—I live here.

—Caridad, Don Chan called out to Dallas.

—There’s no Caridad here, Bobby said, plopping himself on the sofa, turning on the TV.

—Of course not, Don Chan said, finding his wits again. —Why would you say such a thing?

—Dallas, aren’t you supposed to make dinner? You know Abuelo got to eat.

Bobby was hungry and he was thinking about Dallas’s pepper steak.

—Aren’t you supposed to clean the bathroom? Dallas snapped back. Bobby never did anything and Esperanza let him get away with it. In the mornings, he barged in on her before she was done getting dressed. It was bad enough they shared a bedroom, but he never knocked on the door.

—Bitch!

—Asshole!

—Respect Abuelo, man. Bobby was pissed that he had to find a job when she could sit on her fat butt doing nothing.

Bobby decided he’d just do it. Walk into McDonald’s and apply for a job and anyone who had a problem with it could go to hell. At least if he started making some money, he could take one of the girls from around the block to a movie. Not like all the punks up the street who were always mooching off the dealers to get something to eat and bumming cigarettes. He could buy himself clothes and hook himself up with some new sneakers. He could get his ear pierced and plug in the small zirconia he saw at the jewelry store. If his mother wanted him to act like the man of the house, then she had to stop mama-boying him, as if he was the poor kid who was left an orphan. That was two years ago.

Don Chan was sitting at the luncheonette and saw Santo exiting the building. What was he doing out at this time of day? Don Chan had not finished clipping his headlines. The traffic cops were at the end of the block, making their way up. Santo should’ve still been sleeping. But there was something different about Santo that day. Did he comb his hair? Don Chan paid his tab and went outside to catch up with him. He had wanted to talk to him about the meeting planned in the church in la capital. He had received word that from east to west, the people were planning to meet in la capital, to discuss how to dispose of Reid Cabral and his associates and bring back Juan Bosch.

Bobby saw Don Chan, shuffling out of the luncheonette, and tried to dodge him.

—Oye mijo, where you going? Don Chan shouted from across the street.

The guys were on the corner. Bobby stood silent for a moment, afraid that everyone already knew that he was about to try for a job at McDonald’s.

—Not now, Abuelo. Bobby waved him good-bye.

—I’ll walk with you, Don Chan said. It was a good day for it, a quiet Saturday morning and the sun was out. The guys on the corner yelled out, —Wassup, Bobby, and Bobby looked at his feet as he walked along with his grandfather.