Page 63 of Isaac

"How'd you find this place?" I glance around the snug space, noting the generations of family photos crowding the walls, the worn but clean counter that's seen more years than either of us.

Isaac is quiet for a long moment, perhaps even too long for someone to provide an answer to a simple question.

Lastly, he speaks with a shrug. "Accident." He spears a chunk of avocado. "Took a wrong turn one night, ended up here." Pause. "Best wrong turn of my life."

The door to the back of the restaurant swings open, and a Hispanic woman weaves her way between the tables toward us. She’s in her mid-fifties, small and with a huge smile. There's a history in her steps, a story in every line etched onto her face. She smiles at Isaac when she’s next to our table and I can see the genuine affection in her eyes.

"How’s the food, mijo?" she asks Isaac, her voice soft, laced with a thick accent, carrying the strength of someone who's endured.

"Delicious as always, Señora Vargas," Isaac replies, the corners of his mouth lifting in a rare unguarded smile. "If you were a few years younger, I’d steal you from your husband and marry you for your food alone."

"Gracias, mijo." She pats his shoulder, turning her smile to me. "And you, young man?"

"Best Mexican food I've had in a long time," I tell her, and it's no lie. This is not one of those Mexican food places for Americans. This is deeply authentic. The flavors are a revelation.

Senora Vargas beams, pride lighting up her wrinkled face. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Everything okay here?" Isaac asks, his gaze communicating something beyond those words when he looks at the woman. The mood suddenly shifts. Becomes serious. Watching them, I catch a glimpse of something beneath Isaac's surface—something that doesn't square with the hard edges and cold decisions I know him for. It's a brief flicker, a spark before being snuffed out by the ever-present weight of his world.

The woman glances at me first before answering his question but he just offers a slight tip of the chin.

"Everything okay, mijo," she whispers finally. "Thank you."

"Good."

The mood changes again when Señora Vargas says in a lighter tone, "You boys enjoy, eh? If you need anything, just let me or Rodrigo know."

We both nod and continue eating as she shuffles back to her domain behind the counter.

"She and her husband own this place," Isaac explains when we’re alone.

"It wasn’t really an accident, was it?" I venture carefully.

"It was," Isaac insists. "But what happened after wasn’t."

I take a wild guess. "Some bozos were pulling their strings, bothering the couple?"

"Yep. But we took care of it."

"I take it those guys don’t come here anymore?"

"Something like that," Isaac murmurs, his focus on the remnants of salsa on his plate. "People like them shouldn't have to deal with that kind of bullshit." He looks up at me. "Do you know why people from the south of the border come to this country? They come because their own government doesn’t give a shit about them. They get slaughtered in the crossfire between the cartels. They are here to make a life for themselves and to work."

I nod, absorbing this sliver of information, this unexpected shade of gray amid the black and white of my mission. It's a complication, a wrinkle in the fabric of what I thought I knew about Isaac Thoreau. I push the thought aside, concentrating on the meal, but it clings stubbornly, demanding attention I can't afford to give.

For a while, we are simply surrounded by the clink of forks against plates, punctuated by the sizzle from the kitchen.

"Didn't take you for the neighborhood watch type," I say cautiously, hoping Isaac is in the mood to actually tell me something useful, something I could take to Nicole. So far, he has given me a new car and treated me to a meal today. I also learned that he understands the struggles of small immigrant-owned businesses.

"Those people, they work hard," he replies. "They make food with their own hands, pour their soul into every dish." His voice is soft, almost reverent. "They don't need some thugs breathing down their neck for protection money. My guys can do that for free."

My chuckle is a defense mechanism, a way to deflect the dissonance stirring within me. "Robin Hood style, huh?"

"Life's too short to be one-dimensional," he says, and for a moment, his gaze meets mine, an unguarded spark before the armor slides back into place.

I'm wading through murky waters here, senses straining to find footing where none exists. Isaac Thoreau, the man who commands respect through whispers and gunfire, also stands as a guardian to those in need.

"Guess we all play hero in someone's story," I mutter.

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