The day he decided to leave his watch in the safe, Leonardo Mendoza felt as if he were shedding a suit of armor that had been squeezing his chest for years.
The tinted glass of his office reflected back a clean, immaculate city, as if Monterrey were made of freshly polished steel; but in the reflection, he no longer wore the navy blue suit that commanded respect, but rather a plain plaid shirt, worn jeans, and unbranded sneakers.
He ran his hand through his hair, took a deep breath, and, for the first time in a long time, walked out the front door without being followed by an assistant with a folder or a stony-faced bodyguard.
He had made a decision that anyone else would have considered eccentric: to enter one of his own restaurants as a stranger, order a single taco, sit wherever he was told, and observe.
He wasn’t driven by morbid curiosity; he was driven by suspicion, that frantic rumor that reached him through suppliers, a cook who had quit, the furtive glance of a cashier during a surprise visit: « Something’s not right at Tradiciones de Monterrey. »
He hailed a taxi on the corner. The driver, a man with a gray mustache, saw him in the rearview mirror and asked with that northern cadence that always sounded like home to Leo:
—Where should I take you, young man?
—To Tradiciones de Monterrey, please.
As the taxi moved forward, the Sierra Madre mountains peeked out from between new buildings. Leo let himself be rocked by the rattling of the cab, like someone traveling on a memory.
He thought of his grandmother, of her voice calling to him from the patio, “Come eat, son, the tortillas are ready!”; he thought of the smell of the meat on his father’s grill. He remembered why he had opened restaurants: to capture that simple miracle and serve it on hot plates.
At what point, though, had the bottom line, the awards, the magazine articles placed him on a pedestal from which he could no longer see people’s faces?
He entered the shop like anyone else: pushing through the glass door, feeling the warm rush of aromas—freshly puffed tortillas, sizzling grilled fat, freshly chopped cilantro—and standing still for a second to let his eyes adjust to the warmer light inside.
Nobody recognized him. Better: that was the point.
The hostess looked him up and down with lightning speed and pointed, with two fingers, to the table by the kitchen door, where the clatter of dishes and the slamming of the door interrupted any conversation.
Leo smiled as if nothing was amiss. He thanked her. He took a seat. On the other side of the room, a family in elegant clothes was escorted to a large table by the window, the kind where it’s a pleasure to take pictures.
The manager, a man in a tailored shirt with a picture-perfect smile—Roberto Herrera, according to his name tag—went out of his way to help them. When he passed by Leo, he didn’t even look at him.
« If only I didn’t matter, » he thought, and it hurt. Not because of his ego, but because that gesture contradicted everything he had preached: « Here, everyone is family, here, everyone is worth the same. »
The waitress was slow to arrive. When she finally appeared, she did so with a smile that didn’t seem rehearsed but rather genuine, natural, as if it came from her eyes. Light-skinned brunette, low ponytail, quick hands.
« Good afternoon, welcome to Traditions, » he said. « What can I offer you? »
« A carne asada taco, » Leonardo replied. « And a nice cold Coke. »
—Flour or corn?
—Made from corn. Handmade, if possible.
« It’s always possible, » she smiled, as if she had personally chosen that « always. »
Her name was Manuela. Leo knew this because another waiter called her by name from the bar. Before leaving, she put down her glass of water and, with a movement so discreet it would have gone unnoticed by anyone, slipped a folded piece of paper under her napkin.
Leo noticed it out of the corner of his eye and felt, for no reason, a jolt of foreboding.
He didn’t open it right away. He saw the manager pacing like a foreman who thought the place was a corral. He saw a waiter return with bills and Roberto reach in with the nonchalance of someone putting away his own things. He saw a cashier turn her face away as he approached.
« I’m seeing ghosts, » he told himself; but when he lifted the napkin and unfolded the paper, the tight, blue letters took his breath away:“The manager, Roberto, is stealing. He changes prices in the system and keeps the tips. He threatens the employees. I have proof. If I speak out, they’ll hurt my brother, Diego. If you know anyone who can help, please. —M.”
Leo reread it. He felt a dry heat rise up the back of his neck. It wasn’t just fraud against his business; it was the perversion of a place he had wanted to be a refuge.
And it was violence: a threat against a boy he knew nothing about except his name. Diego. The word stuck to the roof of his mouth like a piece of tortilla.
When Manuela returned with the taco, Leo held her gaze. She blinked rapidly, once, as if that fraction of a second could be a complete dialogue. Then she said in a normal voice:
-Anything else?
« Then, » he replied, swallowing hard. « Thank you. »
The first bite had everything they promised: juicy meat, warm corn, freshly squeezed lime. But it tasted like nothing. The bill weighed in his shirt pocket like a wet rock. He observed.
If he’d ever been a good reader of people, he was being put to the test: tense hands when Roberto approached; card tips that vanished; a family arguing quietly over a bill with « three sodas » they swore they hadn’t ordered.
There was a pattern, and patterns, in his experience, always led to the same doors.
He paid in cash. The manager nodded toward the register: “Before serving,” he’d told Manuela, loud enough for two tables to hear. Leo swallowed the humiliation like a shot of tequila: down in one gulp, his face blank. When Manuela brought the change, he whispered:
—I received your message.
She didn’t blink, but her cornea shone as if a grain of dust had just entered it.
—I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir.
—Where can we talk without him seeing us?
There was a brief silence as they wiped the table, and that everyday choreography gave them time to agree in whispers on two words and an hour: “Foundry. Eight.”
Fundidora Park at night, in October, looks like a model: the old chimneys transformed into sculptures, the main fountain casting golden light on the water, the air fresher than during the day.
Leo arrived fifteen minutes early, sat on a bench, and breathed. He promised himself, for the first time, not to deny anything that needed to be said. If he wanted to fix his house, he had to turn on all the lights.
Manuela arrived on time, wearing a pale pink sweater, her hair loose. She walked tensely, with that way of looking around we learn when we feel someone is following us. She sat far away, like someone who hasn’t yet decided if the bench is a bridge or a wall. Leo spoke first:
—I didn’t intend to put you in danger.
She tensed up at the « put on, » that spontaneous informality, and then let her voice come out low and firm, like someone opening a door slowly so that it doesn’t creak.
« Roberto started with falsified accounts. Then he took tips. After that, he brought people in at night. Men who don’t come to eat. They don’t want anyone to ask questions.
I recorded calls. Photographs of receipts. He knew. He told me that if I talked, Diego… » Her voice broke; she composed herself. « My brother is 17. Leukemia. I can’t risk him. »
Leo didn’t take notes. There was no need. Each word found its place in his mind.
He thought about how many times in meetings he had coldly stated « reputational risk » as if reputation were a suit you could change. Here, the risk had a name, a hospital bed, a photo album filled with graduations and birthdays.
« Do you trust me? » he asked.
-I don’t know you.
—Get to know me: I can stop this. Not with announcements. With actions.
She measured him with a long silence.
« If I believe you and you’re not who you say you are… » she stopped. « I’m sorry. I speak as if I owe you something. The only thing I owe you is the truth. »
« And I love you, » Leo said. « Let’s take it one step at a time. Let’s get the evidence. Then we’ll figure out the rest. »
—Roberto is watching my house.
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