A truck rattled down the dirt driveway and skidded to a halt. Claudia was up and out before the fork reached my mouth.
“Pip, let’s go. Pancho está aquí. Get in the truck.”
One last bite.
“Gracias, Luisa. Time to go.”
Claudia held the truck door open so I could slide in.
The gear shift between my legs, a hazard.
“Pip, ¿cómo estás?”
“Hola, Pancho.”
Claudia climbed up and shut the door.
The truck was a burrito. I was the beans. Claudia and Pancho, the tortilla.
“Hola, Claudia. If it wasn’t for your father, Eduardo would be on his own this time. Ignacio was a great man.”
“Sí. Ese idiota de Pedro siempre lo mete en problemas. Esta vez, Carlos lo quiere muerto.”
“Sí. Carlos is done messing around.”
MUERTOS? Día de los Muertos? Day of the Dead.
My head swiveled between Claudia and Pancho until my gaze drifted down to the pistola on Pancho’s hip.
“Amigo, did you think it was an ornament? “Aquí, the coffee business es cosa seria.”
Claudia took no notice and continued.
“If only Eduardo would take that job for Driza, help Mama… and stop following Pedro around.”
Bouncing back and forth between Claudia and Pancho as the truck ground the dirt road into a fine powder, I sang quietly to myself.
“Got the feeling I just can’t lose, pulling into Santa Cruz.”