Ten
The office was buzzing all the rest of the day, with the excitement of the rush compounded by the incidents of the gunshot and the taco truck. The effects of the taco truck lingered throughout the day most visibly from the lines for the bathrooms and the pained expressions on the faces of nearly everyone who had partaken. Eugenio was glad to have avoided that pitfall, but during every free moment, which weren't many, a cloud of worry hovered over his head. The cloud gathered into a tornado of concern on the drive home. There were too many things to process. He wondered how they knew where to find Richie's desk, because it certainly seemed like the blue man didn't know who Richie actually was or what he looked like, unless it was a case of all Mexicans being the same to him. He couldn't rule that out, and maybe his appearance was in fact similar to Alejandro Martinez's. He didn't want to jump to conclusions.
It also puzzled him that he'd known where to look for the chicken leg, and that he was even looking for the chicken leg at all. What could it possibly mean? Why a chicken leg, and why that particular one, or would any old drumstick do in this case? And what was the case? And who was the man in the blue suit? And why the threats? Why the deadlines? Why the secret meetings and the dire warnings? And again, the chicken leg! Above all, what was he going to do? Was he really considering showing up at the 7-11 at the appointed time? Would he bring the chicken leg? Why on Earth would he even think of going there?
Because of the risk. Because if they could find him so easily at work, they could just as easily find his home, and that was the last thing he wanted to happen. Home had to be kept out of the picture at all costs. If there were any danger, any at all, it had to be his and his alone. He wished Gabby had been there in the office, so he could tattle on Richie, but in her absence he had no idea who else to turn to. He supposed now he could have asked around, found out who was in charge aside from her, but he didn't and now it was too late. He wasn't going to turn around on the highway and head back, and anyway everyone would have left there by now. Office hours were over.
He drove past the Two Hoots and Marta's Diner and the suspect 7-11 and that was when he made up his mind. He would do what he had to do, what a man had to do. He would not be a pussy about this thing. Fate had presented itself and he would face the challenge, whatever it took. The trick was to keep the family out of it. They couldn't know anything. He would have to be resourceful.
The first thing he had to do was recover the chicken leg. He'd given all the items to Matilda and she had dutifully stowed them in various hiding places throughout the house. He made a game of it, a game of hide-and-seek after dinner, to her enormous delight. Hide-and-seek was practically her reason for living. The rule was that she had to reveal where the sought items were whenever he failed to find them in time, and to conceal his tracks he made a great show of his trials and errors, and worked the chicken leg into the routine as if it were nothing special. When it did take its turn in the game, he tried to slip it into his pocket without her noticing, but nothing escaped her eagle eyes.
“Daddy, is it your turn to hide things? Are you hiding the chicken leg now? Because I saw where you put it.”
“No, honey,” Eugenio tried to keep a normal face on, “I just thought I might keep it for a day or two. Maybe it will bring me some luck.”
“Why do you need some luck?”
“To make more money,” he said.
“How's a chicken leg help you make more money?”
“I don't know,” he shrugged. “It's just a guess. Let's find out if it works or not, okay?”
“Okay, daddy,” Matilda was thoughtful. “But if you really want more luck I think you should take the snail too. I hid it behind my book of magic tricks, so maybe some magic rubbed off on it.”
“That's a great idea,” he smiled. “I'm sure you're right.”
They played the game for a whole hour longer in the hopes that she would forget all about the chicken leg, but she didn't. She wanted to talk about it at chat time, their nightly ritual after reading time when he put her to bed.
“Why would somebody even make a toy chicken leg?” she asked.
“It beats me,” he admitted.
“Do they make chicken wings too? And how about chicken butts? Do they make little rubber chicken butts?” she laughed.
“I would not be surprised,” Eugenio said. “They make all sorts of crazy stuff.”
“I hope it helps you,” she said, “but I doubt it. I think the snail is going to work better.”
“I'll tell you what,” he said, “if either one of them works, I will buy you a lollipop. How about that?”
“Will it be lemon?”
“If you want.”
“I don't like lemon lollipops.”
“What kind would you like?”
“Peanut butter coconut apple pie!” she declared.
“Okay,” he replied. “If I can find one, I'll get you one.”
“If you can find one,” she said, “you'd be the luckiest man in the world.”
“I already am,” he said, and gave her a big smooch on her forehead.
Later, he worked his deception on Janelle, telling her that he had to work a little late the following evening, only an hour or so. He told her about the stages and the phases and the extra commission he could make.
“Okay,” she said. “I'll get a pizza. She'll like that.”
It was easy. He had the chicken leg, and the snail, and a built-in alibi to buy him the time he needed to show up at the 7-11. Now he only had to hope his stupid plan wouldn't get him killed or worse.