“Right. I’ve been deprived,’’ he said. “On Calle Ocho, there are a lot more Cuban coffee stands than Dairy Queens. That’s something else I miss: Eighth Street in Little Havana and café Cubano, Cuban coffee.’’
“You mean sweet tea isn’t cutting it?’’
“Caffeine is meant to be consumed hot, in tiny sips of a syrupy sweet, super-concentrated concoction. Watered down in weak tea with a bunch of ice cubes? No, gracias.’’
I used my red plastic spoon to scrape the dregs from my bowl. He’d had only a few bites.
“Cuban coffee is just as sweet and almost as thick as that hot fudge sauce you just scarfed down.’’ Without making a big deal, he leaned over with his napkin and wiped at a dab of chocolate on my lip. He flashed a real smile this time. I returned it, hoping chocolate wasn’t coating my teeth.
“Maybe I’ll make you a cup sometime,’’ he said. “I have to warn you though, café Cubano is addictive. We call it Cuban crack.’’
He was more animated than I’d ever seen him.
“It sounds like there’s a lot you miss about Miami. Why’d you move here?’’
Headlights from a car in the drive-thru flashed through the plate glass window, illuminating his eyes. I saw real pain, and immediately regretted putting it there.
“I didn’t mean to pry,’’ I said quickly. “I never know when to quit with the questions.’’
“So I’ve noticed.’’ A half-smile returned to his lips. “No, it’s all right. I need to be able to talk about it.’’
He pushed his half-eaten sundae to the side, folded his hands, and rested them at the edge of the table. And then he told me about Patricia, the pregnant wife who was murdered.
“I’ve heard a little about it,’’ I said, not wanting to reveal I’d already read the details of his personal tragedy on the Internet, from the archives of the Miami Herald. “Something awful happened in Miami, that’s about as much as people here say.’’
“Do they say I failed to protect my own wife?’’ His voice was raw.
I put my hand over his folded ones. I figured that was what my sister Marty would do. “No, they do not. And I don’t think anyone would ever say such a thing. You lost your wife in a horrible crime. How could you possibly have prevented that?’’
His hands felt warm beneath mine. I was new at this, comforting someone. But it felt right. When he still hadn’t answered, I patted twice and then put my own hands in my lap.
Leaning in, I lowered my voice so only he could hear. “I don’t think your wife would want you to keep punishing yourself. Imagine if the situation were reversed. You were at home; Patricia had to go to work. A sweet-looking old woman comes to your door, needing help. Imagine it had been you who tried to help her, only to be shot and killed for your kindness. Would you want your wife blaming herself; carrying all that guilt on top of such awful grief?’’
He shook his head, staring silently at his hands on the table. I had no idea what I’d do if he lost control and started sobbing. Maybe I’d start crying, too, causing a scene at the Dairy Queen.
I needn’t have worried. He covered his eyes for a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. When he dropped his hand, he blinked a few times and looked up at me. Grief still clouded his eyes. But they were dry.
Just as I was feeling close enough to him to suggest we move on to dinner at the Speckled Perch, Martinez’s cell phone rang. He growled out his name, which apparently is also the Spanish word for “Why the hell are you bothering me?’’ I was relieved to see he didn’t reserve the snarling tone just for me.
He listened for a moment, then grinned. “Hola, amigo.’’ Even I understood that was the equivalent of Howdy, pal. “Give me just a second, will you?’’ he said to the caller.
He lifted his head to look at me. “Listen, I have to take this. Thanks a lot for the ice cream. I think I’m going to head on home, grab that much-needed shower.’’
I waved my hand at him, shooing him out of the booth. So much for dinner, and for … whatever.
“Go on, we’ll catch up later,’’ I said. “The fact that Emma Jean had another man was the biggest news I had. I’m going to work on finding out who it was.’’
He waggled a no-no finger at me, but started to scoot out of the booth anyway. “Okay, I’m back,’’ he said into the phone.
As he leaned across me to retrieve his pad and pencil off the table, I overheard a few words from the caller. Not enough to understand. But enough to tell the voice on the phone was familiar. It was a loud honk, unmistakable evidence of a boyhood spent in the Bronx.
I had to squeeze Pam’s VW past Sal Provenza’s big Cadillac in Mama’s driveway. So I wasn’t completely surprised when he opened the door at her house at seven thirty in the morning.
We all still had our doubts about Sal. But, for some reason, Mama had warmed up to him again. Obviously, since here he was. At least he was fully dressed, in a pale pink golf shirt and burgundy polyester slacks. They were short enough to show off his ankles, resplendent in beige-and-burgundy checked socks. A braided gold chain nestled in the furry pelt of his chest. A Pomeranian snuggled in the crook of Sal’s left elbow, shedding on his expandable-waist pants.
“Your mother’s in the bedroom, getting ready.’’
I cringed to hear the words “your mudder’’ and “bedroom’’ coming out of Sal’s mouth.
I know Mama had sex at least three times, since there are the three of us girls. But I didn’t want to think about it, and particularly not in the context of Big Sal.
“We’ve got something to tell you, Mace. But I’ll let Rosalee be the one to break the good news.’’ Sal was smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary. I’ve seen the man eat. He might have downed both the bird and the cat before he realized what he’d shoveled into his mouth.
“I made some coffee.’’
I softened a bit. Sal makes great coffee, adding a dash of cinnamon to the pot.
“I got out that mug with the blue flowers that you like. It’s on the kitchen counter.’’
He led the way into the kitchen, engulfing both of us in an aftershave fog. As he tromped across the floor, gingham knick-knacks trembled on their shelves. He filled my mug with coffee and handed it to me.
“I was just going to make myself some bacon and pancakes. Wanna join me?’’