But it’s not until I drop my fork and have to bend under the table to get it that I realize that Javier is armed. A gun is tucked neatly against his waist, only exposed now because of the way his jacket has been allowed to hang open as he sits.

The only people authorized to carry concealed weapons in New York are law enforcement. And this guy isn’t law enforcement.

I get back up slowly and Javier smiles at me again, this time the glint of menace strong in his eyes. He is like Micah . . . except this gangster has no loyalty toward me. There is no one here I can rely on to be concerned with my safety or even my life . . .

I’m not even sure I can count on myself for that.

I swallow hard and continue to translate. Accounts, figures, policies, privacy—the words interweave from English to Spanish and back again. The message ranges from boring to incomprehensible, but the energy at the table feels different to me now. It’s . . . viperous.

As Micah would say, this is some nefarious shit.

Eventually, about an hour into the night, well after our dinners are consumed and our glasses drained, Javier hands Travis a folded piece of paper.

“Do you want me to translate?” I ask Travis, trying to sound more helpful than eager.

“No, Bell. I think this note will be easy enough to understand.”

My eyes shift quickly between the two men who have been completely unable to directly communicate for the entire night. Now all of a sudden Javier can write a note to Travis that Travis can understand?

I don’t think so.

I fold up my napkin on the table. “Will you excuse me for a moment, gentlemen?” I ask in English and then don’t wait for a response as I go to the ladies’ room. There are a few women in front of the mirror when I get there so I stand in a stall until I’m sure I’m alone. Glancing through my purse I can see that I left my phone at the table, but after doing some quick calculations I realize that pen and paper will serve me better anyway.

When I step out of the stall, I pull out a pen and a frozen-yogurt punch card. I write my name and phone number on the back of the card, then fold it up as small as I can and hold it in my fist, which I press against my purse.

I open the door to the ladies’ room a crack. I can see that Javier is sitting back down at the table as if he’s just returning to it. Perhaps he stepped out a moment for a smoke. Or perhaps he stepped out to call in a hit on an adversary. With this guy, neither possibility would shock me.