Three Miracles of Santos Socorro

THE THREE MIRACLES OF SANTOS SOCORRO With bonus “How to Make Mole”

Sarah Black

® www.loose-id.com

Warning This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

The Three Miracles of Santos Socorro Sarah Black This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Loose Id LLC 1802 N Carson Street, Suite 212-2924 Carson City NV 89701-1215 www.loose-id.com

Copyright © December 2007 by Sarah Black All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.

ISBN 978-1-59632-586-9 Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader

Printed in the United States of America

Editor: Judith David Cover Artist: April Martinez

www.loose-id.com

Emma reached for the door and held it open when she saw him fumbling with the lock. “Mr. Green, what happened? You’re bleeding!” “I just skinned my knee,” Abraham said, holding a piece of Telfa to the spot and hobbling in the door. “I can’t get a Band-Aid to stick.” Emma blinked down at his knee. “Maybe you should, you know, shave or something. Use the scissors and trim a bit. Because you’re really, you know…” Her voice trailed off. “Hairy. Yes, I know.” Emma was such a lovely golden cheerleader princess, with a smile that must have put her orthodontist into a new Jaguar. But it was all a mask, a disguise of her true self. When Abraham had first interviewed Emma for the position of sales clerk at Aztec Gold, his upscale chocolateria, she had been wearing black lipstick, a dog collar with spikes around her tender ivory throat, and was going by the name Diablo. She told him she was a theater major at San Antonio College and he convinced her to assume the role of a perky WASP princess and sell chocolates for him in the mornings, with the understanding that it was only acting. Her performance was flawless. So flawless, in fact, he suspected Diablo’s blonde pageboy, Peter Pan collars, and navy blue pleated skirts were part of a Catholic school disguise she had only recently shed.

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“I’ll go along with this,” she said, “but any sicko motherfucker with gray hair thinks I’m Lolita and tries to cop a feel, he’s gonna get some Aztec Gold shoved up his ass.” “Agreed,” Abraham said. “Actually, I don’t see this role appealing to the weirdo daddy crowd. I’m picturing it more in the role of the lovely and virginal daughter and granddaughter. Most of our customers are, you know, well-to-do women. Society women. I want you to pretend to be the good granddaughter they all want, the one with perfect manners who listens to them, so they will come in here and drop a fortune on our chocolate.” Diablo nibbled on her bottom lip. “I can do that. See, if I wanted to appeal to the daddy crowd, I would let one of my knee socks fall down. They like that. It drives grandmothers crazy, though. Grandmothers don’t like messy. They like tidy knee socks. Okay, good direction, Mr. Green.” And when Abraham saw her next, shining cap of gold hair, strawberry lip gloss and a couple of ginger freckles on her nose and a very slightly wilted violet pinned to her white blouse, he knew she had embraced the role. Abraham had been right, too. More times than he could count, elegant matrons congratulated him on finding such a charming young lady to help in the shop. So respectful! Such excellent manners! Saturday nights Diablo re-emerged, but by Monday morning all the black nail polish, fake blood, and ripped fishnets were safely hidden away again, and Emma was on the job. “So what happened to your knee?” “I skinned it playing basketball. Got anything planned for tonight?” “Yeah, Blood Rave at The Grotto.” She saw his look. “It’s like our Christmas party.” Her face was suddenly gleeful. “I think we’re gonna do a fake virgin sacrifice. Cool, huh? I’m pretty sure I’m a shoo-in for the virgin.” “Diablo, this is entirely safe, isn’t it? I hear about these raves. Men use those date rape drugs and girls get hurt. Now virgin sacrifice?”

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She waved this away. Her nails were buffed and very clean. “It’s theater, drama. Roleplaying. You know, since the time of the Greeks, altars and great drama have gone together like cheeseburgers and fries. How about you, Mr. Green? Got any plans?” Abraham shook his head. “I’ve got to go help Santos’s grandmother make tamales.” The swinging doors to the kitchen flew open. “Oh, no, you’re not making tamales tonight. You’ve got a date!” The kitchen smelled like dark chocolate, cinnamon, coffee, vanilla, and normally these smells, and the sight of his beautiful kitchen -- copper bowls, white marble counters, handsome Latin chocolatiers in spotless uniforms -- was enough to cause him to swallow his irritation with David’s latest scheme to fix him and Santos up in a threesome. No matter how many times he’d told David they were happy, David thought happy was a synonym for

boring, and they would become sexually stale without the addition of a third or some stout ropes or a can of foaming mint lube. “Don’t tell me you’ve rousted up another one of those strange ‘gay bears.’ That last guy must have weighed three hundred pounds, and he was significantly more interested in the Death by Chocolate cake than anything else. He could have crushed Santos to death with no problem.” David shrugged an elegant shoulder and reached into the Sub-Zero for the eggs. “We have the tea menu yet?” Abraham pointed silently at the menu, posted at 0530 this morning, as it was every morning, before he had headed to the gym for his usual morning B-ball game. “Oh, right. Well, what happened was I went to this mask-making workshop with Diablo, and I met these frisky boys and they had a branch, like, a gay mask-making club.” “A gay mask-making club in San Antonio?” “Oh, yeah. The underworld is a rich and beautiful culture, bro.”

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Manuel nodded from the dried fruit table. He was dipping golden pieces of pineapple into the ganache. “That’s true, boss. Culture -- it’s not what they talk about, like there’s a dominant culture and a nondominant culture. It has layers, like the layers of a…of a…” “Of a truffle!” David offered this like a gift, but Manuel shook his head. “More like a tiramisu.” Abraham studied them as if they were recently arrived from another planet. “Sociology in the kitchen? Interesting. But I said no to the blind date. Me and Santos are fine, for the millionth time. We don’t want to have sex with strangers or bears or anything involving lashes with a little whip.” “Wait, wait! You haven’t heard the best part!”

Oh, God. Abraham pulled an apron on over his head and took a copper bowl from the shelf. David was gearing up for some serious storytelling. This might take till Christmas.

Meringues would be nice for tea. He started separating eggs; good for the concentration. “So we were exploring mask wearing as a metaphor for identity formation, and I noticed this one guy.” Abraham studied his little brother. He could not possibly be related to this fey, gorgeous boy, such a bullshitter, eyes like sweet milk chocolate and the wheedling voice of a carny huckster. “What was wrong with him?” “Nothing! It was just, he didn’t really fit in with the group. I mean, he wasn’t really into the dynamics of the whole group sex…thing.”

A clear point in his favor, Abraham thought. “Group sex thing? Could we discuss your personal safety for a moment?” “He was into the masks, though, and had done a careful study of masks of several cultures. And, you know, he wanted to talk about them. In truth, Abraham, I was interested, but some of the other guys, they kind of ignored him. I think he was hoping for something else from the club, like something a little more intellectual.”

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“The other guys were too busy fitting on their cock rings and harnesses for a little pony-play?” “Exactly.” “So your guy with the mask, he can only do what he wants to do with his face hidden? That doesn’t sound too healthy.” Manuel turned from the ganache and gave him a mournful look. “Masks do more than hide identity, man. That’s an Anglo-European interpretation.” Emma had pushed through the doors. “I could use some more almond biscotti out front. And you’re quite right, Manuel. Masks, in most cultures, serve to provide additional identity through ritual. Many cultures, the masks allow a spirit identity to enter the body, share the corporeal, so to speak. Masks don’t hide. It’s just a symbolic representation: “this is who I am.” And I am also this, and I am also that. Stranger, better, more powerful, more dangerous.” Abraham realized he was staring at her, mouth hanging open. She pointed to her chest with her thumbs. “Hello? Theater major!” She swept out of the kitchen like a princess, and Abraham had to resist the urge to applaud. He went back to work with the whisk. “So what’s the deal? Who is it?” “That thing Diablo said, that’s what I’m…” “David, cut the shit! Who is it, and how can I call and cancel?” “You can’t. He said you’re already meeting him on the steps of San Juan Capistrano at seven. He’s on duty until then.” Abraham felt his lips go numb. “On duty?” David was chewing on his bottom lip, and Abraham reached into the cabinet for some pistachios. Divinity, that’s what they needed. “Detective Santos Socorro. Your…Detective Santos Socorro.” Pistachios flew everywhere.

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David was on his hands and knees with a foxtail broom and a dustpan, sweeping up the nuts. “Put the cleaver down.” “Fuck you. I wouldn’t use the good cleaver on you.” Abraham gave his brother the bird, then limped out of the kitchen. Santos Socorro. His knee ached just thinking about him, because it was his hip check this morning that had sent Abraham sprawling onto the concrete basketball court like an eight-year-old. Oh, fuck me. Abraham could feel the heat flushing through his chest, down into his belly. Abraham could feel Santos’s hand on his hip, a little extra heat on his skin. That’s the way they touched in public, the rough, competitive touch of a couple of middleaged guys on a basketball court, a hand on the hip. Was he ready to move on? Did he want to roll with a bear? How did he feel, and why did his lover, Abraham Green, not know exactly how he felt? Up until this very moment, he would have said Santos was a ten on the satisfied scale. And so was he. No, he was a nine, because Santos’s evil witch of a grandmother had hexed him. Shit! This was Magdalena Socorro’s curse! She’d cursed him, and now Santos was making masks at a secret gay mask-making club. They had lives, work. They weren’t together every night, but who was? He was just happy for anything Santos wanted to give him. But if anyone had asked Abraham Green how he felt about Santos Socorro, and he had decided to tell the truth, he would have just fallen weakly to his knees, touched his forehead to the floor. Everything he’d ever wanted in this life -- and believed he would never find -- walked in that man’s shoes. Santos Socorro was a miracle.

***** Abraham was a basket case all day, with a nagging headache behind his eyes that seemed to get worse after he’d studied his own reflection in the mirror. Was it too much to ask to be modestly handsome? Just once? He was forty. His face looked forty. His skin was

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changing in some strange way that was hard to quantify, but was unmistakably a sign of age. His moustache had a shred of gray here and there. On Santos Socorro, the bit of gray in the moustache made him look sexy, mysterious, and experienced. On Abraham, the gray just made him look old. No, not old. But definitely older. He had nice eyes, hazel, and the rest of his face was okay. Moderate. Pleasant. A person would buy chocolate from this man. A person would play B-ball with this man. You might even sit on the steps of San Juan Capistrano on a Saturday night and drink a brew with this man. But…Abraham sighed and pulled out a razor. Settle down, he ordered himself. He

knows what you look like. He knows who you are. He isn’t expecting a boy-model. But what was he expecting? What the hell was going on? Abraham went into the kitchen, dragged David out the back door. “Tell me exactly what you said and what he said. I don’t want any surprises.” “Okay, Abraham.” David was near groveling. “It was just, he looked so down. Like he was disappointed, but used to it. I felt bad for him, so I said, ‘I know what you need. You need a date.’ And he looks over at the guys, and I admit, things had gotten a little wild. Some of the guys were doing a circle jerk and Cedric, he was channeling Charlton Heston, man! He had a little whip and…” “Skip it.” “Okay. So he said, ‘No thanks. I’d rather just go watch a ballgame with your brother.’ And I said I thought you two could use a little something to strengthen the…” “I am very close to firing your ass.” “Right. Got it. So he stood up, shushing me with his hands, you know, that way he does, picked up his mask and said, ‘Tell him to meet me on the steps of San Juan Capistrano at seven for the tamales.’ And that was it, I swear.”

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“He probably just wants to see if we can plan one of those stupid interventions, like when your relatives are out of control! He was just trying to get away from you without punching you in the mouth.” David was sidling toward the door. “Abraham, I hand you a chance to go for the gold on a silver platter!” “Go for the gold on a silver platter? Why don’t I hand you your ass on a silver platter?” After David was gone, Abraham leaned against the back wall to his store and thought about picking up a cigarette. It had been almost exactly twenty years since the last time he had smoked.

***** Abraham showered and put on his softest old Levis and his blue socks, the ones advertised as The Softest Socks in the World. And a pale blue chambray shirt, untucked. He carried a little six-pack cooler with a couple of cold Shiner Bock longnecks. Santos was already sitting on the stone steps of the old mission, smoking a cigar. The mission was a crumbling beauty with a trifecta of mission bells. Abraham thought it wasn’t used as a Catholic church anymore, that it had been turned over to the National Park Service, but there were several late model cars and a couple of battered old pickups in the parking lot. The Tamale Mafia was already at work, making sure no one with even a speck of Latino blood went without Christmas tamales. He sat down next to Santos, opened up the cooler, and handed him a beer. “Thanks.” “You’re welcome.” He twisted his own top off, tossed it back into the cooler. The night air was cool and dark, rich with the noises of bats and birds. And Abraham could hear the sounds of people, kitchen noises, if he wasn’t mistaken. “Is she already here?”

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“Yeah. I think she’s got the whole committee working. I told her we’d deliver the tamales on Christmas Eve, so the old folks could have them for supper if they want to eat before they go to Midnight Mass. How’s your knee?” “It’s okay.” Santos gestured with the cigar. “You want one?” Abraham shook his head. “I was tempted to smoke earlier today. About when my brother told me about his mask-making club. I didn’t know anything about…this when we played ball this morning.” “Abraham…” Sweet-smelling smoke drifted against his cheek like a caress, like a kiss. “I’m looking for something, I guess. But whatever I’m looking for, I want you to be holding my hand when I find it. This isn’t about us, baby.” Abraham felt his cheeks flush. He didn’t know what to say, and was pretty sure his tongue wouldn’t know how to form the words if he did know what to say. Something like,

Then why wasn’t I holding your hand at the mask-making club? They were sitting together in the cool dark, with a couple of beers and possibility between them. Possibility or trouble. This could go either way. How to proceed? Santos seemed to be going with the truth. An unusual, risky approach. Abraham turned to look at him. Santos Socorro had eyes of the most melting dark brown, liquid soft and utterly sexy. His moustache drooped over his upper lip, and his dark hair fell across his forehead. Abraham reached out for his face and let his fingers trace the lines of his eyebrows, his nose, his cheek. And when his fingers stroked soft lips, Santos opened his mouth and pulled Abraham’s fingers against his tongue. Teeth, tongue, the silky skin inside the lip. Who knew there were so many nerve endings in the tips of his fingers? Abraham had been on simmer all day, and Santos had just turned up the heat.

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“Santos, listen. I want to be the man you turn to when you get some wild hair and want to…whatever.” He gestured, sloshing beer on the toe of his shoe. “I don’t know how to tell you that I won’t ever turn away from you.” “I think you just told me, Abraham. You know something? Whenever I have a random, strange, and erotic thought at an unexpected time, it’s always about you. About me and you.” The words dropped into his belly one by one, fat, hot raindrops sizzling against his skin. The wonder of the body, of arousal, of sexual feeling. The fire of it, the heat, the fullness, like bittersweet chocolate. Like…mole. Mole was the only food that Abraham had ever eaten that came close. And he’d never tasted mole that was as rich and spicy as the feeling that was filling his belly as Santos Socorro sucked his finger between his teeth and nipped down on the tip. “Santos. Why don’t you tell me about the mask?” Santos took Abraham’s hand and put it on his thigh. “You want to see it?” Santos reached for his gym bag and unzipped the top. The mask looked African, tribal, with a dark, harsh animal face, rough stripes in bright orange and red on black paper, dull yellow spots. The mouth and eyeholes were big, but not quite big enough. “What’s wrong?” Santos was looking at him, a funny little smile twisting his mouth. “It’s kind of scary. It looks like you can’t kiss anyone if you’re wearing it, you know, when…” Santos considered him, then leaned forward, pulled Abraham toward him by a fist in his shirt. “You, you mean. How can I kiss you?” Abraham felt like a fool for the two seconds before Santos pulled him close enough to reach for his mouth. Their moustaches were rough against each other. Abraham felt love like a flood of warm water in his belly. “I know you’re wondering if I’ve gone nuts, and I’m gonna sound like a nut. I mean, I’m not going around cruising for studs or anything with your brother, Abraham, and

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popping the mask on to do the nasty.” He hesitated. “It’s funny, it’s dark in the mask, when I’m wearing it. Dark and safe and I can say anything. I can say the truth, without worrying about…” Abraham waited, but Santos didn’t say anymore. “Okay, I don’t get it.” Santos was shaking his head. “My face,” he gestured toward himself. “This face belongs to the cop, or the grandson, or the brother or the ballplayer. People look at me, they see what they want to see. My grandmother, she looks at me and sees all the things she wants me to be.” “She looks at you and she sees the faces of her great-grandchildren. She looks at me, and she sees the reason she doesn’t have any great-grandchildren. I brought hot chocolate to try and lure the ladies over to our side.” “Our side? You mean your side. I’m not having a feud with my grandmother. This is between you and her.” Abraham ignored this. “People depend on my face. That’s the real mask, I think. But you don’t do that, Abraham. The mask, when I’m wearing it, I feel free. Free like…I don’t know how to say it. Like I can still be anything. Like my life isn’t set in stone. I’m myself, and myself is fluid, and open to change.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m feeling weird. Grandma said the Holy Ghost has touched me. She sees a mark or something.” “The Holy Ghost has touched you? What a load of crap. Your grandmother is a real piece of work.” “Are you trying to get us cursed? Abraham, this used to be a convent. There’re probably the ghosts of a hundred nuns listening in right this minute.” “Oh, please.”

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“Besides, I’m a cop. I think I’ll take all the Holy Ghost I can get. Listen, I want to fool around. Let’s slide into some dark little nook next to a statue of the BVM before we help make tamales. Ten minutes, that’s all. I was an altar boy here. I know all the secret places.” “Are you going to wear the mask? Inside San Juan Capistrano while you’re fooling around with your Jewish lover?” Santos grinned, and his dark eyes were lit with laughter. “Yeah, baby.” “Fine. You’re the one who’s gonna have to go to confession. Poor Father Jessup.” Santos stood up and reached for his face. “Abraham, are you upset? Did I embarrass you in front of your brother?” Abraham shook his head. “Sometimes I look at you, and I feel like you could burst into flames right in front of my eyes. You understand?” Santos studied his face, and his eyes got darker. He pulled Abraham close. “Yeah, I get that. The first time with you, I thought your cock would burst into flames right in front of my eyes.” Abraham laughed, reached for him. “Flaming Cock. Now that would be some mask. Let’s go find a nook.” Santos pulled him through passageways built of golden sandstone. The incense and melted candle wax smell could only have come from a Catholic church. There were fresh baskets of white lilies in front of the main altar, with its beautiful silver candelabra, but Santos pulled him past and down a narrow corridor to the left and into a small nook that contained a huge old painting of the young St. Sebastian, tied to a tree and full of arrows. “All the altar boys know about this place,” Santos said, pushing Abraham against the cold stone wall and moving his hands down his belly, opening the button at his waistband, sliding the zipper down. His mouth was busy, hot lips moving down Abraham’s throat, and Abraham decided to just be still and quiet and see where this strange new Santos wanted to take them. He looked over his shoulder at the picture of St. Sebastian, felt Santos’s warm

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hand slide down and wrap around his cock. The gorgeous young Italian in the painting was brutally roped to a tree, his arms stretched high over his head, triceps bulging obscenely. Various penis-shaped arrows were already piercing the young flesh, as leering brutal soldiers lifted their bows. Abraham’s gaze dropped to the thatch of thick Italian hair between his legs and his mouth fell open. “Holy Shit! He’s hung like a bull!” Santos laughed against his throat, a tickle of heat that Abraham felt down into his balls. “Every Catholic boy who ever came through this place snuck in here to check his equipment against St. Sebastian. Nobody ever got close.” Abraham thought later it must have been Catholic incense poisoning that caused the sudden intense flush of erotic heat that filled his chest, caused him to push Santos hard against the wall, shove the mask into his hands and reach for the waistband of his trousers. Those cords slid down like silk, and he dropped to his knees, slipped Santos’s massive straining cock into his mouth. Santos put the mask over his face, and the primitive beat of African drums entered the little nook. “St. Sebastian. You look just like that guy. I’m gonna tie you up when I get you home. See how you like the arrows piercing…” And Santos groaned and reached for his head, thrust that enormous cock down his throat. Abraham could already taste the head of his cock, was working his tongue against the little slit, and neither one was in any way prepared for the elderly priest who came around the corner, spotted them, and let out a scream so high-pitched it could have cracked crystal. Abraham and Santos didn’t move as the priest dropped unconscious at their feet.

“I still say it would have been unethical to continue not knowing if he needed CPR.” Santos wrung out the washcloth and wiped the old man’s face. “Two seconds, Abraham, that’s all it would have taken. I could tell he was breathing from where I was standing.”

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“Do you see a Hotpot? I’ll make him some chocolate.” Abraham looked around, spotted the electric kettle. “I brought that Mexican chocolate for the ladies, but I put some extra red chili in. That’s probably all he needs.” “You think he wants hot chocolate when there’re bottles of communion wine stashed under the desk?” Abraham narrowed his eyes into thin little slits. “Sorry, sorry. I don’t know what I’m saying.” The priest was stirring now, his eyes fluttering. “Will you fix me some, too?” “Okay,” Abraham agreed, “and you may be sure I will finish dealing with you when I get you home. And restrained. I think a stout bandana across your mouth might be a good addition to…” The old man sat up, gave Abraham a reproachful look. He looked around the room until his eyes rested on Santos. Santos reached over and smoothed down his thin gray hair. “Father…” “Santos, I don’t know how many times I’ve caught you altar boys screwing under the picture of St. Sebastian, but that mask gave me a nasty turn!” He gestured toward Abraham. “And did you have to have sex with a…” He gave up, shaking his head, and Abraham was left to wonder if he was going to say man or Jew. “Father Jessup, I’m making you some hot chocolate.” “Oh, thank you, Abraham. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that one of the ladies in the parish will bring me some of those espresso truffles from your shop for Christmas.” The old priest looked at Santos with patient, gentle eyes of watery blue, and appeared to be prepared to wait all night for an explanation of why Santos was getting a blowjob in St. Sebastian’s nook, wearing an African tribal mask. Frankly, Abraham wouldn’t have minded an explanation either.

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“Father, it’s hard to explain.” His cheeks were flushing a beautiful deep red, and Abraham felt a rush of love at how gentle his voice was, talking to the old priest. He didn’t know how Santos spoke to the scumbags he arrested, but Abraham had never heard him raise his voice in anger. He had been known to shout out in Spanish a small prayer to the Virgin of Guadalupe when his cock exploded in Abraham’s mouth. He handed him a cup of chocolate. “Thanks.” He handed Father Jessup the second cup. “Oh, excellent! Thank you, Abraham.” Abraham leaned against the wall of the priest’s study and closed his eyes wearily. He needed to be in top form to deal with Magdalena Socorro, and the shock of the priest dropping at their feet had nearly unmanned him. “Listen, Santos, you don’t know anything about The Grotto, do you? Diablo says they’re planning a” -- he glanced at the old man -- “a Christmas party.” “Diablo?” “I mean Emma, Father Jessup, my young clerk. Diablo’s like a funny nickname.” “Strange sort of nickname. But I know Emma. What a charming young lady. You don’t find such beautiful manners very much these days.” Santos put down his empty cup. “Good chocolate, Abraham. Yeah, I know The Grotto.” He jerked his chin, which Abraham took to mean they’d talk about it outside. “Father, you sure you don’t want me to take you to the ER, get your blood pressure checked?” The old man stood up and took Abraham’s arm. “No, no, I’m fine. Let’s go see how the ladies are getting on.” Down in the kitchens, Magdalena had the women working in groups of two, and Abraham could see who was in the doghouse -- two glum-faced women cleaning and soaking dried corn husks, the worst job in tamale making. But it was, for the most part, a happy crowd of women, chattering in Spanish, mostly in old-fashioned button-front dresses and

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cardigan sweaters and stout shoes. These were traditional Mexican-American ladies so their hair was held neatly in buns secured by combs, or cut short and permed curly, and they were all expert tamale makers. But even these experts were ranked. Maria Aguilar, the woman Abraham always thought of as the second alpha of the pack, and Magdalena, were making the masa, the most critical job. Other duos were working on sauces, red chili and green chili; some were hard at work prepping the fillings -- browning meat with garlic and onions, chopping chilies and green onions, grating cheese. Maria Aguilar wore pale blue eyeglasses on a beaded lanyard around her neck. She had made the eyeglass lanyard herself and always sold them at church bazaars. The overhead light flashing off the lenses gave her a faintly bug like appearance. “Oh, look! It’s Santos and his nice friend Abraham!” The ladies looked up expectantly. What a nice, handsome grandson! So attentive! So

gay! That must put Magdalena down a notch or two. And his friend Abraham, so very Jewish! Of course, he always brought enough chocolate from that fancy shop of his to drug them all into submission. Abraham had wondered if the ladies were smiling and waiting for the day hostilities reached such a peak that he and Magdalena would be wrestling on the floor, throwing punches and shouting, “He’s mine!” “No, he’s mine!” Abraham looked up from pouring chocolate for the ladies to see Santos’s cheeks flush again. Father Jessup was chatting away, Maria Aguilar looked delighted, and Magdalena Socorro was looking as if a stroke was imminent. Then Santos reluctantly pulled the mask out of the gym bag to show his grandmother. Magdalena took a long breath in through her nose, her bosom swelling with wrath, and naturally she looked around the room for Abraham. He stuck his hands in his pockets and strolled over to the ladies making the sauces, the second most important job after the masa. They looked like surgeons, masks over their faces, holding dried chili peppers into the flames of the gas range until they were burnt and

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smoking. Abraham could tell when Magdalena was behind him because the hairs on the back of his neck stood up, right about where she would like to shove an ice pick. “So, Abraham, I am so glad Father Jessup is strong. Some men his age, the shock would have killed him.” A preemptive strike. “No mole this year? Well, it’s a difficult sauce. So complicated and slow. Maybe it’s best left to younger cooks?” The women within hearing range stiffened, backs jerking ramrod straight. “Thank you for the chocolate, Abraham.” One of the sauce makers pulled off her surgical mask. “I always look forward to it. And you are correct, no mole this year. A pity. But we all decided.” Reproachful eyes cut toward Magdalena under soft gray bangs. Magdalena smiled gently at her challenger. “Lucy, be careful, dear. Your chili pepper is on fire.” Sure enough, a flare of yellow flame, and the chili was reduced to ash. Lucy tossed it to the floor and stomped on it. Magdalena dragged Abraham away. “Now you’re making him wear masks? Costumes? Is this Halloween?” “It has nothing to do with me,” he said. “Would you like some hot chocolate?” “No. Thank you.” Up close her skin was as delicate and fragile as rose petals, and he could smell a trace of Coty powder on her cheeks. “I thought I would make some bittersweet chocolate tamales for the ladies tomorrow night.” Her sneer became more pronounced. “I’m sure many of these women would fall on a bittersweet chocolate tamale, just as if centuries of tamale making using traditional ingredients and methods means nothing.” She gazed up at the ceiling. “You speak of mole? What do you know of mole? It takes a Spanish soul to make mole, which you, Abraham Green, do not have. The day will come very soon when mole, real mole, is not made anywhere in the world.” She sighed, then turned a more cheerful face his way. “So, Abraham. Why is Santos wearing masks? Is he…unsatisfied?”

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Abraham felt his face flush dark, contemplated letting Diablo and her fangs loose on Magdalena’s throat. Mostly because this was also what Abraham thought was behind the mask. Magdalena looked very satisfied. “Did I tell you about the dream I had where Santos was touched by the Holy Ghost? We should be watching over him very carefully during the holy season.” “I always watch him carefully.” “For stigmata. No mortal sins, please, Abraham. I feel sure we can expect a miracle.” And with that she went off to terrorize the women washing husks. Abraham’s knee was aching, and he was tired and worried and horny. He wanted to take Santos Socorro home to his bed and play St. Sebastian, check him for stigmata. Santos had something of a sixth sense where Abraham’s desires were concerned, and he made his way to his side. “You need an ice pack for that knee?” “Yeah, I do. I need something else, too. Can you stay with me tonight?” “Sure. Let’s skip ball tomorrow morning, okay? That’ll give your knee a day of rest.” Santos was an elegant, lean, and lanky man who looked gorgeous in Italian clothes, but Abraham preferred the way he looked when he was draped across his bed, relaxed and happy and naked. Abraham was never entirely comfortable naked, because he knew his hairy, squat body looked vaguely Neanderthalish, compared to Santos’ lean beauty. Neanderthalish or like a middle-aged chocolate maker. But something about him had always appealed to Santos, who liked to tug on his chest hair and sprawl across him to sleep with his nose pressed into Abraham’s armpit. Maybe they could skip the ropes and wild sex, and go straight to cuddling up and talking. That appealed a great deal, as the weariness of the day was falling down on Abraham rather quickly. “You want to follow me home?”

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Santos nodded. He drove a beat-up Ford pickup truck, refused to ride in Abraham’s Aztec Gold delivery van, because of the various outrageous, barely-dressed Aztecs lounging across the panels of the van, and the heaps of painted chocolates that Abraham was sure lured customers by the dozens through the streets to the very doors of his shop. At his condo Abraham unlocked the door, and Santos came in right after him, peeling off his clothes and heading into the shower. Abraham waited his turn, looking through the mail, and when Santos came out with a towel wrapped around his waist Abraham slipped into the bathroom for a quick shower. He loved the second shower, when the bathroom was already dripping wet and steamy and smelling like sandalwood shampoo, and this thought made him blush unexpectedly, like he’s just had an inappropriate erection in mixed company. Santos was nearly asleep, but he mumbled a little and rolled over when Abraham climbed into bed. Santos slid an arm around his waist. “You need an ice pack? I’ll go get you one.” The knee was stiff but he suspected by tomorrow morning it would be fine. “It’s good. You need a mask?” Santos chuckled and rolled closer to him, moved into his usual sleeping position, one leg thrown over Abraham’s hips, his head resting on a shoulder. “We’ll play St. Sebastian later, okay?” Abraham listened to his steady breathing, the rhythm changing as he drifted into sleep. “Masks are cool, though. I’ll make you one.”

***** It was very late, or early, if you were a baker, when the phone rang. Santos rolled over and buried his face in the pillows. “It’s not me. I’m not on duty.” David’s excited, breathless voice was speaking before Abraham got the receiver up to his ear. “Abraham! Wake up! I think Diablo’s in trouble.” It took him a moment to push the blanket aside and sit up on the side of the bed, and David was still talking. “It was The Grotto, right? She was going to The Grotto for the virgin sacrifice and Christmas party?”

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“Yeah.” “Well, it’s on fire! Not a big fire,” he amended, and Abraham pulled the receiver away from his ear and stared at it. “Some of the kids started these fires around the perimeter, and they won’t let anyone in or out! The fire trucks are there, and whoever is doing this is shooting arrows from the building, right at the firemen.” Abraham reached over and gave Santos a little shove on his hip, and he rolled over, then climbed out of bed and started looking for his clothes. Abraham was distracted for the moment watching his naked butt, but David’s high-pitched, excited voice was impossible to ignore. “I’m on my way over there now, Abraham.” “What, from your apartment? How do you even know what’s…” “The fire department radio!” David’s short-lived career as a volunteer firefighter, part of his plan to meet some real men, had turned him into a radio bug. “I’m coming,” he said, and he hung up on the squawks and squeaks of alarm. “I need to keep some clean underwear here, Abraham. Yours is too big around the waist.” And the poplin boxers were drooping pathetically around his hips. He grabbed his pants. “What’s going on?” “Emma went to something called a Blood Rave last night at The Grotto.” Santos groaned. “Nutjob just said that he heard on his illegal fire department radio that there is some sort of ring of fire around The Grotto and they won’t let the fire department in and something about shooting arrows.” “Oh, God.” Abraham was pulling on one of his Aztec Gold sweatshirts. Aztec Gold was considered one of the hottest Little League sponsors, and Abraham suspected it was the outrageous black hooded sweats with the chocolate-and-gold-draped Aztec maidens, lounging from sleeve to sleeve across the shirts. David’s design. He never gave the player’s moms chocolate bribes, despite the rumors, but a 10 percent discount was reasonable and, he thought, above

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reproach. Abraham’s Assistant Coach sweatshirt had a slogan across the back: Man cannot

live on chocolate alone, but woman can. Santos had a sweatshirt, too, as the Head Coach, but his was solid black and gold, no Aztec maiden, no chocolate quote. He and David had nearly come to blows over his comments about the team sweats. Santos grabbed his keys. “I’ll drive.” Abraham slowed him down. “Coffee. I’m going to fill up the thermos.” Santos hesitated. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s gonna be a long morning.” Five minutes later they were on the road, Santos driving in the cool dark, the smell of excellent mocha java filling his truck. Abraham reached over and put his hands on Santos’ thigh. “Thanks for coming with me. You’re a good guy.” “I like driving late. Or early, when the roads are empty and peaceful. And I like driving with you, Abraham. Maybe we can go down to Mexico after your holiday rush, take a weekend off.” Santos turned to him and smiled, and Abraham was struck by his sweetness, felt something softening in his chest. He picked up his coffee and took a sip to hide his face, and Santos turned back to the dark road, grinning. Abraham was thinking about something Santos had said, that inside the mask it was dark, and he could say anything. He could say the truth. It was dark outside the truck right now. “Santos, if you had your mask on, is there anything you want to tell me?” His heart rate jumped twenty points. Santos didn’t say anything for a moment. “I guess I would ask you if you’re happy with the way things are with us. If what we have is enough.” Abraham stared through the windshield. He couldn’t think of a single thing to say in reply. How could he explain that he wanted the earth, but would take a spoonful of sand, if that sand was all he could have? If that spoonful of sand was the time Santos Socorro was

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willing to give him? Abraham was pretty sure he would not be able to live if Santos took that spoonful away. The black night was cut with red lights from the fire trucks. The parking lot was full of cars still, and The Grotto, a foursquare red brick building that had been a tobacco warehouse before its urban renewal, had a ring of metal trash cans around the front, the fire inside them glowing bright yellow. Against the brick walls, inside the firelight, were young evil-idiots in training, dressed in long, dark monk robes and holding bows and arrows. A few were wearing masks, and Abraham pointedly didn’t mention this fact to Santos. He saw, though, sighed, his hands on his hips, studying the scene like a cop. He unclipped the radio from his belt and walked across the tarmac, shook hands with the firefighter sent to intercept. Abraham watched him for a moment, his strong profile and dark hair backlit by the emergency lights. Deep, wild, strong. He couldn’t have explained his feelings for Santos, he just trusted them, and had for a long time. He felt a little something more, now, a bit of worry that things were changing, a little extra tenderness that Santos might be…whatever he was, this whole mask-making thing. Mask-making and wondering if what they had was enough. Did that mean Santos was leaning toward having more or having less? And this stew of feelings was joined by exasperation as David zoomed up in his Aztec Gold van, screeched to a stop between a couple of fire trucks, climbed out and threw open the side panel. “Glazed donuts and hot coffee!” He shouted into the early morning darkness, “Krispy Kreme, dudes!” David was a firefighter magnet; since he’d been a teenager he’d been drawn to brawny guys with big appetites and huge, callused hands, and they had been drawn to him. But he was looking for storybook romance, hearts and flowers and happily ever after. He wanted someone who would hold hands and smooch in public. He wasn’t interested in sweaty dark groping in the public baths. Well, Abraham amended. He wasn’t only interested in sweaty dark groping in the public baths. David thought he and Santos were letting down their end of the Pride banner by not being more sexual in public. The last time they had been lectured on this, over pot stickers at

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Mai Thai, Santos had said his usual: “Me and Abraham, we’re guys who’ll drink a beer and watch the game from the same couch. But that’s as far as it’ll go. Not wanting to have sex in public just means we’re forty.” David had clacked his chopsticks together fretfully. “No public kissing, no tattoos, not even a single pierced ear? I don’t think you’re gay at all. You’re just…confused or something.” “I’ve got a tattoo.” David had perked up at this. “You do? What is it?” “A B-52 screaming through the sky, bombs falling from the belly, and on the ground, POW! Just like those old DC comics.” “Wow! Where’d you…” He’d stopped, studied Santos as he lifted a pale porcelain cup of jasmine tea, turned and studied Abraham as he dunked a pot sticker into the sauce with his chopsticks. “You can’t bullshit a bullshitter, Santos,” he’d said, his dark eyes serious, then his gaze lifted to follow the tight ass of a young waiter, and his train of thought seemed to chug off into the night and disappear. Abraham walked over to the van, started filling cups with coffee and passing them out. David was throwing worried glances around at Santos and at Abraham and at The Grotto. “So is he okay? Mask-wise?” “David, he’s fine. Nothing to worry about.” “So what’s happening?” “I don’t know yet. The parking lot is still full of cars -- that makes me think there are lots of people inside. But the only people I’ve seen are the zombie-monk guys with the bows and arrows.” “So why’s Santos getting that black camo stuff on his face? Oh, man, I bet he wishes he had his mask right about now.”

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Abraham spun around. Oh no, oh God. Black on his face, and he pulled the black hood of his sweatshirt up over his hair. Abraham walked a little away from the firefighters, and a moment later Santos walked over and joined him, looking very tough and butch. “Don’t sweat it, Abraham,” he said, making his familiar shushing gesture with his hands. “I’m just gonna climb in a window, see what’s going on inside, make sure your young virgin sacrifice is still…with us. Abraham…” “Okay, Santos. And yes, I’m worried about Diablo, too. Please understand this, that if you are taken hostage the next person climbing in through the window will be me.” Santos laughed out loud, then stepped closer and whispered in Abraham’s ear. “I love you, too.” Santos melted into the darkness, and the head fire guy, the one with the tiniest radio, whisked Krispy Kreme crumbs off his shirt and screwed an earpiece into his ear. Abraham inched closer. He thought Santos was probably sneaking around the back, but he wasn’t sure. All these old buildings had fire escapes; was that how… A grinding scream from the back, and Abraham’s stomach dropped. It was the rusty fire escape being pulled down, and all the idiot kids dressed up like killer monks heard it, too. They started running the same time he did, and David, and all the firefighters. Abraham was closest, and when he got around the side of the building he could see Santos climbing up the side of the building like a black spider, his movements scarcely visible in the dark. His hands. They had forgotten to put the black stuff on his hands, and they were pale as frog’s bellies, pale as lilies, irresistible against the black, against the red brick, irresistible to the monks who raised their bows and shot their arrows at him. Someone was an archer. The bows appeared to have rubber tips, because the arrows hit him but didn’t stick. Some joker shot an arrow at his hands, one each, and Santos yelled, “Ouch! That hurts!” and dropped off the fire escape like a stone.

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Abraham ran straight for him. Santos rolled over, cursing. “Shit! Those little punks, I’m gonna tear their arms off!” The firefighters apparently had the same thought, because they swarmed the monks, threw them facedown and pulled their hoods off, revealing various pale, skinny kids with weirdly pierced faces and bleached, spiked hair. “Not so tough without your cowls, are you?” It was the fire guy in charge, and the kid he was talking to looked stoned, with huge black pupils; definitely non comprendo. The back door got rammed, then kicked open in proper macho fashion, and tough guys poured in. Abraham looked down at Santos, who was opening and closing his hands into fists. “Do you need an X-ray?” Santos shook his head and stood up. “Just an icepack.” He sighed, and just for a moment leaned on Abraham’s shoulder. “Ouch. I’m gonna have some monster bruises tomorrow.” They stood together, watching the ragtag celebrants of The Grotto’s virgin sacrifice/Christmas party stagger out the door. Diablo was in her Emma incarnation in pale blue robes with graceful cloth draped around her shining gold head like the BVM. She aimed a kick at one of the monks on the ground, nearly got his head, but a firefighter waved her off. “Mr. Green! What are you doing here?” Santos waved her over. “He came to save you, young Emma.” She narrowed her eyes at Santos’ use of her ‘theater’ name. “My name,” she began, sounding outraged, “is…” “Idiot. Oh, sorry.” A young man stepped forward, held her by the elbow, and spoke into her ear. “Stop it. You’re overwrought.” Abraham thought for a moment he was in costume as well, then he wasn’t sure -- his flowing white robes and red-and-white-checked headdress went well with the full black beard and snapping black eyes. He looked almost… Oh, God, no…

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“Oh, Mr. Green, Detective Santos, meet Fareed Obama.” Adoring blue eyes turned his way. “He saved me, Mr. Green. From a fate worse than death!”

***** Abraham had been hoping for a two-hour nap before he was supposed to meet Santos at San Juan Capistrano, but no luck. He needed all his strength for Magdalena. David and Manuel had helped him make the tamales, and Abraham went all out with the filling -- the best bittersweet chocolate, a teaspoon of Amaretto each, vanilla, roasted pecans. He had tried them out on the elegant matrons who came to tea, and they had gone after the chocolate tamales like a pack of wolverines. So Abraham thought they might just pass muster with Magdalena Socorro and her tamale makers. Santos was sitting on the steps when he got there, and he looked tired, too. Abraham sat down next to him, opened the cooler, and passed him a longneck beer, Pearl today. Santos cradled the cold bottle of beer in his hands. “That feels good.” He stared at Abraham for a moment, studied his face like he was trying to remember if he’d ever seen him before. Then he leaned forward and kissed him, right on the lips, his eyes wide open, right on the steps of San Juan Capistrano. Abraham was too shocked for a moment to kiss him back, but that passed quickly enough and he reached a hand to Santos’ cheek, felt rough whiskers against his palm. It was cool and dark outside, beautiful weather to sit on the steps and kiss, while the bugs did their hysterical dance and flung themselves against the street lights. Santos was taking his time, exploring the whole outdoor-kissing-in-public thing with enough seriousness that the thought crossed Abraham’s mind that they would need an air mattress soon. Santos’ elegant long fingers were moving under Abraham’s sweatshirt, down into the waistband of his jeans, flicked open the button with the ease of a poker player shuffling a shady deck.

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What in the world was going on? Santos hadn’t said a word other than ‘that feels good,’ and now his cock was raising its head and sniffing the cool night air. Santos leaned over him, nuzzled his cock, licked the head with a wet, sloppy tongue. “What in God’s name has gotten into you?” But his hands slid down into Santos’ silky dark hair, and Abraham realized his hair was as dark as the night sky spread over them. “Santos.” His voice had dropped, a whisper from deep in his throat. He was lying on stone, the sky spread above him, and Santos nuzzling him, rubbing his rough cheek against his thigh, and the cool night air was like a caress against the wet head of his cock. It was beautiful, elegant, and erotic and Abraham had never felt anything quite like it. Then Santos tilted the Pearl beer up to his mouth, and when he bent his head again he sucked Abraham’s cock into his mouth. The beer was so cold, Santos’ mouth so hot, velvet soft lips and the sharp scrape of teeth, and Abraham felt his back arch suddenly, sensation spread over his thighs, his belly, a deep tug and he came in Santos’ mouth, came over and over, felt him swallow, his tongue doing a slick little dance across his cock. Abraham groaned and reached for him, tugged him up until he could wrap Santos in his arms, wrap his legs around him, and kiss his beautiful smiling mouth. He tasted like beer and something sweet and musky. “Wow.” He kept his arms around Santos, gave him a strong hug. “Wow wow wow. What was that about?” “I don’t know.” Santos rested his head in the crook of Abraham’s neck, pressed a sweet little kiss to the edge of his chin. “Sometimes I wonder if you want more from me. If you need me to be sweeter, more affectionate. I know I want more of you.” “I guess…I’ll take everything I can get. I’ll take anything you want to give me.” For a moment Abraham felt thrown, like he was out of his depth. Were they talking about their

relationship, for God’s sake? Did they need to go put on the mask? “How is your young sheik?”

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“Oh, God. He hung around the shop all day, studying his books and providing ‘protection’ for the little princess. Tea was interesting, with him glowering from the corner in his white robes. The matrons didn’t know if he looked more like Rudolph Valentino or Osama bin Laden. I think the only thing worse you could do to your conservative relatives, if you aren’t gay, is to bring home an Arab boyfriend.” “Well, he’s Muslim, you’re Jewish, I’m Catholic. We could join hands and sing

Kumbaya for world peace.” Abraham started laughing, and Santos turned his head and let his lips rest against Abraham’s throat. “I love it when you laugh like that. It gives me such a thrill.” “You about ready to help with tamales? David said he’d come help, too. Magdalena always likes that.” “Sure. Do I smell chocolate tamales?” “Bittersweet chocolate with pecans and Amaretto.” Abraham heard a sniff, and when he and Santos sat up, his hand quickly tucking in and buttoning, he realized that two of the elderly tamale makers were standing a discreet few feet away, waiting for them to finish. One lady tugged her glasses off, wiped under her eyes. “Maria, they’re beautiful together, are they not? They look like something from the movies. I think they’re in love, no matter what Magdalena says. I know it’s a sin, but still, Santos can always go to confession, so that’s all right. And did Abraham say he had made bittersweet chocolate tamales?” “That’s what he said.” It was Maria Aguilar. “Your brother’s here, Abraham. Magdalena sent me out to tell you. She said you two were rolling around on the steps! I wonder how she knew?” Santos sighed, lay back down on his back, closed his eyes, and when the ladies moved off he opened his eyes again and stared up at the night sky. “The first time Maria Aguilar caught me with someone’s cock in my mouth I was seventeen. She was my high school

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English teacher, Abraham. And I haven’t given anyone head in public from that day until this one.” Abraham reached down for him. “Santos, I have nothing to say!” Santos laughed, ran a finger along the angle of Abraham’s jaw. “I’m such a fool. I don’t know why you put up with me.” Abraham tugged him close, slid an arm around his waist, since they were going wild with this public affection all of a sudden. “Beats me. Must be the fire that burns so bright in your heart. Must be because I’m safe in your arms. Because I’m home in your arms. Santos…” And Santos was all over him, wrapped him up in those arms again, a passionate, romantic kiss worthy of the movies, only it was real, it was true, and they held each other as long as they could, until the delicate throat clearing of discreet elderly ladies called them back to San Juan Capistrano and tamales and Magdalena Socorro, waiting for them.

***** In the kitchen Maria Aguilar was wearing an angelic face, and Magdalena was measuring out scoops of Sno-White lard into the Hobart mixer with a look of poisonous politeness. Her gaze raked Abraham, and he automatically tucked in his shirt a little neater. She sighed through her nose, went back to the masa. Santos was carrying one of the coolers of tamales, and when David saw him he abandoned his work washing husks and took the cooler out of his hands. “You’re a hero, Santos! Let me get that for you. You shouldn’t be hauling chocolate tamales, not with your injuries!” Every grandmother’s head in the room swiveled around at the magic words: herochocolate-injuries. Magdalena frowned. “You’re injured? What happened? You weren’t wearing that mask, and…”

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Santos took this in stride, shook his head agreeably. “It’s nothing, Grandma. I’m not injured. Wait until you taste these tamales Abraham made for you.” She sniffed and rolled her eyes, but the rest of the women made a beeline. David was the kind of gay they could understand, gorgeous and slender and fey, and he wore beautiful clothes and told them they were fabulous! And he also, Abraham was sorry to say, enjoyed being the absolute center of attention. “Not injured? How can you say that, when I saw the arrows flying and I saw you fall ten feet off the side of a building to the hard ground?” Magdalena’s hand crept to her throat, and the rest of the tamale makers pressed forward, their eyes wide. “Okay, everyone have a tamale and I’ll tell you the story.” Abraham and Santos looked at each other, then Abraham shook his head and went for a roll of paper towels and started passing them out. In this version of the story, virgin-Emma was lured to The Grotto by an evil boyfriend who was prepared to ravish her, and let others ravish her, while she was tied naked and helpless to the marble altar. Santos sighed. “While Santos and Abraham and I were outside the Ring of Fire, preparing a stealth approach into the back, inside Emma had a friend, a guardian angel who was watching over her. Fareed Obama, a brilliant young engineering student from Saudi Arabia, could see she was in danger, and was determined to rescue her!” “What kind of engineer, David?” It was Lucy of the flaming chili pepper. “Ah, petroleum.” She nodded wisely. “Of course! It would be a good match. So she would have to wear one of those things over her hair? She could do it. They have all the money these days, those Saudis. Wasn’t her grandfather in oil?”

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Abraham was horrified. “No,” he said, without realizing he was speaking. “No, absolutely not. She’s too young. I will not have it. She wants to go into the theater…” Eyebrows flew up at this, hidden smiles and several elbows gently nudged their neighbors. Santos shoved a tamale into his hand, then took it back and handed him a beer from the cooler. “Drinking now, Abraham?” Magdalena’s voice was gentle. “Yes, I am.” He twisted off the cap and tossed it toward the trashcan, and didn’t even move when it bounced off the rim and landed on the floor. “Anyway, this is what Santos did. He started scaling the brick wall of the building. Yes! Clinging to the bricks and fire escape like Spider-Man, wearing his Aztec Gold sweatshirt so he was nearly invisible in the dark! Then a strange, eerie noise out of the darkness, sort of like the sound of limbs being rent from their bodies…” Abraham tipped his beer up to his mouth. “…and Santos was discovered! The evil captors, dressed up in Jesuit robes and carrying bows and arrows, raced to the back of the building. He was spotted, pinned ten feet off the ground in a hail of arrows! “One arrow hit his right hand, then his left hand, and he fell straight to the ground! Abraham raced to him, fell to his knees by his side, but Santos lifted his head, so I knew he was okay. I rammed the back door open, and the prisoners were able to escape. Fareed was standing over Emma, prepared to defend her honor to the death. Emma was shaky and weak, but with the strong arm of Fareed Obama to offer her comfort and support, she was able to leave the Grotto on her own two feet.” Several women had their hands over their mouths. Magdalena spoke up. “Santos, you fell ten feet off a brick wall after people shot arrows at you?” He nodded. “Maybe nine feet.”

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“I knew it! He is unharmed? It’s a miracle!” She gasped suddenly and pointed at him, pointed at his hand where it wrapped around his bottle of Pearl. Her voice was a sibilant whisper. “Stigmata!” After awhile Santos stopped trying to explain that the deep purple marks and abrasions on his hands were from rubber-tipped arrows. They did in fact look very much like wounds he would have acquired from being hung on a cross. Even Father Jessup agreed to that when he was called. Several ladies pressed kisses to the marks. Magdalena was in her element. She had predicted a miracle, and here was a miracle. She had predicted stigmata, here were stigmata. Abraham just wanted to get out of there, drag the holy one back to St. Sebastian’s nook, take him home, and let him put on his mask. But he wouldn’t come. He and David were peeling out to the gay mask-making club, and Abraham had refused to go along. “That’s fine, because I want to work on your mask and I want it to be a surprise for Christmas.” Trading on his new status as miraculous, Santos kissed him on his way out, and several ladies watched and giggled. Magdalena approached him with her stealthy step, and only the hairs on the back of his neck alerted him. “Abraham? Should I call you a cab? I don’t know how many beers you’ve had to drink. Maybe it’s not safe for you to drive.” “I’m fine, Magdalena.” He was tired all of the sudden. The holidays were always so busy, and this season had, so far, busted his ass. “I’ll help you clean up.” “Is he injured anywhere else?” “Just stiff, and a few bruises. He seems okay.” “He’s not dating your brother now, is he?” “Santos? No, of course not. They’re just doing this…” His voice trailed off. “I don’t know exactly what they’re doing, Magdalena. But I trust him. He’s like…gold inside. You understand?”

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Her face looked grim, but she nodded and moved away without another word.

***** Abraham was feeling restless and lonely in bed without Santos, twisting the sheets between his legs and moving the pillows around. It was raining out, too, a sad cold drizzle. Christmas blues, Abraham thought. That’s all this was. He was just worn out from getting Aztec Gold through its busiest season, from riding herd on Diablo and David, from not enough time with Santos, because the holidays were the busiest time for cops, too. Or maybe Magdalena really had cursed him. Right. She cursed him by making him forty and in love with her grandson. Santos must not have been able to sleep, either. Just before midnight he called on his cell, told Abraham he was downstairs and to get up and let him in. Santos threw his overnight bag on the floor next to the bed, peeled out of his damp sweats and crawled under the covers. “I brought a couple things, Abraham. Clean underwear and socks. The mask. I’ll just shove them in the closet in the morning.” Abraham stared at him for a long moment, then he peeled out of his flannel PJ bottoms and crawled in bed next to him. He wasn’t going to say it again, what’s gotten into you? He liked it, whatever it was. Santos slid into his arms, snuggled his head into the hollows of Abraham’s shoulder, curled up next to him, but Abraham wanted him closer and closer and closer, so he pulled Santos over until he was sprawled on top of his body, wrapped him up in his arms and legs, and Santos curled into him, like he’d needed the touch, the skin-to-skin, and he reached up and pressed his mouth to Abraham’s. Warm sweet kisses, two bodies lying wrapped around each other, and it wasn’t long before the steam was rising from Santos’ damp hair. He lifted his hips, slid against Abraham in a lazy, sleepy thrust, cocks rising against each other, damp hair rough. He moved until he had Abraham’s arms pinned above his head, then he pushed his thighs apart and fell on him

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again. Santos reached between them, held both their cocks together in his fist. “This is what I like the best,” Santos said against his mouth, and Abraham was flooded suddenly with tenderness, pulled his arms free and wrapped them around Santos, felt his body jerk and thrust and spill helpless, out of control, and Santos took his come and rubbed it all over his cock, still clutched in his fist. “You smell like chocolate, Abraham,” then his slick fist was moving faster, and Abraham reached for his ass and held him close. Santos’ head snuggled somewhere between his shoulder and his armpit, his usual place, one leg thrown over Abraham like he was trying to keep him from getting away. “Abraham, you know that dream my grandmother had? Where she said I’d been touched by the Holy Ghost?” “Yeah. She also said she saw you in priest’s robes. Don’t tell me you want to go to the monastery and study for Holy Orders. I promise I will not let you go.” “I had a dream, too, but different.” Something in his voice. Abraham held him tighter. “Tell me.” “I dreamed I got shot in the chest. I was wearing my vest, but in the dream, I went out.” “You went out? You mean like unconscious? Or dead?” Abraham’s guts shivered a bit as those words crossed his mouth. “I don’t know, that’s the thing. I mean, that’s the thing that’s sort of freaking me out. I had the dream a couple of times now, Abraham. Only when I’m alone, though. Not when I’m sleeping with you. I think you make me feel safe.”

Well, that explains “what’s gotten into you.” The lay together in silence for awhile. Abraham felt better now that he knew, and Santos must have felt better, too, because his eyes started fluttering the way they did when he was falling asleep.

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“Stay with me, then. I don’t sleep as well when you’re not here, either, Santos.” He wasn’t ready to say what he really wanted to say, which was: I want you to move in with me. Come live with me and be my love. Be mine 4-ever. A box of candy Valentine’s hearts printed with pastel words of love floated through his mind, but he meant every word, he meant every phrase like the letters were made of fire. But he was afraid the words would change something between them, and if he said them, and it wasn’t right, he could ruin it. He could ruin them.

Santos had the courage to tell you about the mask, and the dream. You got the balls, Abraham? Are you man enough to take a chance, give him a set of keys, and help him move that ratty recliner he loves into the living room? Have you got the balls to risk losing him, and take a chance on having Santos Socorro wake up in your bed every morning? Abraham wasn’t sure. Would it be better to try and just keep it casual, no commitment, no pressure? Santos didn’t seem to be feeling the heavy weight of Abraham’s love like a yoke around his neck. If he really thought about it, he would guess that Santos was trying to tell him he wanted more. He wanted more love, more time. If Abraham had to guess, he would guess that his love for Santos Socorro would fill up the universe, with plenty to spare. Abraham’s knee was still a little sore in the morning, and Santos crawled out of bed stiff and groaning from his miraculous fall. He stood in the shower and let the hot water ease the aches, and Abraham fixed them a holiday breakfast -- fried eggs and bacon and a couple of pieces of chewy, whole grain toast with a decent lashing of butter. Santos came into the kitchen wearing clean sweats, smelling like sandalwood soap, his wet hair tangled and curling against his neck. His face was as relaxed and happy as Abraham had seen it in some time. Santos leaned forward for a kiss. “Mmmm, you taste good. Coffee and bacon.” He snagged a piece, and Abraham started dishing his eggs out of the pan. “I hope the cholesterol police don’t decide to arrest me.”

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“If we had a cholesterol police, Abraham, you’d be on their radar for sure.” Santos poured himself a cup of coffee, and then refilled Abraham’s cup. “I’d spend all my time fixing your tickets.” “How are the stigmata?” Santos opened and closed his hands a couple of times. “Everything’s working like it should.” Abraham set the plates on the table and sat down. “You know, Abraham, you’re a good cook.” Santos was on his second egg already. “Good old-fashioned food, like my grandmother makes. It’s not everybody who knows how to fry an egg in bacon grease.” Abraham shrugged. “That’s how my grandmother did it, in a big iron skillet.” “Have you ever made mole?” Abraham shook his head. “I was really surprised about no

mole this year for the tamales. I think this is the first time.” “She’s nearly eighty, Santos. Somehow her evil spirit makes her seem younger.” Santos laughed, and Abraham studied his handsome face. He was so very beautiful at unexpected times, almost shockingly so, like when he was lifting a cup of coffee to his mouth, laugh lines crinkling around his dark eyes. “You think I should make mole for the tamales?” Santos shrugged. “Bad mole is worse than no mole at all, Abraham. But I’ve never known you to cook anything that wasn’t perfect.” Abraham almost said, I will if you want me to, but then he realized that was like a curse. mole was a food made from love and time and tender care and kisses in the pot and of course, chocolate. A person had to give their heart, no reservations, to make mole, and let come what would come. Like loving a cop with a dangerous job and an evil grandmother, just loving him and hoping the love was enough to protect him. And knowing it probably wasn’t. “Have you ever had these dreams before, Santos?”

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“Once. My rookie year. I had this dream over and over, I was going up a dark staircase, and somebody rolled out from the top with a weapon. Nothing came of it, though, and they went away after awhile. My partner, he said most cops start drinking when they have dreams.” He smiled at Abraham. “I just come to you.” “Maybe I’ll try some mole. Will you taste it, tell me if it’s right before I bring it to Magdalena?” “Sure. But you don’t have to, Abraham. You’ve done plenty for my grandmother and the tamale project.” “What’s your favorite tamale?” “I like roast pork with fresh salsa verde. I think it’s because it’s so easy to get fresh stuff now, and I love the cilantro. When I was younger I went with the traditional, pork and beef with red chili sauce, chicken with mole, and the sweet tamales were little coronados, the size of a crab apple, made with sweet masa and butter and pineapple. I could sneak a couple out of the kitchen in the palm of my hand by the time I was four.” “Can you spend Christmas with me, Santos?” He smiled at Abraham across the kitchen table, and Abraham noticed suddenly how good the room smelled, coffee and bacon, how bright the morning sun looked coming through the window. “Yeah, I will. I’ll be here so much you’ll be sick of me.” “Like I could get sick of looking at the moon, or the stars in the night sky.” Abraham blushed suddenly. He couldn’t believe he would say such a thing out loud. Over eggs and bacon, no less. “Santos…” Santos reached for his hand, pressed a kiss into the palm, and whatever words Abraham had been about to say were stolen from his tongue.

*****

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They had a busy day scheduled at Aztec Gold. Besides the last-minute Christmas gifts and the usual High Tea crowd, today they were making the special-order Christmas cakes. A nod to tradition, there would be a lovely decoration of candied fruit, but there were no fruitcake orders. They would make and deliver thirty-seven Death by Chocolate cakes; fourteen Chocolate Volcanoes, which looked like traditional plum puddings; and new this year, twenty-eight two-person espresso-pecan brownies, which were actually big enough for four, but would probably be eaten by one. Abraham wanted anyone spending Christmas alone to have a dessert that was luscious and rich and sweet as a kiss, or, at least, that’s how he explained it to Manuel, who translated it into Spanish for the rest of the chefs. They all nodded, understanding passion, studied Abraham with a bit of additional respect. Mexican cake bakers had a deep, intuitive understanding of the relationship between passion and kisses and chocolate. The kitchen was well-organized and busy, the unmistakable smells of chocolate cakes baking luring customers in from the street. Emma was looking dewy and glowing, her smile a Christmas sun, and her sheik shadow, Fareed Obama, was parked at a small table in the corner, an improbable engineering textbook opened before him on the table. Whenever a group of elderly women approached the door, he dashed over, white robes fluttering, held the door, and bowed with awesome dignity. Abraham pulled up a chair and joined him. He was young. His fierce face, desert hawk nose, and black eyes couldn’t disguise to Abraham’s eyes that he was very young, and probably in way over his head -- with their young golden princess Diablo, and maybe just with being an Arab, alone in America. An elderly woman with a stiff helmet of gray hair put a frail hand on Abraham’s arm, a huge sapphire-and-diamond ring loose on her finger. “Abraham dear, he’s not studying to be a pilot, is he?” There were snuffles of laughter and polite titters from the table behind her. Fareed scowled and stared down at his textbook, and Abraham shook his head. “Petroleum engineering,” he said.

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“Ah, oil.” The table of elderly ladies nodded. Oil was a country with international borders and it included Dallas and Riyadh. Abraham turned back to the table and tapped the textbook. “Aren’t finals over for this semester, Fareed?” Fareed stared at the book, then he looked up and met Abraham’s eyes. “Yes, Mr. Green. They are.” “So, what are you doing here?” Abraham thought for a moment that he would slam shut Principles of Petroleum Engineering and stalk out of Aztec Gold, leap on his stallion, and ride off into the sunset, across the burning desert sands… Abraham gave himself a little shake. “Mr. Green, I just want to watch over her, because she may still be in danger, though she will not admit it. White slavery is not dead, Mr. Green.” Abraham felt his eyes glaze over a bit as Fareed explained in detail what he knew about the white slavery trade, and why Emma was a prime target to be kidnapped and stashed in some seedy souk in a back alley in Cairo. Oh, God, he was such a kid in love. The elderly ladies were listening carefully, eyes wide. Here was another one, as big a goofball as David and Diablo. Fareed was explaining the reasoning behind his choice of a sword as the proper weapon to defend Emma’s honor when Abraham interrupted him. “Fareed, listen. Would you be interested in a part-time job? Maybe today help deliver cakes, tomorrow night help us deliver tamales? You go with David, ten dollars an hour.” Fareed stood and bowed. “Mr. Green, you may be assured I will bring honor to Aztec Gold…” and there was quite a bit more. David would enjoy Fareed’s company, Abraham thought, trying hard not to gloat. In fact, he would have to say they deserved each other. Nutjob and Nitwit. They could, at the minimum, keep each other in check, and with some tamale delivery help, he and Santos would be home by midnight on Christmas Eve.

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David came up to the table, looking gorgeous and flushed from the heat of the ovens, and his apron said…and he can cook, too! “Abraham, Abraham, have you seen it? Oh my God, it’s gorgeous!” “Seen what?” “Your mask, bro! It’s awesome! Man, Santos exceeded himself on that mask.” “Exceeded himself? Where did you learn to speak English?” “Abraham, just tell me what you think!” “About what, David? Will you try to be a little less incoherent?” David stepped back, his hand clutching the neck of his apron. “Oh, no, he hasn’t given you the mask yet! He’s probably letting the paint dry.” “What is this mask?” Fareed asked, looking suspicious. “Nothing,” Abraham said. “Masks are saving Abraham and Santos’ love affair,” David explained, and every elderly lady in the shop turned to listen. “They wear masks when they make love, and it gives them the freedom to experiment and… Aak!” Abraham had a handful of apron and dragged David through the kitchen doors. “Would you shut up? You don’t know dick about me and Santos.” “Are you sure about that?” David had a smart ass smirk of the sort Abraham had hated since they were kids, when David would eavesdrop on their mother, talking on the telephone, and wouldn’t tell Abraham what he had overheard. “Don’t screw with me, David.” “I shouldn’t ruin the surprise.” Abraham pushed him back against the wall and held out his hand to Manuel. The Mexican chefs watched with interest, and Manuel passed him the cleaver. “I don’t like surprises.”

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David squeaked in alarm. “All right! It’s a silverback. He made you a silverback, Abraham.”

***** Abraham waited until the tea crowd staggered out, drunk on cacao, and David and Fareed had started their cake delivery rounds. He left Manuel in charge, stopped by a tiny Mexican market, and discussed mole with the men who were hanging around. When he left he was loaded down with poblano peppers, Mexican chocolate, cinnamon from Morocco, a couple of plantains, golden raisins, pecans, almonds, peanuts, tomatillos, fat red tomatoes, and a tiny bunch of fresh thyme. He had let all thoughts of gorillas wait until he got home, because a grown man could not break down and cry in a Mexican grocery store if he wanted to hear anything decent about mole. But he was a basket case. A gorilla. Santos had made him a gorilla mask. Abraham knew he had put on a few pounds in the years they had been together, and while he hadn’t looked at his own back in years, he had no reason to assume it was any less tangled and hairy than it had been the last time he had looked. He could understand it, actually, because he was faintly gorilla shaped and he was certainly hairy as a gorilla, and his face probably resembled a gorilla more than it resembled, say, George Clooney. Cooking was good for the nerves. He chopped peppers, tomatoes, tomatillos, onions; he used the best olive oil and got out the jumbo Crock-Pot -- a tip from Manuel, since he had left the mole until late and didn’t have the traditional three days to cook it. He chopped the nuts and plantains and raisins and fried them in olive oil, with cinnamon and cloves, and the smell of this mixture was so divine and so soothing to the soul that he nearly pulled out his cell and called Santos and promised he would be his slave forever, even if he had to wear a gorilla mask to do it. As it turned out he didn’t need to, because Santos called him a few minutes later. “Hey, baby. Why are you at home? Manuel said you’d gone to get mole ingredients.”

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“I’m cooking. I think if I can get everything into the Crock-Pot before we go to help with tamales tonight, and let it cook nonstop, it will be ready for tomorrow night. So what’s up?” “I just wondered if you wanted to get some dinner before we went to church.” “I could eat. But I better get the mole done.” “I could bring a pizza to your place.” “Great, thanks, Santos.” “Abraham?” Santos was quiet for a moment. “Abraham, I have never known David to keep his mouth shut. Ever. About anything.” “I believe you are correct in that, Santos Socorro.” He tried to keep his teeth from grinding together. Santos was laughing at him, the dickhead. “I’ll bring it. You’re gonna love it, I swear. Finish the mole and we might have time for pizza in bed.” The heat slithered down into Abraham’s belly. Why did Santos have to sound so sexy and desirable when he was trying to stay mad at him? Why did he have to sound like he wanted to make love, when his mask making had revealed how he really felt about… “Don’t think so much, Abraham. I’ll be there as soon as I can get there. I got a story to tell you, baby.” Abraham was starting to feel drugged into unwilling happiness by the smell of the

mole. He didn’t know what it was, some weird combination of cloves and chili peppers, garlic and cinnamon, roasting nuts and fat raisins in olive oil. Whatever it was, he felt like swooning with delight, and he was having a hard time staying mad at Santos Socorro. He heard the door open, and Santos put a box the size of an old-fashioned hatbox on the dining room table and came into the kitchen. “Hey, it’s starting to smell like mole in here!”

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Abraham’s mouth dropped open. Santos was wearing sweats, not the work clothes he had left in this morning, and he was limping. And he had a long piece of white Telfa taped to his forehead. “What happened to you?” “Attacked by a pit bull, and then I got tangled up in a razor wire fence trying to get away. My partner tasered the little shit.” “Pete zapped a dog?” “Only so she wouldn’t sink her jaws into my throat. She’s in police custody now, along with the dirt bag who set her on me.” Santos leaned over Abraham’s shoulder, stirred the nuts and raisins and plantains in the frying pan. “You’re making it the old way? Did you get fresh chili powder, or…” Abraham stared at him in disbelief again. “Chili powder? No, honey. I’ve got peppers grilling right now.” Santos looked around the kitchen, lifted the lid just a bit on the George Foreman grill. “There they are.” Abraham moved the frying pan to a cool burner and opened up the grill. “I’m gonna put everything in the Crock-Pot together so it can simmer for a couple of hours, then put it in the blender, then back in the Crock-Pot for overnight. Why are you limping?” Santos pulled up the leg of his sweats. More bandages. “Dog bites really hurt, Abraham.” Despite his near mauling, Santos appeared to be in a very good mood, a little cocky in his walk, the way he got when he was feeling wild and horny. Abraham pulled out a kitchen chair and Santos sat down. “Okay, tell me all about it. You off duty now? Want something to drink?” “I’ll take a DP if you have one.”

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Of course he had one. Santos always drank a Dr. Pepper out of the glass bottle when something happened, in some secret cop ritual involving near-escapes with violence, so Abraham always kept some in the fridge. After he gave Santos his DP he lifted the chili peppers off the grill, slid them into a small brown paper bag while Santos popped the top on his soda and began his story. “We were looking for some guns and other stuff stolen from a pawn shop. We got a tip about this guy called Eddie Bones. He’s got these tattoos of bones, like, anatomically correct bones, the arm bone over his arm, like that.” “His face, too?” Santos grinned. “Yeah. He looks crazy and mean, Abraham, and those two pit bulls of his are just as crazy and mean. One’s white, one’s black. Anyway, so we got the tip from this weasel that Eddie Bones did the pawn shop job. His place, it looks like a fortress -- ghetto fortress, you know? House falling down, plywood nailed over the windows, and the whole thing is surrounded by a big chain link fence with razor wire at the top.” “How’d you get in?” “Pete can work a lock, man. He loves to get a chance to use his tools. And he carries a pair of bolt cutters just in case the tools don’t work. That’s a secret, though. Don’t tell the unfriendlies. So we knock on the door like a couple of gentleman cops. Eddie Bones shouts out, ‘Get off my property, you fucking cops!’ He opens up this tiny window like a slit, a gun turret, man, carved out of the front wall of the house. ‘“We just want to talk to you about some guns missing from Lucky Seven Pawn over on Twenty-fourth,’ I say, nice as pie. Next thing I know, the door flies open and these two little demons come leaping out. Now, here’s the part I don’t get, Abraham. They both make straight for me! Pete’s standing there as big as life and they both go for me! They grab my ankles and I go down. My pants get ripped to shreds and the little black one, he’s working down to the bone! I hit him on the top of my head with my gun.

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“Pete’s looking in the open door, but he can’t decide if he should go in alone after Eddie Bones or come help me. Then the white one decides to go for my throat. I’m holding her off and I pop her on the head with my gun but it just makes her mad. So I’m screaming for Pete because I can’t hold her, she’s a wiggler and she’s got these blood red eyes staring down at me and dog drool dripping off her fangs and she’s getting close to my trachea, man. “Pete zaps her in the ass, and I start to get up, but here comes the little black one, shaking off the bonk on the head. He heads for me, so I jump for the chain link fence, and I get almost to the top when I get tangled in the razor wire. It’s like it wraps itself around my head, Abraham. I stop moving, cause I’m about to scalp myself. “So here comes Eddie Bones, howling out into the yard after his dogs. ‘What did you fucking do to Ann Coulter?’ Strange name for a dog, but, hey, men and their dogs, I mean, I’m not one to pass judgment. So anyway, Pete puts him down and gets the cuffs on, zaps the little black one, calls for backup. The whole time I’m hanging from the fence, man, my head stuck in the razor wire. I can’t move or I’m dead, Abraham. The fire department had to come cut me down. Those fuckheads, you should have heard them laughing. Said I looked like Jesus Christ hanging from the cross.” Abraham was appalled. He really couldn’t understand Santos’ good mood. He could have lost an eye, he could have… Abraham stood suddenly and ripped the Telfa from his forehead. Santos just grinned up at him. “Holy shit. Santos…” The razor wire cuts were a ring of tiny punctures and lacerations, right across the center of his forehead, just as if he had been wearing a crown of thorns. “Grandma was right, Abraham. Twice in two days I could have been killed, and I walked away safe. All I got was…” Santos opened and closed his hands into fists. “Yeah. Stigmata.” Abraham started seeding and peeling the still-warm peppers, adding them to the Crock-Pot, and he felt peace inching up his back, to his shoulders, felt himself relax and be

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happy. Santos was here, he was here, the mole was here, the gorilla mask was here. They were okay. Just a smidge on the different side, but they were okay. Santos came up behind him, wrapped long arms around Abraham’s chest. He nuzzled a bit at his neck, took a gentle bite out of an earlobe. Abraham turned to look at him, and Santos propped his chin on Abraham’s shoulder. His face was so beautiful up close, eyes so warm and dark, like melting bittersweet chocolate. He smiled, and Abraham noticed the lines around his eyes, the laugh lines, the new lines of age. His belly felt a little hollow. That’s where he felt everything -- love, lust, pain -- in his belly. Santos’ mouth was full and soft under the moustache, and he told Abraham once that his mouth was too soft, that he’d had to grow the moustache so the unfriendlies feared him a little. Abraham thought it was probably because everyone who ever saw that mouth wanted to kiss it. And he was the one Santos chose. It was his mouth that Santos Socorro chose to kiss. The hollow flutter in his belly got stronger, and he leaned over and took a taste of his mouth. Santos’ lips were cold and sweet from the soda, but they warmed up under Abraham’s, and he opened to a tongue sliding between his teeth, opened his mouth and closed his eyes and sighed, and Abraham felt love flood over him. When Santos lifted his head, he smiled again and rested his chin on Abraham’s shoulder. “You know something? It’s been seven years since I slept with another man. We’ve been together a long time now.” “Has it been that long?” Abraham stuck his hands under the faucet and rinsed off pepper seeds. “Sometimes it feels like just yesterday. Like I don’t know you at all yet. Like I could lose you…” “Just that fast.” Santos finished the sentence for him. “But you can’t, Abraham. So. You know anything about the Central Highlands of Africa?”

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Abraham put down the tomato he was chopping and turned into Santos’ arms. “Well, let’s see. Isn’t that where the Mountain Gorillas live, pending extinction? I’m not going to have to wear it, am I?” “Nope. Just try it on once. It’s really a mask to hang on the wall and look at. To remind you…” “Remind me of what?” “Of who you are, to all of us. To me, and David and Diablo and her boy sheik, and even to my grandmother, though you don’t know it. You’re our silverback. You’re the one who watches over us, who protects us. You make us a family.” Santos shrugged. “You’re the silverback, that’s all.” Abraham gave him the eye. “And I love your hairy back, so don’t even start. Hey, you got me feeling hot, all that sweet kissing. Let me help you chop some tomatoes so we can get the mole in the CrockPot.” “So I’m the silverback. Who are you, when you wear your mask?” He thought about this for a moment. “I am the man who needs to say something.” He didn’t say anything else, and Abraham was given to understand that he had better do some serious thinking if he was going to have a clue what Santos Socorro needed to say. Santos chopped tomatoes, and Abraham scooped up the nuts and raisin and plantains. When they had all the ingredients tossed in together, he and Santos washed their hands and kissed, dried them on paper towels and kissed, walked hand in hand into the dining room and kissed again. He lifted the lid on the hat box. The gorilla mask -- no, he reminded himself, the silverback mask -- was bigger than he was expecting, so dark, with only a streak or two of silver in the hair. It was strangely appealing. He had wise and gentle eyes, and the face looked strong, not crude. Abraham liked how big it was, how powerful. He remembered

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Diablo’s little lecture to them in the kitchen on masks, how you could use a mask to try on a different identity. He carried it into the bedroom, lifted it up to his face, and stared at himself in the dresser mirror. It was a shock, so dark, powerful, and a little brutal. This was a silverback that was used to being obeyed. Right. Abraham almost laughed out loud. If he wore the mask into Aztec Gold, would David and Diablo hop to it with a bit more vigor? He doubted it. Santos looked at him, grinning, started pulling his sweatshirt over his head. This was a silverback that was used to being obeyed. This silverback would never worry about losing his partner to another man! Such a thing was inconceivable! This silverback would reach out and take what was his. So he reached out for Santos Socorro, pulled him over by his wrist. Santos stared into the mask. “What are you looking for, Santos?” “I’m looking for you, Abraham. I can’t see you.” “I’m here.” Abraham put the mask back down on the dresser. “I like the mask. Makes me feel powerful. Like I could crawl all over you, fuck you until you smell like me, and no one else will ever get near you again. Thanks, Santos. It’s good. It’s a good Christmas present.” Santos grinned at him. “Hey, I have something for you, too.” “Really?” “I want to give you your present now. Is that okay?” His heart was beating so fast he felt short of breath, could barely get the words out. Just do it… Santos shrugged, smiling. “Sure, Abraham.” Abraham opened up the top drawer of the dresser, handed Santos a key ring with a couple of keys. “I want you to move in with me. Live with me. I’ve wanted to ask you for awhile now, Santos, but I didn’t…”

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“You’re not going to lose me. I can move in on Christmas if you want. I have the day off.” And all Abraham’s fretting and worry fell away like dried rose petals caught on the wind, and he could see that Santos was happy, and that this was good. A silverback sort of present. “Once I’ve got you, I may not ever let you go.” Santos was putting the keys on his key ring. He looked up and smiled, and Abraham took a deep breath, and felt his heart rate slow back down to normal. “So don’t let me go.” “You know which side of the bed is yours?” “Yeah, I do.” Abraham reached over, hefted Santos’ cock in his hand, curled his fingers around it. He could feel him start to rise and harden in his hand. “Tell me what you would say if you were wearing the mask.” “I guess I would tell you not to worry so much. To go ahead and take a chance, because I’ll never walk away from you. But I don’t need to say that, do I, Abraham? You just gave me a set of keys, and invited me into your life.” Santos leaned into him, twisted his fingers into the hem of Abraham’s sweatshirt, slid warm hands up inside. “Hey. I know what you like.” Those hands were sliding down now, and Abraham could feel Santos’ cock give a lurch and a thud in his hand. “I know how to fill the places you feel empty.” Abraham looked up at him, smiled a little when he saw how dark Santos’ eyes were, how huge his cock had become. His mouth was fuller and softer, red, the way it got when he was turned on. Abraham reached his fingers for Santos’ mouth, traced his lips, and Santos took a little nip out of a fingertip, then another, grinning. “I know how to make you happy. Get undressed, Abraham.” Abraham watched the lean lines of his back and hips, the smooth round ass, and the dark hair that started on the back of his thighs. Santos looked around at him, and Abraham tugged his sweatshirt off.

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He carried his clothes into the bathroom, tossed them into the dirty clothes hamper, stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. Just for a moment he saw a trace of a ferocious mountain gorilla, powerful and free, the responsibilities of his tribe resting lightly on huge, strong shoulders. He walked back into the bedroom, picked up his mask and held it up to his face. Santos looked strange through the small eye holes, like he was moving in slow motion, or under water. He turned around and stared at Abraham, then he reached under the bed, pulled out his gym bag, and picked up his mask. Santos lay back across the bed, elegant and lean, slipped the mask over his face, and they looked at each other for a long moment. They went together, Abraham realized. The masks were a pair, both African, and Santos had made himself a mask that was smaller than Abraham’s. The silverback was huge. Santos’ mask was meant for a head that would bow in supplication. “Santos, you said I would never lose you. But I might have. I lost my nerve about us. I thought it was too risky, that to keep what we had was enough. That it was safer than risking everything, and losing you.” Santos was quiet and still on the bed. “But I won’t lose my nerve again.” Abraham put the mask down, walked over to the bed, and Santos rolled over, gave Abraham his back, bent his head down. Abraham climbed on the bed, mounted him, his thick square hands on Santos’ hips. Abraham could hear a sigh, warm breath whistling through the mask, and Santos leaned back into him. So Abraham took what was his. His body was shaking with the urge to plunge roughly inside, but that he would never do. This man belonged to him, and he would treat him with tenderness. His hands on Santos’ ass were gentle, and he eased him open, eased inside, slid into his wet heat until they were seated together, his cock plunged into Santos’ body up to the root.

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Santos was on his hands and knees, and he looked back over his shoulder at Abraham. The mask was primitive, a blank face -- no feeling, no melting warm eyes. Abraham waited, not saying anything, his hands on Santos’ waist holding them together, a slow, deep throb in his cock. Santos reached up and pulled off the mask, and underneath his face was damp and flushed with color, his mouth as red as a pomegranate, eyes huge and black. This was the man that belonged to Abraham. Santos watched him over his shoulder when he started moving, the hair on his forehead tangled and damp, watched his face when Abraham started taking him, started fucking him, started loving him, and then he bent his head down again, and rested his forehead on the pillow. Abraham ran his hands over every inch of Santos’ skin he could reach, and when his hands slid up to the back of his neck, under his silky curls, and he felt how fragile and tender that neck was, the skin damp and hot, how precious the life running under the skin, the blood vessels like rivers, he was caught, passion leaping in his belly, wrapping around his throat, he was caught and thrown over, exploding, like a man taking a leap from the top of a dam, into the tumbling deadly waters below. He pulled Santos back into his arms, let him kiss the tears and sweat from his face. And Santos reached down and pulled the quilt up over their shoulders so they could sleep. When Abraham woke up, he slid out of bed and went into the bathroom so he could have a couple of minutes alone. He stared at himself in the mirror. He looked the same. In the shower, the body he was soaping up looked the same. Why did he feel like the glaciers had moved? Then Santos stuck his head in, climbed into the shower with him, and picked up the soap. “Come on, let’s play. We’ve got two hours before we have to be at San Juan Capistrano and I just called the pizza kid.” Abraham goggled at him. “You called the pizza kid? Are you kidding me? He’ll be here in twenty minutes!”

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Santos nodded. “I’ve had a boner since I got the new stigmata. This shouldn’t take long. And Abraham, I’ve known you for a long time now. Don’t tell me you can’t fuck and eat pizza at the same time.” Abraham thought about this, then made a silverback decision. “Fine, but you answer the door and you pay.” “Agreed.” Santos tugged him into the bedroom, and he climbed onto his bed. Santos had already turned the quilt back down, and he pulled his baby into his arms. Oh, this was bliss. This was as close to heaven as he ever wanted to get, his body wrapped around every long inch of Santos Socorro, who was sighing and wiggling, the lines of his back as sleek as a beaver, his head burrowing against Abraham’s neck, soft mouth, rough hair, and Santos raised his hips and thrust against him, cock sliding against cock, then thrust again, harder and faster, his hands trembling, and Abraham wrapped his legs around him, wrapped his arms tightly around his shoulders. “I love you.” He buried his mouth in Santos’ hair to say it, so he wouldn’t hear and be distracted, but he heard, and Abraham heard him groan, sweet and dark, and start to come, his cock shuddering and bucking. Abraham reached into the bedside table for a handkerchief. Santos was sprawled, limp and exhausted, in his arms, the sweat running down his face. Abraham carefully blotted his forehead, where the sweat and the sex had caused the holy one’s stigmata to start bleeding again. They lay together for a few minutes, blissful and warm, then Santos revived, climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom, pulled on his sweats and got a twenty out of his wallet and shoved it into his pocket. “That kid’s usually fast.” “Not as fast as you! What’d you get on the pizza?” “Italian sausage, onions, green peppers.” “Yum.”

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Santos came back from the bathroom with a warm wet washcloth and sponged the sticky come off Abraham’s belly. “Now, David, he would suggest we invite the pizza boy in for a little different sort of tip. Actually, I suspect that kid would prefer cash to fucking around with a couple of old guys like us.” “I think you’re right. Plus, I think he’s been in the shop giving Emma the eyeball, if it’s the same pizza kid as usual.” “So what’s with the boy sheik?” “Fareed? What a… He’s convinced Emma is a target for white slavers. He’s trying to find a sword, for God’s sake.” “Has he met Diablo yet?” Abraham chewed on his bottom lip. “Actually, I don’t think so. Oh, God.” “You’ll probably need police presence for that one.” The doorbell rang, and Santos padded out to the living room in bare feet. Abraham heard the low conversation, and when the door closed again Santos came back into the bedroom with the pizza box and sat cross legged on the bed. “Oh, wait, paper towels. You’ll have a fit if we get grease on the sheets.” Abraham didn’t think he was capable of having a fit. His heart rate had slowed to about fifty, peace stealing through his chest from watching the happy face of Santos Socorro, a slow throb of anticipation through his cock. Was this what it would be like? Pizza in bed and all the time in the world? Not like it had been -- somebody would get a blow job, somebody would get a hand job, a kiss and a snuggle, and he would go home alone, they would meet up the next morning for the B-ball game. This was good, chatting and eating pizza and his turn was coming up, and Santos would be sleeping on his side of the bed tonight. Abraham blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling, wondering if he should drop to his knees and give thanks to Magdalena’s Holy Ghost. He’d read a mystery once; a Chinese detective wrote a prayer on a piece of paper, then set it on fire, and the spirit of the prayer rose into the air like

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smoke. “Thanks,” he said to the ceiling, and laughed when Santos said, from the end of the bed, “You’re welcome,” and handed him a paper towel and a piece of sausage pizza. “I’ve been feeling restless, Abraham. But it wasn’t because I wanted somebody else. I wanted more of you. I wanted us to move it up a notch. Maybe you liked things casual, didn’t want more. But I just couldn’t let it go. So I decided to push things a bit. I go out to the gay mask-making club, cruising right in front of your baby brother, like he could ever keep anything secret. I thought you’d kick my ass or something, but you just played along! Like…” “Like you were mine to lose.” The pizza was good. They ate in silence, and Abraham was happy to see the holy one’s appetite was vigorous. Santos stopped after one huge piece, though. “Pizza, fucking, more pizza, tamales,” he said, wiping his mouth with the paper towel. “Uh, Santos. I think I’ll wait.” “Really, Abraham?” He scooted up the bed, snuggled his head into the pillow and slung an arm around Abraham’s waist. “Everything okay? I’ve been so busy thinking about my own deal, baby. You okay?” “Yeah.” Abraham took another bite of pizza, looked over at his beautiful face, dark eyes fixed on him. “Tomorrow’s Christmas Eve, and I’m not sure I’ve gotten everything done. I’m feeling…worn to the bone.” Quiet fell over the room, and Santos waited. “Having you here with me, I’ll sleep better, I think. You’d be surprised the number of times I’m staring at the ceiling at four in the morning, trying to remember if I’ve forgotten something.” “I wouldn’t be surprised. We’ll both sleep better together. Maybe we’ll take that weekend off after the holidays, Abraham.” “I could go for a weekend off.” Abraham wiped his hands on a paper towel, slid down on the pillow until he was nose to nose with Santos Socorro. He could feel his breath against his mouth, smell pizza and skin, and a stray curl of black hair fell over Santos’ forehead, an

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inch from Abraham’s eyes. He thought this face was the most beautiful face, other than the stigmata adoring the forehead. Santos was smiling at him. “What is it?” His voice was sleepy. “I wonder if you can make those cuts bleed again. That would be the best, if the blood started dripping from the stigmata right in front of the Tamale Mafia.” Santos laughed, leaned forward and pressed his warm mouth to Abraham’s. “So this is what it’s going to be like? Too tired to fuck, so we get to take a nap instead?” Santos closed his eyes, smiling. “Well, you are forty, Abraham.”

***** They sat on the steps of San Juan Capistrano and had a beer, Shiner Bock again, because that was Santos’ favorite. It was cooler than it had been, and the night was dark already. They were waiting for David, who was bringing Emma or Diablo, whoever she was tonight, and Fareed. Tonight was the big night; the tamales would be put together, masa and filling and sauce, rolled and tied and stacked. They would be steamed tomorrow, delivered hot. Magdalena had sent word that, with the success of the chocolate tamales, Abraham could work on the masa with Maria Aguilar. He had been promoted. David pulled up, and Abraham determined not to mention the sharp turn into the parking lot that had nearly tipped the van onto two wheels. David’s gourmet chef’s gear tonight included a black silk turtleneck and black chef’s pants decorated with flying winged pigs. Fareed was in his usual pristine white robes with a red-and-white-checked cloth on his head, which reminded Abraham of the tablecloth in an Italian restaurant. He was determined to not say anything about that out loud, either. They were all going to get along tonight. Abraham frowned at Emma, motioned her over. She was wearing some floaty-looking dress, cream with little purple flowers that buttoned demurely up the front, and she was

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carrying an old, lace-edged handkerchief. He caught a whiff of violets. “Did you get the gift boxes together?” “Yes, Mr. Green. We’ve got everything in the van.” “And the espresso truffles for Father Jessup?” She nodded. “You and Fareed give them out to the ladies, okay?” He was standing three feet behind her, ramrod straight. “Fareed doesn’t have a sword on him, does he, Emma?” “No, Mr. Green. I convinced him the strength of his arms alone was enough to protect me.” She was wearing a bit of a smirk. “Emma, you’re not torturing him, are you?” She shook her head. “Oh, that reminds me. Do you know if our health insurance plan covers birth control pills?” Abraham pointed to the van. “Diablo, get to work.” He could feel his blood pressure spiking. “What is she doing, channeling Tennessee Williams?” “Probably.” He could see Emma complaining to David about him. David looked over at him and shook his head sadly. Santos kept his hand on Abraham’s shoulder. “Fareed might be the first Muslim to visit San Juan Capistrano! I’ll take him for a little tour of the crucifixes if you want. Give him a fatherly sort of safe sex talk. Like, no sex is the only safe sex.” “Excellent plan. What have you been assigned to do?” “Wrap and tie. That’s as far away from you as I could be put, I think. We really need to put David down there. It takes nimble fingers to wrap and tie a tamale with a piece of corn husk.”

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Magdalena must have had the same idea, because she sent David off to the wrapping table after a long moment of staring blankly at his pants. All the ladies stopped their work to look at Fareed. He bowed gravely back at them, then retreated to Abraham’s heels for protection. Emma tucked her hanky away in a tiny pocket and proceeded to hand out small boxes of truffles with her charming smile. She was really so lovely. Abraham spared a glance at Fareed, who could not take his eyes off her, and was clearly suffering. “Come on. We’ll show you around. You ever been in an old Catholic church before?” Fareed glanced at him, his dark eyes wary. “No, Mr. Green. I don’t believe so. But perhaps some of my ancestors have.” Abraham grinned and slapped him on the back. He wasn’t sure a joke about the fall of Jerusalem to the Saracen horde would go over well with Father Jessup, but he thought just a touch of a sense of humor would do Fareed well in his relationship with Emma. Santos was trying to avoid his grandmother, but David let out a shriek and alerted the Tamale Mafia that more miraculous stories were imminent. “Oh, my God! What happened?” Magdalena seemed to appear on the spot out of thin air, and she brushed Santos’ hair aside and gave a horse shout in Spanish. Stigmata! The word spread and all the tamale work stopped, while Santos gave a slightly edited version of his encounter with Eddie Bones and his pit bulls. He was able to pull away by saying he had promised Fareed a tour of San Juan Capistrano, but Abraham could see the women and David were happy to see him go, so they could have some privacy to discuss the latest miracle. Magdalena had an odd, faraway look on her face. Abraham thought she was considering the application for sainthood, and when her beady eyes fixed on him, they both had the same thought: Santos Socorro would never be credited with his miracles, as long as he was sleeping in Abraham Green’s bed.

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Santos was pulling on his arm. “Come on, Abraham. Let’s show Fareed St. Sebastian’s nook.” Santos gave them a tour of the most gruesome and bloody crucifixes and saint’s relics, giving Fareed to understand that most of the sinners depicted with horrific injuries and tortures were probably engaging in premarital sex with young theater majors from San Antonio. By the time they got to St. Sebastian’s nook, Fareed looked pale and a little nauseated. The three of them crowded in together, and Santos gently pushed Fareed closer to the gruesome painting. “Take a good look at this painting, Fareed. It’s a very important story in the Catholic faith. You know Emma’s Catholic, right?” “She told me she doesn’t go…” Santos cut him off with a wave of his hand. “Fareed, Fareed. You didn’t believe that? She was born into the church, my friend.” He gestured to the picture. “Now, St. Sebastian here fell in love with the daughter of the local baker…” Abraham was chewing on his bottom lip, trying not to grin, when Fareed’s glance dropped to the magnificent Italian cock between the legs of St. Sebastian. “He’s like an Arabian stallion!” Fareed looked at Abraham, his eyes wide. “Not Jewish either, I see. Italian, you say?” “Long as that cock was, Fareed, it didn’t do him any good with thirty-three arrows piercing his flesh in retribution for his treatment of the baker’s daughter…” Fared was backing out of the nook. “But, Detective Socorro, why did they make him a saint, if he was this ravisher of the baker’s daughter?” And he plowed into Father Jessup, standing frozen in shock at the young Arab sheik emerging from St. Sebastian’s nook. Father Jessup was a bit querulous when he came around this time. Abraham had sent Fareed back to the kitchen to get Father’s espresso truffles and a beer out of the cooler, so he was able to speak freely. “Santos, your grandmother sent me to find you, so I could document

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the newest stigmata. Very authentic looking, too, if I do say so myself. And I find you huddled in St. Sebastian’s nook with a Jew and an Arab, doing…” His voice, already incredulous, petered out in disbelief. “Santos, these shocks are going to kill me!” “We were praying for peace in the Middle East, Father.” “No, you weren’t. If I had to guess, I would say you were grabbing Abraham’s ass and telling that poor boy some tall tale to keep him away from Emma!” Father Jessup shook his head. “I can see you’ve never had children, Santos.” Abraham and Santos exchanged a look. “This heavy-handed…” But he stopped, because Fareed was back, and he had Emma with him. Abraham watched her work, fussing over the old man, who enjoyed the attention very much. Definitely Tennessee Williams, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was trying a faint southern accent. He shook his head. Fareed was toast. Santos gave a little jerk of his head, and he followed him out of Father Jessup’s study. “I swear, Abraham, I’m ready to bolt. Let’s get done with these tamales and go home.” They headed back to the kitchen. Santos was pulling on his chin. “Abraham, do you know who David is dating now?” “No, I don’t know. Why? Have you seen him with someone?” Santos hesitated. “I hate to say anything, but I hate to ask him about it even more, to tell you the truth. But I’ve seen him twice with this same guy. Bald head. Long red robes.” Abraham stopped in his tracks. “A monk? A Buddhist monk?” Santos gave him that shushing gesture with his hands. “Let’s just see what we can find out before we jump to any conclusions. But, yeah, a Buddhist monk.” “Santos, the guy must be a con artist! Buddhist monks don’t have sex, do they?” “I don’t really know, Abraham. We’ll look it up on the Internet.”

*****

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Abraham woke up happy on Christmas Eve morning, with Santos Socorro’s nose buried in his left armpit. The apartment was flooded with the rich dark smell of mole cooking, and Santos took a taste and rolled his eyes and grinned. “My grandmother is gonna have a fit. Your mole is better than hers, Abraham.” He put three kisses into the pot, to make sure the

mole had love from a Spanish soul. Abraham indulged in his secret delight, the second shower, and sent Santos off to work with a good breakfast of oatmeal, loaded with butter and brown sugar and pecans and golden raisins, and Santos kissed Abraham for two minutes at the door before he left. Abraham put on a subtle Christmas tie, elegant dull gold that looked good with his eyes. They were all switching to tailored clothes today, since most of their customers would be hysterical businessmen trying to salvage the holiday with a gift of expensive chocolate. David looked particularly good in a navy blue blazer, charcoal flannels, and a crisp white shirt. Abraham had already nixed the Looney Tunes tie, but he didn’t trust David an inch. A couple of years ago his tie had copulating boy angels, and Abraham had not noticed it until closing. Fareed and Emma arrived together, and Abraham could see that Fareed approved of Emma dressed in a discreetly tailored knee-length blue skirt. What, was he sleeping in his car outside her apartment? The tidy state of his white robes suggested not. Surely he wasn’t staying…? After Santos’ warnings? No, impossible. They were busy, even busier than Abraham expected, raking in the Christmas bucks through smart thinking and hard work. The Mexican chefs noticed, and when they all left for the day with their Christmas bonuses, Abraham felt like the hard and stressful holiday season, made worse by the curse of Magdalena Socorro, was reaching a satisfactory conclusion. Santos was happy and sleeping in his bed, and he’d put the condo keys on his key ring without a blink. Tonight they would deliver tamales, and then they would go home together, sleep together, eat together, love together. Start their life together.

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He left a message on Santos’ cell when he left Aztec Gold for San Juan Capistrano. They had both vans. He was driving one and David was driving the other. He wanted to have a little fatherly talk with Diablo, but she was avoiding him and Fareed was dogging his heels. Fareed confided that David made him nervous, and he didn’t understand what he was talking about most of the time. “Do you have plans for the holiday, Fareed? I know it’s not a holiday you celebrate at home.” “Emma is taking me to dinner at her grandparents’ house.” “She is? Wow. Are you nervous?” Fareed shook his head. “I’ve known them forever. My grandfather and Emma’s grandfather were business partners in an oil drilling business a long time ago, wildcatters. Emma was a real pest when she was a little girl, and I can’t say that she’s changed very much.” Abraham was so shocked that he couldn’t think what to say. “Fareed, have you met Diablo?” He made a little hissing noise between his teeth. “I see.” “And you, Mr. Green? Do you have plans for the holiday?” “Santos Socorro is moving in with me.” Fareed stared through the windshield. “When you save ‘moving in,’ do you mean…” “We’re lovers, Fareed. In love. Partners.” “Ah.” When they pulled into the parking lot, Abraham could see that Santos wasn’t there yet. Fareed carried the Crock-Pot of mole into the kitchen.

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Magdalena gave him a sharp look, then the ladies descended on it, tasted it with little spoons, and there was a spirited discussion in Spanish that ended with the forceful voice of Magdalena Socorro. She ripped a few tiny leaves of fresh thyme off the bunch offered by Maria Aguilar. Lucy stirred them in, then Magdalena moved off without a word. Lucy gave him a wink, started ladling the mole into small, Styrofoam pint containers with lids. When Magdalena was out of sight, Lucy crooked her finger at him. “It’s wonderful, Abraham! All the ladies want to take some home! Maria Aguilar said to be sure and save some for her.” Abraham kissed her cheek. “Thanks, Lucy. My first mole.” She patted his cheek with her soft old hand. “You have a Spanish soul, Abraham.” They had David’s van almost loaded. He was taking Emma and Fareed to help with deliveries. Abraham would take Santos. Where was he? His cell phone started ringing, and it was Pete, Santos’ partner. “Abraham? Okay, now, Abraham, don’t panic.” He felt so lightheaded for a moment that he thought he might faint, black spots dancing in front of his eyes, but Magdalena was there, her sharp fingers digging into his arm. “What is it? Where is he? I’ve had a terrible feeling all day.” “We’re at St. Mary’s, in the ER, but he’s fine, Abraham. There’s releasing him right now, and I’m going to drive him out to you. He said he doesn’t want to go home, but I…” “Pete? Pete, put Santos on the phone, would you?” Abraham thought his voice was very rational and calm, but the ladies in earshot all stopped their work and turned to stare at him. Magdalena dug her fingers in a bit harder. “Well, Abraham, the doctor is just finishing…” and in the background Abraham heard, “Ouch! That hurts!”

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Okay, that was him, he was conscious and talking. Abraham took a deep breath, and then Maria Aguilar was behind him with a chair, pushing him down. “Sit down before you fall down, Abraham,” she said, sounding just like a high school English teacher. Pete gave Santos the phone. “Abraham, wait for me. I’m coming.” “What happened?” Santos hesitated. “I’ve got a broken rib. I fell down some stairs.” “Like the stairs in your dream?” “Yeah. I’ll explain when I get there.” His voice was tight, like he couldn’t breathe right, and Abraham could hear how upset he was. “Santos, take some pain medicine.” “Abraham…” “Please take some pain medicine now. Don’t let…the ladies see you hurting, Santos.” Magdalena’s hand on his arm was shaking a bit now. “Okay, you’re right. Abraham, I got scared. I really scared myself.” “Want to tell me about it?” “Later. Watch over my grandmother until I get there?” “I believe I can manage that.” “Hey, I got the last stigmata. A monster bruise right over my heart.” “I’ll alert the media!” And Abraham was relieved to hear a chuckle and Santos sounding more like himself again. “Let me go track down some morphine. Later, baby.” When he hung up he turned to look at Magdalena. She looked every day of seventynine, and so shaky and sick looking he thought she was only upright by an act of sheer will. “Abraham, drive me to the hospital. Do you have a driver’s license?”

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Magdalena had never learned to drive. “Yes, I do, but Santos is on the way here now. His partner is bringing him.” “He’s hurt? What happened? Why is he coming here?” “He knows you’ll worry unless you see him. He’s okay, just took a tumble. Probably those dog bites on his ankle made him fall. He says he’s okay. Let’s just wait until we see him.” The word spread quickly among the ladies that Santos had fallen and broken his rib. They finished packing the tamales in Styrofoam coolers, and the names and addresses were taped to the top. The ladies divided the delivery duties, agreeing between themselves that Santos probably should not lift anything heavy with a broken rib, and of course Abraham needed to be with him. When he limped into the kitchen of San Juan Capistrano fifteen minutes later, there was a collective gasp of shock at how bad he looked, like he’s been at war, Lucy said, and Magdalena was allowed first crack at him, hugging him gently and inspecting the injuries. He was wearing charcoal gray dress slacks and a white shirt. When Abraham had seen him last, the shirt had been beautifully ironed and adorned with a Christmas tie in lovely cranberry red silk. The tie was gone, and white shirt was untucked and unbuttoned, wrinkled and smudged with dirt. His chest was wrapped around with a white bandage of some kind, which Magdalena immediately removed, claiming that Santos couldn’t breathe properly, and he let her, speaking to her gently in Spanish. The room was dead quiet, then a collective gasp went up when the last stigmata came into view. A dark purple bruise the size of his fist, with an angry-looking abrasion over the top. Magdalena stared at it, not speaking, and Maria Aguilar came to her, put her arm around her shoulders, and Santos made his escape. “Hey, baby.”

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Abraham kissed him, looked into his dark eyes. He looked tired and a little shaky. “Santos, let’s go home. The tamales are already on the road. It’s all taken care of.” “I can help, Abraham.” “Let’s go home.” And he didn’t protest again, just let Abraham lead him out to the van, strap him carefully in, and close the door. “Don’t get in a wreck on the way home, Abraham. I’ll never live it down if the fire department has to cut me out of the Aztec Lovemobile.” “What happened?” “You remember the dream I told you about? I’ve been thinking about it today, I don’t know why. Just this weird feeling of foreboding or something. So when me and Pete got the call about some kids playing with guns, my stomach just knotted up, man. I thought, oh, shit,

here we go. The lady who called it in, she said some kids were playing with guns, and I guess the message got mixed up because she said later that she told the operator she thought they had toy guns, but she wasn’t sure. We were just supposed to go talk to her, take a statement, and find out what was going on. But it was like my stomach knew something was about to happen. The staircase was the same, Abraham, just exactly like the one from my dream. I felt like a big hand was squeezing my chest. So we start up the stairs, and I’m almost at the top, and one of the kids rolls out from the top, starts screaming, “Pow! Pow! Pow!” pointing a gun at me and pretending to fire. I could see he was just a kid, seven or eight. I don’t remember what I did next, but Pete said I jumped and rolled, and fell backward down the stairs. It was an old staircase, and I grabbed for the handrail and it came off in my hand. I landed on the edge of it. That’s what broke my rib. It was like my nerve failed me, Abraham. That’s never happened to me before. I think I worried about it so much, I made it happen.” “I worry like that sometimes. What did the kids do?” “They all came running downstairs, gathered around me, and you never saw such a bunch of dirty little faces, tears, and snot smeared all over, and they’re talking and crying in

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English and Spanish and Pete uses the opportunity to deliver a little gun safety lecture, and they stand there with their hands over their hearts promising to never pick up a weapon again unless they are in the uniform of the United States Marine Corps or the San Antonio Police Department.” “Pete was a Marine?” “Yeah. Meanwhile I’m crashed there on my back, and I can’t really take a breath. That’s how I knew my rib was broken. Finally I said, ‘Pete? Pete, maybe you better call the ambulance.’ So he looks at me and he’s like, ‘just get up, walk it off. Don’t be a pansy ass.’ So I go unconscious to pay him back.” “Were you really unconscious?” “Pretty close.” “Did you get your pain medicine?” “Yes, I did. And Pete felt so bad he got the station to send me over some medical leave papers. Four beautiful days, Abraham.” “We can’t go to Mexico with your ribs broken, but I can take a couple of days off, I think. Spend some time with you. Rubbing your bruises. Kissing the stigmata.” Santos looked out the window of the van. “That would be good, Abraham. I don’t need much from my apartment. Most of what I need is already in your bedroom. Boxers, clean socks, mask.”

And all of what I need is sitting next to me.

***** Christmas morning dawned, and Abraham looked into the peacefully sleeping face of Santos Socorro. He’d been in pain during the night, and Abraham had fed him bites of chocolate mousse and narcotics, so now Santos was sleeping.

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He was in pain, but he was alive and they were together. Abraham had sat next to the bed throughout the night and watched every breath Santos Socorro took. Abraham was shaving when the doorbell rang. It was Magdalena, carrying a cooler of tamales, and Maria Aguilar, holding armloads of grocery bags. “Don’t worry, Abraham. We can find the kitchen.” He stared after them, trying to remember if he had invited the Tamale Mafia for Christmas. Did they even need an invitation? Apparently not. Abraham went back into the bathroom and finished shaving. Then he changed out of his sweats and into a dress shirt and tie and suit trousers. When he went into the kitchen, Magdalena was rearranging his silverware drawer. Maria Aguilar’s head was stuck deep in the refrigerator. “Magdalena, he keeps a clean kitchen, you’ve got to give him that.” “Abraham.” Magdalena closed the drawer and started on the next one. “Abraham, you don’t have ham for Christmas dinner, do you? We found a kosher chicken. I guess we could roast it, maybe some wild rice or mashed potatoes? To go along with the tamales? You don’t keep a kosher kitchen, Abraham?” “Um, no, I don’t, Magdalena.” “Santos likes that celery stuffed with pimento cheese,” Maria Aguilar said. Magdalena passed her a cleaver. “And he likes roast pork tamales -- I hope that isn’t a, what do you call it? A Jewish food problem? Can you mix roast pork tamales with green chili sauce?” Abraham shook his head, helpless. “Good. Where’s the cutting board?” After a few more minutes Abraham fled the kitchen, did a quick check of the bathroom, put out his pretty hand towels and the soap that looked like roses. He went in to check on Santos and he was stirring a bit. He sat down next to the bed, and Santos turned his head and looked at him. Abraham stroked the hair back from his forehead. The cuts looked very cruel against his pale skin. “Hey.” “How are you feeling?”

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“I’m okay when I don’t move too much. It’ll be better tomorrow, and better the day after that, Abraham. Don’t worry. But no more pain medicine. I’ve got to get up for dinner.” “Maria Aguilar is in the kitchen, stuffing celery with pimento cheese for you.” Santos smiled and closed his eyes. “I need to see David if he comes.” By the time the kosher chicken was sending out delicious roasting fumes, Fareed was sitting in the living room, glowering at Diablo, who was wearing the spiked dog collar and a black vinyl miniskirt. They had stopped on the way to her grandparent’s house, and Fareed was hoping Abraham would do something. “I’m not going anywhere with you dressed like that. Are you trying to give your grandparents a stroke? How can you be so selfish on Christmas?” She narrowed eyes rimmed in heavy black. Her hair had been dyed flat black, and was standing out from her head in lethal-looking spikes. Magdalena had already told her she looked like a fool. “Don’t look at me like that, Pony Boy. It’s my way or the highway, you got me?” David came in the door with a Tibetan monk who greatly resembled the Dalai Lama, only seedier. He looked dusty, like he’d been walking mountain paths, and he didn’t appear to speak either English or Spanish. In San Antonio? He was a con man, Abraham was sure of it. Magdalena sat down next to the monk on the couch, gave him a slow study from his sandaled feet to the top of his shaved head. Abraham grabbed David, dragged him into the bedroom. “Did you leave your brain in your other jeans? Don’t tell me you’re dating a Buddhist monk or I’ll haul your ass off to rehab right this minute.” “I’m not dating him!” David looked outraged, but Abraham thought he looked a little shifty, too. “He’s my…he’s my spiritual advisor, Abraham.” “In what language, David? Oh, fuck me. That’s it, I’m…”

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“I need to see Santos! It’s urgent.” “He’s too weak.” “No, Abraham.” It was Santos from the bed. “David? David, did you bring it?” “Yeah.” David went over to the bed, handed Santos a small box from his pocket. “I didn’t tell him, Santos. Not one word.” Abraham watched him. “David. Take your monk back to his cell and get back here for dinner. Magdalena’s roasting a chicken. I will send her after you if you aren’t back here by the time the chicken comes out of the oven.” “Fine!” David threw his hands in the air. “Can I watch when Santos gives you…” “No.” They both said it together. “Good grief! You two need a nap or something. What a couple of grouches!” David took himself off. Abraham sat down in the chair next to the bed. Santos handed him the little box, closed his eyes again. His face was so beautiful, with the new lines of pain carved between his eyes, a perfect nose, a perfect chin, and lips meant for kissing. He loved looking at Santos Socorro’s face. Abraham opened the box and looked at the two plain gold rings. “They’re for the finger, Abraham, don’t worry,” and Abraham laughed, felt some of his tiredness and worry lift away. “David went with me to pick them out. I’ll let you explain it all to my grandmother, baby. I think I’d rather just sleep through that.” Abraham laughed. It was a silverback job. He put his ring on his left hand, then slid Santos’ onto his finger. He leaned over the bed, kissed his warm sweet mouth. “I love you.” “I love you, too. I’m getting up for tamales. Come get me when dinner’s ready.” When Abraham left the bedroom, he closed the door quietly behind him.

~*~

HOW TO MAKE MOLE

When I was a little girl and the relatives got together, the women went into the kitchen, the men went into the living room to watch the game, and the kids got sent outside to catch some crabs for the gumbo. You tied a chicken neck to a piece of cotton twine, threw it out in the bayou, and then pulled it back real slow, so as not to startle the crabs. When you could see your chicken neck, your little brother moved in with the net and scooped up the crabs that were hanging on. When I was old enough, I stayed in the kitchen with the women, watching them cook. Ingredients were measured in the palms of hands, and everybody had a chance to adjust the flavor of the gumbo by putting in a pinch of this or a bit of that. But I always believed that the stories and laughter from the women cooking together went into the pot, too, and that was what made it so rich and delicious.

Mole is like that. It’s a slow food that tastes better when a bunch of cooks are in the kitchen, tasting and chopping and telling stories. So come on into the kitchen with me, and let’s make some mole together. This is not Magdalena’s mole and it’s not Abraham’s recipe, either. This is mine, and I’ll say right from the start that I don’t know anything about grams of saturated fat per serving. I do know if you have two big bowls of rice and chicken with a healthy slathering of mole on

top you will have to go lay on the couch like a slug for a while, and maybe your son will bring you some Alka-Seltzer . Speaking of saturated fats, when I was little, the roux was made from bacon grease and Crisco. Roux is what most good food is built on if your family comes from within two hundred miles of New Orleans. I make it in olive oil now, and I have managed to convince myself that the mole is actually heart-healthy, since I don’t use the bacon grease. Here’s how you make the roux: use your heaviest frying pan, like a cast-iron skillet. Measure out ¼ cup of olive oil and ½ cup of flour. Don’t try and get healthy with whole wheat flour; you’re already using olive oil, and that’s good enough. Stir the olive oil and the flour into a paste. When you make the roux, you’re cooking the flour until it gets dark brown, stirring the whole time with a spatula so it doesn’t burn, over medium to mediumhigh heat. Once you start, give yourself thirty minutes to make that roux, until the flour turns as brown as milk chocolate. It might be a good idea to have some milk chocolate on hand for comparison and snacking. Also, open the kitchen door or turn on the vent, because making the roux will fill up the kitchen with nice oily smoke and steam. You’ll think you’re in your grandmother’s kitchen. When the roux is dark brown (compare with your chocolate) you’re going to add chicken broth to the flour and oil, and it will make very satisfying billows of steam and hissing and splashing, so stand back so you don’t get burned. You’ll know you have done something big! For this amount of roux, add 4½ cups of chicken broth, and I do not think you are less of a woman if you use broth made from bouillon cubes or out of a can. Back to the stove, and something is terribly wrong! Your roux is a glutinous mess! Don’t despair. Use your spatula to gradually mix the two, and soon you will have a beautiful pan of delicious brown gravy bubbling away and getting thick. Now, you can stop right here, throw in a chopped onion, a bell pepper, and some salt and pepper. When I was a kid, my mother would fry up a tough piece of beef and slide it into the gravy, then let them cook together all day long. This is what we had for Sunday dinner,

when we didn’t have fried chicken, and Mama would serve it over rice. At the dinner table, I would wait until her head was turned, then bend over and lick every bit of the gravy from my plate. She never saw me, but my grandfather always caught me. He never gave me away, though. Back to the mole. Your gravy is bubbling away and getting thicker. Add these spices: ¼ teaspoon pumpkin pie spice, 1 teaspoon cumin, ¼ teaspoon of poultry seasoning, and 2 tablespoons of sweet ancho chili powder. This last one is important to get right, because anchos have a full, rich chili taste without the heat, and mole is not spicy hot. It’s not sweet, either, but rich and smooth. Let those spices start mixing in, and get out the Crock-Pot. Now, while I believe in no shortcuts roux-wise, everything else in my kitchen is designed for a real woman with a job and a kid and too much laundry. Put this into the Crock-Pot: 1 banana, chopped; ¼ cup dark raisins; ¼ cup pecans; 2 cloves garlic, chopped -and you have never smelled anything so deliciously weird as bananas and garlic chopped up together -- 1 onion; 1 red bell pepper; 2 whole tomatoes, chopped. Pour the roux into the Crock-Pot and turn it on low. Let everything cook together for a few hours. Then you want to put it in the blender. I have one of those little handheld blenders so I can stick it down in the Crock-Pot and do the job right there. I always manage to pull it out still going, so I splatter mole all over the kitchen. It doesn’t have to be smooth. I like mine with little bits and pieces. Let it cook for a couple of hours more. Then, maybe an hour before you’re ready to eat, mix ¼ cup of unsweetened cocoa with ¼ cup of the sauce (so it won’t clump), then stir that paste into the Crock-Pot. You have mole! Let it simmer. It’s good for the soul to have your house smelling like mole. The sauce is good with chicken and turkey, with rice, or eaten out of a bowl with a spoon, as I am doing right now. Oh, and with chicken tamales, of course. There are lots of wonderful traditional recipes for mole, in case you don’t have a grandmother from Mexico to teach you. My favorite comes from the cookbook by Alice Guadalupe Tapp called Tamales 101: A Beginner’s Guide to Making Traditional Tamales.

I nearly forgot. Three kisses into the pot. Critical. Don’t skip this step. Thanks for coming into the kitchen with me, and thanks for reading my story. My best wishes to you and yours this holiday season.

Ten Strange but True Facts about Sarah Black 1.

Sarah likes to drive around on empty, red-dirt roads on the Navajo reservation in a beat-up blue Ford Ranger. Unfortunately, she still doesn’t know how to change a tire.

2.

Every Christmas, Sarah tries to make her grandmother’s fudge recipe, the one on the back of the Hershey’s cocoa box. So far no luck.

3.

Sarah has a secret addiction to reading books from Mother Earth News about building your own house. Right now she is reading about Cordwood.

4.

Sarah will use any excuse to buy cashmere sweaters from Land’s End. She has even been known to do it without an excuse.

5.

When she was young, Sarah wanted to marry Barnabas Collins, the vampire from Dark Shadows.

6.

Life goal: To visit all of America’s National Parks.

7.

Sarah has lived in: California, Connecticut, New Hampshire, Maryland, Virginia, North Carolina, South Carolina, Florida, Mississippi, Texas, Arizona, and Alaska. Also Italy.

8.

First pet: Janet, a red-eared turtle the size of a quarter. During a hurricane evacuation in 1968, Sarah’s father carried Janet in his pocket wrapped in a washcloth, inside a plastic bag.

9.

Sarah has a secret crush on Brett Favre, and will watch the Packers any Sunday to look at his shoulders.

10.

When she can’t sleep, Sarah gets up and reads a random selection from the Oxford English Dictionary.