Chapter 2: The Regulars
Gus woke at four, the same as every morning, and put his feet on the cold wood floor of the apartment above the cafΓ©. His left knee announced itself the way it always did. He ignored it.
By five he had the griddle going and the stew pot breathing its first steam. By five thirty Rosa Jimenez let herself in through the back door with her apron already tied, because Rosa had worked the Blue Coyote for twenty years and moved through it like a hand through a glove.
"Morning, boss," she said. "You burn anything yet?"
"Give me time."
She sniffed the pot. "Stew smells thin. You skimping on the chile?"
"I am not skimping on the chile."
"You skimp on the chile every October." She reached past him and dropped two more dried chiles into the pot. "There. Now it is stew."
The brass bell over the door rang at six on the dot. It always did. Big Sal came through sideways because that was the only way he fit, six foot four and built like a truck fender.
"Gus," he said. "Rosa."
"Sal." Gus slid a mug across the counter. "Coffee, black, same as ever."
"You ever think about remembering it wrong, just to keep me on my toes?"
"I think about it. Then I remember you tip."
Sal laughed, and the bell rang again, and Mrs. Abernathy came in with her crossword folded under one arm. She was a retired schoolteacher, and she sat in the same booth every morning and completed the puzzle in ink.
"Good morning, Dorothy," Rosa said.
"Rosa. Gus. Salvatore."
Mrs. Abernathy laid the crossword flat and tapped it with her pen. "Gus, what is a five-letter word for a man who burns toast and denies it?"
Gus held up his toast. "Idiot is five letters," he said.
"A man who burns toast," she said, writing, "and I shall not be taking suggestions from the accused."
The door bell rang a third time and the room changed. Sadie Quinn slipped inside, nine years old, her backpack hanging off one shoulder, and she stood by the door like she was not sure the welcome from yesterday had been real.
It had been real. Gus set down his spatula.
"Well," Rosa said, brightening. "Look who it is."
"Morning," Sadie said, small.
"Morning," Gus said. "You eat yet?"
"No, sir."
"Sit." He pointed at the counter stool nearest the kitchen. "Same as yesterday. Stew and toast. Do not argue."
"I was not going to argue," Sadie said, but she climbed onto the stool fast enough that her knees knocked the vinyl.
Mrs. Abernathy folded her crossword and came over. "You are the girl with the bottle caps," she said.
Sadie went red. "Yes, ma'am."
"I like a girl who pays her way." Mrs. Abernathy sat down next to her. "What is your name, dear?"
"Sadie. Sadie Quinn."
"Nice to meet you, Sadie Quinn. I am Dorothy Abernathy, and I taught school for thirty-eight years, which means I know everything. What grade are you?"
"Fourth." Sadie managed a small smile. "My teacher is Ms. Delgado."
"Good woman. Tell her Dorothy says hello." Mrs. Abernathy looked at Gus. "Feed the child, Gus."
Rosa set the bowl down and leaned her elbows on the counter. "So," she said, "you got a stone yesterday. Let me see."
Sadie pulled it from her pocket and set it on the counter like it was fragile. The smooth, thumb-sized turquoise stone caught the window light and threw it back green-blue.
"Pretty," Rosa said. "Where did he get that?"
"That is not his story to tell alone," Gus said. He wiped his hands on his apron. "My wife and I found it. Up in the Superstitions."
Sal turned on his stool. "You hiked the Superstitions? You, with that knee?"
"This knee is new," Gus said. "Twenty-five years ago it was fine. Elena and I went up on Sundays. She liked the high trails. I liked complaining about the high trails."
"That is love," Rosa said. "Complaining and going anyway."
"She found it in a wash. Just sitting there like somebody dropped it on purpose." Gus picked up the stone and turned it in his fingers. "She said it was the color she wanted for the door. The door was gray then. Ugly gray. She carried that stone in her pocket for years. Rubbed it when she was thinking. When she died, I kept it in the register. Twelve years."
Nobody spoke for a moment. Sadie looked at the stone, then at Gus.
"She sounds nice," Sadie said.
"She was the nice one," Gus said. "I am the other one."
"That is not what I hear," Mrs. Abernathy said.
Gus set the stone back in front of Sadie. "Keep eating."
Rosa leaned her elbows on the counter. "You come in here every morning before school, you hear me? Do not be shy. Gus pretends he does not like company, but he has been feeding this town for thirty years."
Sadie laughed, quick and surprised, like she had not planned it. She finished her stew and wiped the bowl clean with her toast.
The next morning she was there before six, peering through the glass. Rosa let her in.
"You are early," Rosa said.
"School starts at eight," Sadie said. "Marcy said if I hurry I can stop by."
Gus cracked two eggs onto the griddle. "Sit down, Sadie."
"Can I have the stew again?"
"You can have whatever is hot." He slid the eggs onto toast. "Rosa, put this girl on the breakfast list."
"What list?" Sadie asked.
"The people who eat here before school. You are number one. Do not let it go to your head."
Mrs. Abernathy opened her crossword. "Gus, I need a seven-letter word for stubborn kindness."
"Rosa," Gus said, and the whole counter laughed, and Sadie Quinn laughed with them, and for the first time since the bottle caps, she looked like a kid who had somewhere to be.