Page 473 of Devil’s Disciples

“Do you ever talk to her?”

“I haven’t in quite a while.”

“Did your mother work?”

“No.”

“Was she at home?”

“She was. Anita lived with us not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. She cleaned, cooked, and kept the laundry done, which left my mother available to spend all her time with us. She helped us with our studies and took us to the beach when we were young. We played games and did crafts at home. It seemed all my father did was work.”

“What was your father’s profession?”

“He was an architect.”

“Was? Is he still alive?”

“He is, but he’s an illegal. There’s no work for him here.”

“I just noticed your eyes aren’t brown. So, are you…” I hesitated, not wanting to call her a Mexican, but not sure if calling her Hispanic was appropriate, either.

“My family is from Spain.” She smiled, as if proud of the claim. “My mother’s hair is gray now, but when she was young, it was blonde.”

“At some point you moved to Mexico?”

“My father’s grandparents and my mother’s grandparents both did. When they were kids, in the 1940’s. There were thousands of Spaniards that moved to Mexico just before World War II. My parents were born in Mexico. So, they’re both Mexican citizens of Spanish heritage.”

“Can Spanish citizen’s move here?”

“We’re not Spanish citizens,” she said, her tone almost bitter. “We’re Mexican citizens. Don’t get me started, I’ll end up crying.”

“I’m guessing if you lived at a house that overlooked the beach and had a swimming pool. your father must have done well with architecture. What’s he doing now?”

“We were very fortunate. He did extremely well with his job. He’s retired now. He doesn’t want to risk being caught and shipped back to Mexico, so he doesn’t work. He’s retirement age, anyway.”

“Do your parents speak English?”

“They do, just as well as I do. My father speaks English, Portuguese, and Spanish. My mother speaks broken Italian, Spanish, and English.”

“Brothers or sisters?”

“One brother.” She smiled. “Older by a year. What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Where are you from?”

“Texas. My father’s been a Senator for thirty years, give or take. My mother doesn’t work. No brothers, no sisters.”

“What brought your family to California?”

“My parents are in Texas. I came here to maintain my sanity after ten years of being at war. Do you remember the guy that was in here with me that had the tattoos on his neck?’

“Crip?”

“Jesus,” I gasped. “You remember his name?”

She looked at me like I was an idiot. “Should I be surprised that you remembered mine?”