I could still see Benny sweating in that ridiculous oiled trench coat. The eyeholes on the belt, the huge flaps of the collar. He wore that coat for years. Even in the heat of that dappled, late-summer day, he seemed to be preparing himself for the worst.

Upstairs, the door opened and Minh called down to see if I needed anything, and I told her no. She closed the door and a few minutes later I heard a pot filling with water and the chopping of something on the countertop. Soon I could smell frying garlic.

I refilled my glass and stared at the bottles in back of the bar. I was a pretty lucky guy, I realized. My life was holding steady so far. I had a good woman, a solid roof over my head. Minh might not understand where I was coming from all the time, but then I didn’t understand her all the time either. I figured we weren’t too different from anyone else in that regard.

I heard her walking around in the kitchen and I knew she’d be happy enough if I came up and told her what was on my mind. I stayed put though. I had plenty of stories about Benny I could share, but I didn’t really see the point. Why bother? Minh had never lived in our neighborhood after all. She’d never seen the shed behind Benny’s house or slept on the thin carpet in his parents’ den. The memories I had wouldn’t mean anything to her, no matter how long I talked or how many old snapshots I pulled out. Those days were gone. They’d been gone a long time already. It was too late for Minh to understand what Benny had meant to me. It was too late for her to understand that we might as well have been brothers.

The Suckling Pig

THE SUCKLING PIG

ON HIS FIRST pass by the labor corner, Tom Chen was just browsing. It was Thursday afternoon and the half-block between Burnside and Ankeny was crowded, as usual, with Latino men in diverse poses of waiting. There were men half asleep, slouched against the bowed cyclone fence, and men in pairs, drinking from wrinkled brown paper bags. There were men leaning on the retaining wall of the Plaid Pantry parking lot, scanning the traffic for potential jobs, or cops. A few feet away, a man in a grubby Raiders warm-up jacket stood alone, eating a hamburger.

Tom turned and circled the block, and once again the group of men swung into view. On this pass some of them noticed Tom’s car, a white, aging Porsche, and gamely climbed to their feet, waving their hands. “Hey! Hey!” they called, coming to the edge of the sidewalk. “What you need? Over here.” Tom pulled over and a small crowd mobbed the car.