. “This guy,” he said, and if possible his accent thickened for the occasion. “At six o’clock in the morning, he’s at the door, wanting dinner.”
“That’s because you don’t open at five,” I said. “When ordinary people eat.”
“That’s okay,” Fernando said. “When you stop coming in, that’s when we sell the place. To hell with it.” He smiled widely again. “People today don’t appreciate what it takes.” To Estelle he said, “El esta en ayunas de manana?”
She shrugged and said in English, “I think so.”
“You think so what?” I asked.
“We’re painting the kitchen ceiling tomorrow,” Fernando said. “That’s our excuse for closing. I told her that if you’re starving to death, drop by and knock on the back door. I’ll fix you something.”
“Paint chips and all,” I said. “Thanks, anyway. I can survive a day.”
He patted me on the shoulder again, and nodded around the table at each one of us in turn. “Take your time. I have to go back in the kitchen and mix paint, but if there’s anything else you want, just ask Janalynn.” He held up a hand in salute. “Hasta…hasta cuando.”
“Thanks, Fernando. Give my regards to your lovely wife.” I watched him saunter back to the kitchen, sliding the coffee decanter back in place with one smooth, practiced motion without breaking stride.
I turned to Tadd. “So tell me what they actually said, Tadd.”
He grinned at Estelle, who raised one eyebrow in that characteristic expression that said she was waiting for someone to dig a deep enough hole.
“She said that you’d figure out what you wanted to do if it took you all night.”
“Uh-huh. And he said?”
“Uh…that he’d see us whenever.” He shrugged. “Hasta cuando means sort of like that. See you whenever.”
“I see.” I studied him through my bifocals for a minute. “You’re pretty good in that language, son.”
“Yes, he is,” Estelle said, and took a deep breath. “Well…they probably want some peace and quiet around here. What’s on your docket for the rest of the afternoon?”
“I need to run by the hospital for a few minutes,” I said. “When Scott Gutierrez comes out of it, I want to make sure he knows that he’s not going to have to wade through this mess all by himself.”
“If you see Francis, would you tell him that we were going to go over to the Twelfth Street house for a bit?” She looked at Buddy. “Do you want to come with us?”
“Tadd might,” my son said. “I’ve got a few things I need to do. If you’d drop me at the house, that would be fine.”
“Let’s play it by ear for dinner, then,” I said.
“I was thinking of green-chile cheeseburgers on the grill,” Tadd said instantly, and Francisco’s eyes bugged with delight.
“Arg,” I said. “More food.”
Janalynn Torrez waited by the front register, and I expected to see her start digging for the ticket. “It’s on the house today,” she said with a smile.
“You’re kidding,” I said.
“We hope you enjoyed it.”
“Well, of course we enjoyed it,” I said, flustered. “Thank you very much.” I slipped a twenty out of my wallet and put it in her hand. “That’s for putting up with all the mess, Jana.”
She blushed. “Thank you, sir.”
“Hasta cuando,” I said.
Tadd was holding the door for me. “That’s pretty good, Grandpa.”
“It’s just that natural Gastner ear for language,” I said. Estelle heard me, but made no comment.
***
I exchanged the aromas of the Don Juan for the sterile bouquet of disinfectant at Posadas General Hospital, where instead of black velvet renditions of the conquistadors, the artwork consisted of light green walls and the reflections in the polished floor tile of the Danish-style furniture.
Anne Murchison Shalley looked up from the nurse’s station, saw me, and beckoned. I’d known Anne since she was in grade school. Her mother, Helen Murchison, had been head nurse for years at Posadas General, and knew my insides better than I did. While I had often described Helen as an old battle-ax, Anne was a delight for the eye.
“Sir, Dr. Perrone said that if you came in, I should tell you that Scott Gutierrez would be able to speak with you for just a few minutes.”
“Just a few is all it will take,” I said.
“He’s going to be in a lot of pain,” she added, and her sympathy was genuine.
“Where’s he at?”
“Intensive care recovery,” she said. “You can’t miss it.”
She knew how often I’d been there myself. I turned the corner at Radiology and saw Sergeant Howard Bishop down the hall, leaning against the wall with one hand, deep in concentration. He looked up as I approached.
“All the docs just left a few minutes ago,” he said. “Is Francis Guzman working back here again? I saw him with Perrone.”
I shook my head. “No. Golfing buddies. They’re just visiting. They’re staying over at the house.”
“Estelle, too?”
“Yep. Her too.” I thought Bishop’s expression was a touch wistful. “Is he conscious yet?” The facility had glass partitions, but the sliding curtain had been drawn around Gutierrez’s bed.
“I heard one of the nurses talking to him a bit ago, so I guess he is. I haven’t been in. Bobby said to post a watch in the hall, so here I am.”
“Long day, huh.” I didn’t wait for his reply, but stepped past and pushed the door open. I didn’t recognize the nurse at the ICU desk, but she apparently knew who I was. She nodded and remained seated, caught up in paperwork.
I stepped around the curtain and looked at Scott Gutierrez. His head was bandaged down to the tip of his nose, and he had enough lines and hoses plugged into his system to support a fair-sized village.
He raised his right hand a few inches off the sheet, as if he could sense who had invaded his domain by the change in air pressure.
“Scott, it’s Bill Gastner,” I said.
“Hi,” he replied.
“Can you talk with me for a few minutes?”
After shifting a tiny bit on the bed as if winding up for the effort to speak, he said, “Yes.” He sounded almost normal, like a person with plugged sinuses. He was lucky he still had sinuses. He reached up and touched the bandages lightly. “This is not going to be good, is it?” He spoke slowly, trying his best to make each word come out right with a minimum of movement.
“You’re going to be fine,” I said, unable to think of anything more creative than the standard line. I didn’t know-and Scott probably didn’t, either-if his vision had been saved or not. “Connie is doing all right, too, Scott. She was banged up pretty badly, but she’s going to be all right.”