Taco Ballz Deep- Chapter Three: Lustin' Lunchin'

Una worked the register while Miro manned the fryer.

By ten fifty-five, she had begun to suspect that Miro's prediction of a six-person lunch rush might have been wildly optimistic.

Then five Confederate soldiers walked through the front door.

Una stared.

The soldiers stared back.

One had a musket resting against his shoulder. Another had a saber hanging from his belt. All five were dressed in various shades of gray, with enough brass buttons, leather straps, hats, and facial hair to suggest that they had either wandered in from a Civil War reenactment or Taco Ballz was about to experience the strangest robbery in American history.

The oldest-looking man approached the counter.

"We'll take ten double orders of your Taco Ballz Packs."

Una blinked.

"Ten?"

"Ten."

"Double?"

"That's right."

She looked toward the kitchen.

"Miro?"

"Yeah?"

"We've got an order for twenty Taco Ballz Packs."

There was a pause.

Then his head appeared around the corner.

He saw the uniforms.

"Oh."

He disappeared again.

"Got it."

Apparently, Confederate soldiers were not unusual enough to warrant further discussion.

Una began punching the order into the register.

She had lived in town her entire life and had never once encountered Civil War reenactors. Then again, she'd rarely had reason to come to this side of town. The only times she passed through were on the way to the airport, usually before sunrise or after dark.

Until this morning, she'd never even noticed that Taco Ballz shared a parking lot with a strip club called the Tilted Beaver.

The name had been bothering her since nine fifteen.

"Let's get to it, girlie," the man with the musket said. "We've gotta be somewhere."

Una's smile tightened.

"I'm going as fast as the register allows, General."

The man looked at her.

Una looked at him.

Apparently deciding this was an acceptable answer, he nodded.

She handed the men five cups.

"Drinks are self-serve."

The soldier pulled out a hundred-dollar bill.

Not a modern hundred-dollar bill, either. This thing looked like it had personally survived the Reagan administration.

Una held it up to the light.

The soldier frowned.

"It's real."

"I'm sure it is."

She uncapped the counterfeit marker.

"You don't trust me?"

"I met you thirty seconds ago, and you're carrying a musket."

The man considered that.

"Fair enough."

The marker didn't turn black.

Una made change.

Then she hurried into the kitchen to help Miro tackle an order large enough to wipe out a significant portion of Taco Ballz's remaining inventory.

"Are they always like this?" she asked.

Miro dropped another batch into the fryer.

"Who?"

"The Confederate army in the dining room."

"Oh. Them."

"Oh, them?"

"You'll see."

Una had mastered the basic construction of a Taco Ball by now, although she still found the sour-cream injection disturbing on a spiritual level.

She reached across Miro for the injector at the same moment he reached for it.

Their hands collided.

"Sorry."

"You're good."

Neither moved immediately.

Una looked down at their hands.

Then up at him.

Miro was already looking at her.

There was that expression again.

Not quite a smile.

Not quite innocent.

Her stomach did something profoundly unprofessional.

Miro's fingers shifted beneath hers.

"Need that," he said.

Una snatched her hand away.

"Obviously."

His mouth twitched.

She hated his mouth.

Specifically, she hated how frequently she looked at it.

"Go entertain your army," she said. "I've got this."

"You sure?"

"I have successfully made at least fourteen balls."

Miro leaned closer.

"That's a lot of balls for your first morning."

Una stared at him.

He maintained a perfectly straight face.

"You did that on purpose."

"Did what?"

"Get out."

Miro laughed and headed into the dining room.

Una watched him go.

His jeans fit him extremely well.

She immediately returned her attention to the fryer.

Management.

She was management.

"I see it's that time of year again."

Miro shook hands with the men as though five armed nineteenth-century soldiers eating fried meat at eleven in the morning were perfectly ordinary.

The one with the extra brass on his uniform clapped him on the shoulder.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world. How's your uncle holding up? He always talked about selling, but I never thought he'd actually do it."

"He would've kept the place open forever," Miro said. "But you know Uncle Owen. He's on to bigger and better things."

The table erupted.

One of the men nearly choked on his soda.

"So he is marrying old Hairy Sherry after all?" another asked.

That somehow made things worse.

The five men howled.

One slapped the table. Another leaned against his friend for support. The man with the saber had tears streaming down his face.

Una had absolutely no idea who Hairy Sherry was.

She also had no intention of asking.

Some knowledge was dangerous.

She finished arranging the enormous order across several trays and carried them into the dining room.

Miro spotted her.

"There she is. Gentlemen, this is my assistant manager, Una Gold."

Something about hearing him call her my assistant manager did another stupid thing to her stomach.

"Una, this is Bill, Joe, Lou, Duke, and Gene."

Una smiled.

"Nice to meet you."

Five men tipped their hats at her.

Miro gestured toward their uniforms.

"They reenact the Battle of Gin Berry Field every year. Park's a few blocks from here."

Una set down the trays.

"The Battle of what?"

"Gin Berry Field."

She searched her memory.

Nothing.

"I've never heard of it."

"You wouldn't have."

"Why?"

"It never happened."

Una turned slowly toward him.

"What?"

"It's a reimagining."

"Of a battle?"

"Of history."

Lou leaned forward.

"It would've happened if Custer had lived."

Una's historical knowledge wasn't extensive, but she was reasonably certain George Custer had, in fact, lived through the Civil War.

"Okay."

"This whole town would've been called Gin Berry," Lou continued, "if the war had gone differently."

Una looked at Miro.

Miro looked at Una.

His face was completely neutral.

Almost.

There was a tiny betrayal at the corner of his mouth.

Una understood.

Do not engage.

"Oh," she said pleasantly.

"Exactly," Miro replied.

Una retreated to the kitchen.

She had been assistant manager for less than three hours and had already learned several important leadership skills.

One of them was knowing when to walk away.

The reenactors stayed another twenty minutes.

From the kitchen, Una could hear Miro cautioning them against visiting the Tilted Beaver after the reenactment.

"My uncle learned that lesson the hard way," he said.

This prompted another explosion of laughter.

"No need to worry about me," Bill announced. "I've already got enough heifers on my ranch!"

The men laughed so violently that Una briefly considered performing the Heimlich maneuver preemptively.

Eventually, the Confederate army departed.

Silence returned.

Miro connected his phone to the old speakers sitting on top of the beverage cooler. A Journey song filled the restaurant.

Una wiped the counter.

She tried to resist.

She really did.

She lasted approximately twelve seconds.

"Okay."

Miro looked over.

"What?"

"I have to know."

"Know what?"

Una pointed through the window.

"The Tilted Beaver."

He followed her finger.

"What about it?"

"Why is it called that?"

Miro smiled.

"Why do you think?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

"Take a good look at the building."

Una did.

It was a low, windowless structure painted an unfortunate shade of brown.

Then she noticed it.

The entire building leaned slightly to the left.

Her mouth fell open.

"No."

"Yep."

"That's the tilted part?"

"Bad foundation."

Una laughed.

"You're kidding."

"Eddy's been meaning to fix it for about fifteen years."

"How is that building still standing?"

"Car jacks."

Una turned back toward him.

"What?"

"Car jacks."

"You mean they're repairing it with car jacks."

"No. They're holding it up with car jacks."

Una stared across the parking lot again.

"You cannot hold up a strip club with car jacks."

"You can if you're Eddy."

"How has a building inspector not condemned it?"

Miro shrugged.

"Nobody asks questions on this side of town."

Una started laughing.

The more she learned about the neighborhood, the more Taco Ballz seemed like one component of a much larger ecosystem of terrible decisions.

She was beginning to like it.

Chris and Pete returned shortly before noon.

Una recognized their bicycles through the window.

"Oh no."

Miro glanced over.

"What?"

"Neighborhood surveillance."

He smiled.

"You're learning."

The missionaries entered.

Pete immediately disappeared into the men's room while Chris approached the counter.

"Could we have two waters?"

"Of course."

Una handed him two cups.

Chris looked her over for a second, apparently still uncertain what she was doing there.

Then he looked past her.

"Was that Duke and the gang here earlier?"

Miro was standing near the drive-thru, sorting through a stack of old receipts.

"Yep."

"Reenactment today?"

"Sure is. You guys should head over to the park. Bet you'll meet a lot of interested folks."

Una turned her face away so Chris wouldn't see her smile.

She was beginning to understand Miro's sense of humor.

Pete emerged from the restroom.

"I thought you called the police about those two hobos earlier."

Una's smile vanished.

Pete continued.

"They're back at it again behind the dumpster."

Una looked at Miro.

Miro looked at Pete.

"They are?"

"Yes."

"Wow."

"You said you'd call."

"I did."

Una slowly turned toward him.

Liar.

Miro didn't even blink.

"They must've come back."

Pete seemed satisfied with this explanation.

"I'll call again," Miro promised.

The missionaries headed for the door.

Una gave them a small wave.

"Bye."

Neither noticed.

The door closed.

Una waited until they were safely outside.

Then she turned.

"You didn't call anybody."

Miro went back to his receipts.

"Nope."

"They didn't come back."

"Nope."

Una glanced toward the rear wall.

"Which means they've been back there since—"

"Apparently."

"Miro, that was hours ago."

"I know."

"Are they even alive?"

"Presumably."

"How do you know?"

"I don't."

Una stared at him.

He finally looked up.

"What?"

"You don't find this concerning?"

"I find it impressive."

"Miro."

"Una."

"Shouldn't we at least check?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Because there are very few situations in life improved by walking behind a dumpster to investigate two naked strangers."

Una couldn't argue with that.

"But what if they're still doing it?"

Miro set down the receipts.

"Seriously, how long can two hobos have sex?"

"You asked that three hours ago."

"Which means they've got to be almost finished."

"That's what you said three hours ago!"

"I'm playing the odds."

Una folded her arms.

"What if they never stop?"

"They'll have to eventually."

"Why?"

"Dehydration."

Una covered her face.

She was laughing again.

Miro leaned back against the counter, watching her through that infuriating grin.

When Una finally lowered her hands, she caught him staring.

Not at her face.

Lower.

His eyes immediately came back up.

Una's laughter faded.

Interesting.

Very interesting.

She took a slow step toward him.

Miro's grin diminished slightly.

For once, he looked less certain of himself.

Una stopped on the opposite side of the counter.

"You know," she said, "for somebody who's spent all morning wondering how long two people can have sex, you seem awfully invested in the subject."

Miro's eyebrows rose.

"I'm invested in when they'll leave."

"Sure."

"There's a difference."

Una leaned against the counter.

"Is there?"

His eyes met hers.

"Usually."

The kitchen suddenly seemed warmer.

Maybe it was the fryers.

It was definitely the fryers.

Una held his gaze for another second before reaching past him for a cleaning rag.

Her shoulder brushed his chest.

Neither apologized.

She walked away.

Behind her, Miro said, "You're trouble, Una Gold."

She smiled without turning around.

"Good thing I'm only working here one day."

That shut him up.

Una began wiping down a table that was already perfectly clean.

Outside, the afternoon sun beat down on the parking lot. Across the asphalt, the Tilted Beaver continued leaning dangerously to the left. Somewhere a few blocks away, five grown men were preparing to reenact a battle that had never happened.

And behind the Taco Ballz dumpster, two strangers were apparently attempting to set some kind of endurance record.

Una glanced toward Miro.

He was still looking at her.

She smiled.

Maybe thirteen hours wasn't such a long shift after all.