Tony’s Gambit

Okay, listen to me, Doña, I said, trying to keep my voice patient. The cloud is not a physical place. It is not in the sky. You cannot lose your photos if it rains.

The elderly woman staring at me across the folding table looked skeptical.

"But my grandson said my photos are in the nube (cloud)," she insisted, clutching her ancient iPhone 6 like a rosary. "And yesterday it rained very hard."

"I promise you, your photos are dry," I said. "Look. I reset your password. 1-2-3-4-Maria. Don't tell anyone."

I handed her the phone. She swiped. She saw a photo of a cat. Her face lit up.

"¡Ay, gracias! You are a wizard! El Mago!"

She slapped a crumpled 500-peso bill onto the table and shuffled out, crossing herself.

"Another satisfied customer," Yulissa drawled from the corner, where she was soldering a charging port on a Samsung Galaxy.

"That's three thousand pesos today," I said, adding the bill to the cigar box we used as a cash register. "We are killing it, Yulissa. DeLuca &... whatever your last name is... Tech Support is a goldmine."

"It's Rodriguez," Yulissa said, not looking up from the microscope. "And don't get cocky, Jersey. You still haven't fixed the fan on that laptop."

"The laptop is possessed," I defended myself. "I need an exorcist, not a screwdriver."

I leaned back in my plastic chair.

It was weird. A week ago, I was the IT Director for a billion-dollar firm. I had a ergonomically perfect chair and an espresso machine that cost more than this entire building.

Now, I was sitting on a crate in the back of a print shop that smelled of ink and empanadas, fixing cracked screens for neighborhood grandmas.

And I had never been happier.

I looked at Yulissa. She had her safety goggles on, her hair tied up in a messy bun with a pencil. She was focused, competent, and terrifyingly beautiful.

"Hey," I said.

"What?" she mumbled, smoke rising from the soldering iron.

"You're really good at that."

She paused. She looked up. She pulled the goggles down.

"My dad taught me," she said quietly. "He used to fix radios. Before he... you know. Drank himself to death."

"Oh," I said. "Sorry."

"Don't be," she shrugged, putting the goggles back on. "He gave me the hands. The rest I learned on YouTube."

She looked at me, a challenge in her eyes.

"Why are you still here, Tony? Max has to stay—he’s in love, and he’s legally trapped. But you? You could go to the embassy. You could fly home. Why are you sweating in this dungeon with me?"

I picked up a screwdriver. I spun it in my fingers.

"Because in Jersey," I said honestly, "I'm just the IT guy. Nobody looks at me. Nobody knows my name unless the printer is broken."

I looked at her.

"Here? I'm El Mago. And... I get to hang out with the smartest girl I've ever met."

Yulissa blushed. Actually blushed. It was a victory.

"Shut up and pass me the flux," she muttered.

The back door opened.

Max walked in.

He looked like he had been dragged behind a truck. His guayabera was gray with cement dust. His hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. He walked with a limp.

"Hey, Obrero," I called out. "Survive the day?"

Max collapsed onto a stack of paper boxes. He groaned.

"I carried forty bags of cement up three flights of stairs," he rasped. "My legs are jelly. I can't feel my fingers."

"But did you get paid?" Yulissa asked, ever the pragmatist.

Max reached into his pocket. He pulled out a wad of small bills.

"Fifteen hundred pesos," he said, placing it on the table next to our cigar box.

It was about fifteen dollars.

In his old life, Max wouldn't have bent down to pick up fifteen dollars.

"We made three thousand," I bragged, patting the box. "Business is booming."

"Show off," Max smiled tiredly.

"Dinner is on us tonight," I announced. "I'm ordering Pica Pollo. Large bucket. Extra tostones."

Sofía walked in from the front shop. She saw the money on the table. She saw Max’s exhausted slump.

She didn't say anything about the meager amount. She walked over to him, wet a rag from the sink, and gently wiped the cement dust from his face.

"You did good, papi," she whispered.

Max leaned into her touch, closing his eyes.

"It's not enough," he murmured. "Fifteen hundred pesos... it won't pay the lawyers."

"It pays for dinner," Sofía said firmly. "And tonight, that is enough."

I watched them. Max, the fallen prince, and Sofía, the queen of the ashes.

"Hey," I said, clearing my throat. "I'm ordering the chicken. Spicy or regular?"

"Spicy," everyone said in unison.

I dialed the number.

We were broke. We were being sued. We were being evicted.

But the chicken was coming. And for tonight, we were kings.