The Son of Every Man

Chapter 3.5

Monday, June 28th, 1999

According to every crime novel Gabe had ever read, alcohol was supposed to make difficult conversations easier. Raffish protagonists were always tossing one back before spitting out lines like, "Can I speak candidly?" or, "Let me level with you." He was banking on it now, as an unfamiliar warmth had begun spreading from the center his chest, and his small talk with Miguel, seated across from him in a dim booth at the back of Pub Odessa, grew larger by the minute. This, after Miguel had greeted their server by her first name—she wore no name tag—and then asked, "What was it you wanted, Gabe? A gin and tonic?" Gabe had faltered for an instant before nodding his head. Self-assured, Miguel had turned back to her: "Doubles. For both of us."

Gabe had at first been offended, then grateful, and now, as their conversation approached a new level of comfort, looked down into his drink and muttered, "I'm sorry I was cold to you in the car."

"I hadn't noticed," Miguel told him. "Anyway, I don't actually care where you come from." He threw a despondent look down at his glass. "I mean, I don't even care where I come from, so why would I give a shit about anyone else?"

"It's just that I don't come from anywhere. I was born in the city—in the south valley. We moved to a nicer place in the markets when I was too young to remember—"

"I totally get it," Miguel interrupted, putting up a hand. "You're not from anywhere."

Gabe hadn't said that. He became irritated again. He couldn't help it. He looked around, noticed tarnish gathering on the brass bars dividing the booths, dust on the hunter-green metal lampshades hanging low over each table. "Do you come here a lot?"

"All the time. I know the owner." Miguel had settled in, laying a thick, strong arm across the top of the booth, as if it made a habit of creeping around the shoulders of others. How many shoulders, Gabe didn't care to guess.

"So you were right before, in the car. I'm mixed."

Miguel shrugged. "Thought you might be."

"My father was from Mexico."

"Thought he might be."

Gabe took yet another gulp of his drink; another surge of warmth spread through his chest. "I'm on strict orders from Eddie to share something with you tonight."

"What do you have for me?"

Gabe's tone became careful, as if testing the legitimacy of their peculiar surroundings—down to the black-and-white checkered floor itself, which felt as if it could drop out from under them at any second. "I am supposed to tell you my full name, which is Gabe Marcos Villanueva."

For a short time, Miguel continued nodding along as if Gabe had told him more sun was forecast next week. But then he stopped moving, even appeared to stop breathing, his face frozen in stunned recognition. "You wouldn't tell me that for any reason other than—you know, other than what it seems like, right?"

"No, Miguel. It's what you're thinking."

"You look like him," he blurted out. "You look exactly like him."

"Most people would disagree. It's my mother's genes. I'm practically—"

"They're all blind. Fuck, I'm blind, too. How could I have missed it?"

"You're weren't supposed to know," insisted Gabe. "You know how my father liked to run things."

Miguel eyes were wide. "My God. Big Boss had a son."

"Yes, Miguel."

Miguel had long since drawn his arm from its splayed perch atop the maroon vinyl. His entire demeanor had shifted. "I feel like I've travelled back in time or something. It's like he's almost—wait. Let me hear your voice again."