Page 40 of Strike It Witch

Halfway between Ronan’s Pub and Beau’s head shop, sandwiched between a music shop and a jewelry store, was a tiny, no frills, hole-in-the-wall taco place ironically named El Rancho Grande—The Big Ranch. The signage was the name burned into a live-edge wood slab and hung from rusted chains in the single window. A hand-drawn chalkboard menu and religious paintings adorned the walls, and the dining area was barely large enough to accommodate four tables. People tended to take their orders to go.

It was eleven, so the line to the register was only to the door, instead of down the sidewalk and around the corner the way it would be at noon.

The bobcat shifter owners of El Rancho Grande didn’t play games. The menu was straightforward—tacos, beans, and rice. Mexican drinks—jamaica, horchata, aguas de fruitas, and real sugar Coke in a bottle. That was it. If you wanted a burrito or a latte, you’d be going somewhere else for it. But they had the best variety of tacos this side of the Mexican-American border, hands down.

“Ocho tacos de maiz, dos de cada, uno de adobada, chorizo, carne asada, y papas.”

“¿Quieres algo de tomar?” the kid behind the counter asked.

“Una jamaica grande, por favor.”

My Spanish was weak, but it got the point across. Mom hadn’t spoken the language much at home, and my abuela Lulu had passed when I was a kid, so I didn’t use it unless I happened to be watching a telenovela or ordering food.

The order was finished quickly, and I was slurping my large hibiscus tea on the sidewalk outside when a crisp, female voice called out to me.

“Betty Lennox, I need to speak to you. Now.”

And here I’d thought my day couldn’t get any worse.

I stifled a grumble, pasted a smile on my face, and slowly spun around. “Hello, Señora Cervantes.”

Maria Cervantes was petite, pretty, and prim. She was the sort of person who made you uncomfortable in her presence at best, boiling with rage at worst. She gave the impression that she approved of no one, and I was pretty sure that was because she didn’t.

Her printer-ink black hair was sprayed into oblivion, so she’d probably just walked out of the beauty shop up the street. What rotten timing.

“Have you found a buyer for the park yet?” the elderly woman asked.

“No, Sra. Cervantes. I haven’t.”

Her pale brown eyes glared into mine. “Will you be renewing the protection spell soon?” She’d lowered her voice to a whisper, but it felt more like a seethe.

“Yes. I’m doing it tonight. Fennel will deliver your new key after it’s done.”

“I wouldn’t have had to ask Lila. Whenshewas around, we had the saguaros for protection.”

It wouldn’t be a good look to strangle an eighty-five-year-old lady on the street, but it would’ve been satisfying. “I am aware of that.”

“You’ll let me know the second you find someone?”

“Yes, Sra. Cervantes.”

She gave me a toe-to-teeth look of disapproval, her gaze raking over my spike-heeled ankle boots, faded blue jeans, and black boatneck sweater. I’d worn the flower again, because I liked how the red looked with my lipstick, and that was the only thing the señora seemed to approve of.

Or, at least, she hadn’t disapproved of it with a curled upper lip the way she had everything else I was wearing.

She sniffed the bag. “Is there a carne asada taco in there?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I dug one of the two out and handed it to her. She gave me what counted for a smile in her world—a slight twitch of her lip—thanked me and strolled off.

Porcupine shifters weren’t all as prickly as Sra. Cervantes, but she was certainly living up to her animal’s reputation.

I made it to Ronan’s a couple minutes after noon.

Gladys was finishing up her shift. I gave her the other carne asada taco and a chorizo one. “Thanks, sweetheart. I’m real grateful you tried to help me, Betty. Don’t worry if it doesn’t work out.” She patted my hand. “I’ve got a son in New Jersey who says I can come stay there with him. It’s a nice state, and his pack isn’t too bad.”

“Nice or not, if you wanted to live in New Jersey, you’d be living there. This is your home. You shouldn’t have to leave it to survive.”

“That’s the way it goes sometimes.” She set the foil-wrapped tacos on a napkin behind the bar. “Ronan’s got me fixed up pretty good here. I come in at nine and leave by one. It’s a pity shift, but I need it, so I’m taking it.”

---