He laughed. “Not exactly. But we do like to show off our money.”
“Classy.”
“What can I say. I’m a class act.” He crossed his arms. “You ready?”
“I’m ready.”
“Come on.”
I followed him through my apartment and out the front door. We headed downstairs. I noticed that he was looking around as we went, almost like he was paranoid.
We went out front and got into his black muscle car. He turned the engine on, letting it roar to life.
“Where are you taking me so early in the day?” I asked him.
“You’ll see.”
I sighed. “No. Come on, don’t be vague with me, not right now.”
He laughed. “You like a little mystery.”
“I think I’d rather know.”
“How about you sit back and imagine my hands between your legs. Let me worry about where we’re going.”
“I’m not worried, and I’m not picturing anything.”
He pulled out into traffic, grinning, and I wanted to slap that smile off his face, or maybe take advantage of his offer. I felt crazy riding along with him like this, but I also felt safe.
We drove through downtown and headed toward the western part of the city.
“So, how did you end up in the mob?” I asked him.
“Boring story. I was a poor kid growing up. Dad was a piece-of-shit alcoholic. Mom was a meth addict. He died in a car crash; she died of cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be. I’m better off without them. But I found the mob to fill the void. Helps that I like the work.”
“So you enjoy being a criminal.”
“Something like that.” He glanced at me. “I enjoy being my own man.”
“I can appreciate that.”
“Maybe what I do is illegal, but I make my own fucking choices.”
“You have a boss, though.”
“For now.”
We turned into a neighborhood I’d never been in before. It was a working class place, a pretty typical Chicago neighborhood. He pulled the car over at the end of the block.
“This is my home,” he said.
“You grew up here?”
“I did. Come on.”
We got out of the car and headed around the corner. Ahead, there was a silver steel food cart, the kind of place that had been in the city forever. He stopped outside of it and got in line.
“You took me all the way out here for a food cart?” I asked him.
“Not just any cart,” he said. “This is the best breakfast in the city.” The line moved quickly, and as soon as we got to the front of the line, the guy working the cart laughed.
“Rafa!” he said. “You look good! Been too long.”
“Hey, Roger,” he said. “You still make the best fucking food in the neighborhood?”
“Best in the whole fucking city, and you know it. Who’s the pretty girl?”
“Cassidy, this is Roger.”
“Hi, Roger.”
“Well hello there, Miss Cassidy.”
“Roger, two of my usual.”
“Coming right up.”
I smiled at Rafa and he grinned at me. Roger was an older man, maybe in his mid-fifties. He was graying and heavyset, and probably had been in that same cart in that same spot for twenty years. He clearly knew Rafa, at least.
Soon we had two white Styrofoam containers of food and two small cups of coffee. Rafa paid the man and then we walked back toward his car.
“Come on. We’ll eat over here.” We went past the car and around the corner, back toward a park.
We staked out a spot on a bench and sat down. I opened up my box and looked down at three delicious pancakes.
Rafa was already digging into his. I couldn’t help but laugh.
“Pancakes?”
“Hell yeah,” he said.
“You don’t strike me as a pancake man.”
“Guess not.” He chewed and swallowed. “I used to eat here all the time growing up. It’s been awhile.”
“Why did you bring me here?”
“I don’t know, honestly.”
“You said you wanted to talk.”
“I do. You’re not going to like it.”
I felt a tinge of fear. “Are they coming for me?”
“No,” he said. “I stopped them. But you won’t like how.”
“Rafa, tell me.”
“Eat first.”
“No. You have to tell me. This is my life.”
“Take a bite. Then I’ll talk.”
I sighed and looked at the pancakes. They did smell absolutely delicious. A little pad of butter was slowly melting in the center. I poured a little bit of syrup from a small packet and took a bite.
They were delicious, sweet and savory and fluffy. The perfect pancakes.