Taco Ballz Deep- Chapter Six: Them's Ballz be Crispy

Miro ran into the burning building.

Una couldn't stop him.

One second, they'd been standing together in the parking lot staring at flames pouring from the Taco Ballz kitchen.

The next, he was gone.

"Miro!"

He disappeared through the back door.

"Miro!"

Nothing.

Una stood helplessly in the parking lot, her heart pounding.

Smoke rolled from the roof. Flames flashed behind the kitchen windows, turning the glass orange. Something inside crashed loudly enough to make Una jump.

"Miro!"

This was insane.

What the hell could be inside Taco Ballz worth dying for?

The fryer?

The sour-cream injector?

If that man burned to death trying to save a margarita-sour-cream syringe, Una was going to resurrect him just so she could kill him herself.

"Miro, get the hell out of there!"

No answer.

He'd been inside too long.

Or maybe he'd only been inside thirty seconds.

Una couldn't tell anymore.

Then she heard voices.

She turned.

Two men were crouched beside the dumpster.

Una recognized them immediately.

The lovers.

They were wearing pants now, which under normal circumstances would have been the most encouraging development of the evening.

They also looked terrified.

Una marched toward them.

"What happened?"

Neither answered.

"What happened?"

The taller man pointed toward Taco Ballz.

"We might've gone inside."

Una stared.

"What?"

"We were hungry."

"So?"

"And the restaurant was closed."

Una waited.

"We pushed open the drive-thru window."

Her mouth fell open.

"You broke into Taco Ballz?"

"We didn't break anything."

"You climbed through a window!"

"It was already open."

"That is still breaking in!"

His companion interrupted.

"We were only making dinner."

Una looked toward the burning restaurant.

"You were cooking?"

"We know how."

"Apparently not!"

"There was a little fire."

Una pointed toward the inferno.

"That is your little fire?"

"It wasn't that big at first."

"What happened?"

The two men exchanged guilty looks.

"Grease fire."

Una's stomach dropped.

"What did you do?"

"We put it out."

"With what?"

Silence.

Una already knew.

"No."

"Water."

"Oh my God."

"It seemed logical at the time."

"YOU PUT WATER ON A GREASE FIRE?"

"It got bigger."

"I CAN SEE THAT!"

A burst of flame erupted from somewhere near the kitchen.

Una spun around.

"Miro!"

She started toward the building.

The door suddenly opened.

Miro emerged through a cloud of smoke.

Una's knees nearly gave out.

"Miro!"

He staggered several steps away from the building, coughing.

His shirt was smeared with soot. His hair was disheveled. His face was blackened along one cheek.

But he was standing.

He was alive.

And cradled against his chest was a cardboard box.

Una ran to him.

"What the hell is wrong with you?"

She threw her arms around him.

Miro nearly dropped the box.

"Easy."

"You ran into a burning building!"

"I noticed."

"You could've died!"

"I'm fine."

"You are not fine!"

She pulled back and grabbed his face, checking him as though she possessed any medical expertise whatsoever.

Miro blinked at her.

"Una."

"What?"

"You're touching my face."

"I'M CHECKING FOR BURNS."

"I like it."

She released him immediately.

Even covered in soot and standing in front of a burning restaurant, the bastard managed to smile.

Una looked at the box.

"What was so important?"

Miro glanced down.

"The posters."

"The posters?"

"The old ones from Grandpa's office."

Una remembered the collection he'd shown her that morning.

HOT JAZZ. HOT BALLZ.

COME FOR THE GIRLS. STAY FOR THE BALLZ.

"Miro, you could've died saving advertisements for fried meat."

His expression changed.

Just slightly.

"They're all I could get."

That stopped her.

Miro looked back at the restaurant.

The grin was gone.

"I couldn't save anything else."

Una's anger disappeared.

She moved closer.

"Miro..."

Sirens sounded in the distance.

Finally.

Someone at the Tilted Beaver must have called.

Una turned toward the dumpster lovers.

"You two need to go."

They looked at each other.

"Go," she repeated. "Before the police get here."

The taller man took his partner's hands.

"No."

Una blinked.

"What?"

"We're staying."

"Why?"

He suddenly dropped to one knee.

Una stared.

His partner gasped.

"Oh my God."

Miro looked over.

"What the hell is happening?"

The kneeling man took both of his lover's hands.

"Babe."

"Oh my God!"

"Babe, I never want to pay rent again."

Una's eyebrows rose.

"Or see you have to scavenge for food."

His partner was already crying.

"That's so sweet!"

"So let's tell them we did it on purpose."

Una's mouth fell open.

Miro whispered, "Jesus Christ."

The proposal continued.

"Then they'll put us somewhere we can be together for years."

"That's the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me!"

"Will you do it with me, Honey Bunch?"

"Anywhere!"

They kissed passionately.

Una looked at Miro.

Miro looked at Una.

Behind them, Taco Ballz burned.

Sirens screamed.

The newly engaged couple embraced beside the dumpster where they'd spent most of the day having sex.

Miro nodded slowly.

"Beautiful."

Una started laughing.

She couldn't help it.

After everything that had happened that day, this was apparently where reality had decided to draw absolutely no line whatsoever.

The police arrived first.

Firefighters followed.

Within minutes, hoses snaked across the parking lot, smoke billowed over the street, and the Tilted Beaver had emptied again as dancers and customers gathered outside to watch Taco Ballz meet its final end.

Fortunately, the club's security cameras showed Una and Miro entering well before the fire began.

The dumpster couple enthusiastically confessed.

Repeatedly.

They seemed almost disappointed that no one was immediately handcuffing them together.

Miro called his uncle.

Una stayed close enough to hear his side.

"Yeah."

Pause.

"No, I'm fine."

Another pause.

"Whole thing."

He looked toward the building.

"Yeah. Pretty much."

Then Miro listened.

His shoulders relaxed.

"Okay."

When he hung up, Una approached.

"Your uncle?"

"Yeah."

"Is he furious?"

"Not really. Building's insured."

"That's it?"

"That's Uncle Owen."

The firefighters continued working.

Eventually, the flames disappeared.

What remained of Taco Ballz was black, soaked, and smoking.

The restaurant had survived jazz, topless dancing, adult murder mysteries, open-mic nights, speed dating, a mouse in a milk carton, a grease-wrestling riot, and nearly sixty years of serving meatballs injected with margarita sour cream.

It had finally been defeated by two hungry people who didn't understand grease fires.

Police took the couple away together.

Neither seemed particularly upset.

They sat pressed against each other in the back of the cruiser, gazing lovingly into one another's eyes.

Una watched them go.

"Looks like they got their happily ever after."

Miro carried his smoke-stained box toward his Honda.

"Too bad their home burned down."

Una winced.

She'd forgotten, momentarily, that this wasn't just another ridiculous story to him.

This had been his place.

His grandfather's place.

The business he'd thought would someday become his.

And now it was gone.

She followed him.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Wolfgang."

Miro put the box carefully into his trunk.

"What are you going to do now?"

He shut it.

"Go home."

Una waited.

"Have a cold beer."

"Okay."

"Take a long, hot shower."

Una's brain immediately produced an image.

An extremely detailed image.

A wet Miro Wolfgang.

No shirt.

No soot.

Water running—

Stop.

Una swallowed.

"Sounds...good."

Miro looked at her.

For one glorious second, Una thought he might ask her to come with him.

Instead, he opened his car door.

"Good working with you, Assistant Manager."

Her heart sank.

"Good working with you too."

He got in.

Una wanted to say something.

Can I see you again?

Can I have your number?

Would you like company for that shower?

Something.

Anything.

Instead, she stood there like an idiot.

Miro waved.

Una waved back.

Then he drove away.

"Shit."

She watched his taillights disappear.

She hadn't even gotten his number.

The next morning, Una returned to Delaney's Deli.

Her replacement had already been hired.

Apparently, dishwasher vacancies did not remain open indefinitely while former employees pursued twelve-hour careers in management.

She went home.

Filled out applications.

Sent résumés.

Messaged friends.

Posted in three local job groups.

Nothing.

By Wednesday, desperation overcame dignity.

Una called the Tilted Beaver.

Eddy answered.

"Beaver."

"Hi, Eddy."

"Who is this?"

"Una."

Pause.

"Taco Ballz Una?"

She wasn't sure how she felt about that becoming her identity.

"Yes."

"What's up?"

"Do you need a bartender?"

Another pause.

"You ever bartended?"

"No."

"Perfect."

And that was that.

Eddy told her any friend of Miro's was welcome and gave her a few afternoon shifts starting Friday.

It wasn't glamorous.

It wasn't management.

But it was money.

And Una discovered she liked the Tilted Beaver.

She liked Purty.

She liked Odetta.

She liked Eddy.

She even liked Jack, once she realized his entire personality consisted of saying no to things.

There was only one problem.

She missed Miro.

Badly.

She missed those impossible blue eyes.

She missed his laugh.

His confidence.

His stupid grin.

She missed the way he said Assistant Manager as though it were both a job title and a private joke between them.

She even missed watching him make Taco Ballz.

That was when Una realized the situation was serious.

No woman missed Taco Ballz unless powerful emotions were involved.

Pete became a regular at the Tilted Beaver.

Not for missionary purposes.

Odetta.

Their romance progressed with terrifying efficiency.

Apparently, discovering that your childhood crush had become an exotic dancer while sitting beneath her during a lap dance was enough to clarify a man's priorities.

Within weeks, they were engaged.

Odetta started picking up extra shifts to pay for the wedding.

Pete's missionary friends began coming to the Tilted Beaver regularly to support the couple.

Their initial horror gradually faded.

Chris eventually developed the ability to look directly at a dancer's face while speaking.

Everyone considered this personal growth.

Within six weeks, Pete and Odetta had raised enough money for an elaborate royal-themed wedding and a honeymoon in Bali.

Una was an usher.

She spent the entire ceremony pretending she wasn't checking the entrance for Miro.

He never came.

"Was Miro invited?" she finally asked Chris.

"Yeah."

Her heart sank.

"Oh."

"He said he couldn't make it."

"Why?"

"Some project."

"What project?"

Chris shrugged.

"Wouldn't say. Apparently it's hush-hush."

Una smiled.

Then excused herself.

She told herself it didn't matter.

She and Miro had known each other for one day.

One.

Admittedly, it had been an unusually eventful day.

But still.

Maybe she'd imagined the chemistry.

Maybe Miro flirted with everybody.

He certainly hadn't asked for her number.

For all Una knew, he had a girlfriend.

A beautiful girlfriend.

Probably tall.

Probably blond.

Probably capable of eating spicy chicken wings without complaining.

Una hated this imaginary woman.

Later that week, fall finally announced itself.

The morning air had a slight chill.

Una woke in a strangely good mood.

Her hair cooperated.

Her clothes hugged her in all the right places.

Every traffic light turned green.

Una noticed this.

"No."

She pointed suspiciously at the universe through her windshield.

"We are not doing this again."

The universe offered no explanation.

She arrived at the Tilted Beaver before opening and began taking inventory behind the bar.

Vodka.

Rum.

Tequila.

Whiskey.

Three bottles of something fluorescent green that Una suspected could remove paint.

She was bent over beneath the counter when the front door opened.

"We're not open yet."

No answer.

Una stood.

And forgot how to breathe.

Miro Wolfgang walked toward the bar.

Six weeks hadn't made him any less attractive.

If anything, absence had been extremely generous to him.

His dirty-blond curls were freshly cut. His broad shoulders filled out a dark T-shirt in a way Una considered almost disrespectful. And those blue eyes—

Those goddamn blue eyes.

They found hers immediately.

Una's stomach dropped.

Then floated.

Then apparently abandoned basic anatomy altogether.

Miro smiled.

Not the big grin.

The smaller one.

The dangerous one.

He walked directly toward her.

Of course he did.

A man built like Miro Wolfgang didn't simply walk across a room. He approached it like the room had been waiting all morning for him to arrive.

Una remained perfectly still behind the bar.

She would not embarrass herself.

She would not squeal.

She would not climb over the counter.

She would absolutely not ask whether he'd taken that long hot shower alone.

Miro sat on the stool directly in front of her.

"Hey."

That was it.

Six weeks.

One word.

Hey.

Una's knees nearly betrayed her anyway.

She straightened.

Smoothed her shirt.

And summoned every ounce of dignity she possessed.

"Mr. Wolfgang."

His smile widened.

Una leaned casually against the bar.

At least, she hoped it looked casual.

"What can I do for you?"

Miro looked at her for a long moment.

His eyes traveled over her face.

Down.

Back up.

Una felt every inch of it.

Then he leaned toward her across the bar.

"I've got a job for you."

Una's heart skipped.

She lifted an eyebrow.

"Oh?"

"Management."

Now she smiled.

"You're going to have to do better than that. My last management position had terrible job security."

Miro laughed.

God, she'd missed that sound.

"Come outside."

"Why?"

"I want to show you something."

Una studied him.

"Is it on fire?"

"Not currently."

"Are there naked people behind it?"

"Not that I'm aware of."

"Confederates?"

"No."

"Missionaries?"

"No."

"Grease wrestling?"

"Una."

She grinned.

Miro stood and held out his hand.

"Come on, Assistant Manager."

There it was.

Una looked at his hand.

Then at him.

Six weeks disappeared.

She put her hand in his.

"Lead the way, Boss."