What made them stand out was the "uniform" that, as much as their shaved heads, identified them as either skinheads or neo-Nazis. They wore baggy jeans held up by red suspenders over white T-shirts emblazoned with the Iron Cross, and completed the ensemble with heavy, steel-toed Doc Martens boots. They'd piled their long wool coats, which looked like German army issue from the Second World War, on a table next to them.
"If I'm not mistaken," she said, "that's Rufus Porter sitting over there with several of his friends."
Meyers didn't turn to look. "You're not mistaken, that's him, but best we ignore him."
However, as if he understood that he was the subject of their discussion, Porter and his friends got up and walked over to where they stood. "Well, well, if it isn't my dear old coach, Mikey O'Fool," Porter sneered. "I'm looking forward to getting back on the field this spring, but guess you won't be there."
"Don't count on it, Rufus," O'Toole replied. "The only way you'll get back on that field is if you get a job mowing the lawn."
Porter's eyes blazed at the insult and then noticed Marlene's smirk. "What are you smiling at, bitch?" he snarled, and started to poke at Marlene with a finger.
A moment later, Porter was yelping in pain as she grabbed his index and middle fingers and bent them backward, locking his elbow and forcing him up on his toes. With her attacker off balance and unable to do anything except respond to the pain, she propelled him back into his friends, silently thanking Jojola for the jujitsu training.
Porter's face changed into a mask of rage. He'd been humiliated and now he and his friends intended to settle the score, but their attention was diverted when the front door opened and Eugenio Santacristina walked in.
The Basque's dark eyes immediately took in the situation. He strolled over, placing himself between the skinheads and the others.
"You and your friends are not welcome here," Santacristina said calmly.
"Fuck off, spic," Porter spat.
Santacristina's face grew grim as he gripped his wooden cane around the middle and tapped it lightly into the palm of his free hand. "Say that again," he replied. "And I promise that you will not walk out of here on your own. I will break both of your kneecaps, and those of any of your friends who interfere."
"And I'll be glad to help," O'Toole added.
Santacristina glanced at the coach and smiled before turning his attention back to Porter and his friends. "Now, what is it to be? A future as a cripple, or merely a moron?"
Porter seemed to be weighing his options. His former coach was a big man, and even the small attorney looked pretty tough. The woman knew some sort of trickery, too. But it was the Basque and his stick that worried him the most.
"Let's go, Rufus," one of the other skinheads suggested. "We'll settle this some other day when there's not so many witnesses."
"I will look forward to that," Santacristina said.
Porter did his best to look tough and as though he would have still preferred to battle. But he said, "You're right. Too many witnesses." He stepped back from Santacristina and snapped a Nazi salute with his right hand raised, exposing a tattoo on the inside of his right bicep that appeared to be some Aryan symbol. "Death to niggers, kikes, spics, and race traitors."
"Get out," Santacristina said, infuriated by the salute but still keeping his cool.
"Got to get our coats," Porter said.
"Esteban," Santacristina said to someone behind the skinheads, who turned to see that four other Basque men had emerged from a back room and had positioned themselves behind them. "Bring these dogs their coats."
The youngest of the Basques responded by grabbing the coats, which he held at arm's length as though they smelled, and tossed them to the skinheads. "Now leave," Santacristina ordered, "or I will beat you like the mongrel dogs you are."
The skinheads made their way to the door and left. Porter, who was the last to leave, shouted an epithet but fled as the Basque men moved toward him.
When they were gone, Santacristina introduced himself, extending a hand to Coach O'Toole. "I was sorry to hear what happened to you. I do not believe these things they say."
"Thank you," O'Toole replied. "We're planning to fight back."
"So I have heard," Santacristina said. "I hope you win."
On impulse, Marlene asked, "Would you care to join us?"
Eugenio Santacristina inclined his head slightly and flashed a smile that looked all the brighter for his tan skin and created a whole series of smile lines around his mouth and eyes. "I would be delighted." He turned to the other Basque men, thanked and dismissed them in their language, and they left for the back of the restaurant again.
Some shepherd, Marlene thought. There's a man used to giving commands and being obeyed out of respect. "I noticed that you don't need the cane to walk," she said.
Santacristina held up the four-foot-long piece of gnarled but polished oak. "This? No, this is not a cane," he said. "I am a shepherd. This is a walking stick I use to keep up with my charges on the steep hillsides. However, I admit that at nearly sixty years old, I lean on it more than I used to."
"You're sixty?! I would have guessed much younger," Marlene said.
"Chasing sheep keeps one youthful," he replied with a laugh.
The three men and one woman were soon talking over steaming cups of rich, dark coffee, which Marlene would later swear had the consistency of motor oil but was the richest, smoothest, most flavorful coffee she had ever tasted.
Santacristina signaled to the waitress and ordered something. The language sounded similar to Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese, but with some other intonation-more like what she'd heard once on a visit to Romania.
A few minutes later, the waitress returned with a plate of cheese, bright yellow in color but streaked with blue veins.
When Marlene asked about the cheese, Santacristina replied, "This is Onetik, a traditional type of Basque cheese made from sheep's milk. It is best with a red wine, but seeing as how I am with another man's wife, and tongues may wag, we will stick with coffee." He laughed and said something to the hovering waitress, who laughed, too.
"Are all Basque men so charming?" Marlene asked.
"It is ingrained in us by our mothers from the day we are born," Santacristina said, and smiled.
As Santacristina and the other two men chatted, Marlene used the opportunity to study his facial features, which were strong-a prominent nose between deep-set eyes that flickered with intensity below thick, dark eyebrows. His tan face was framed on the bottom by a five o'clock shadow that she suspected might be permanent. But his most striking physical characteristic was the color of his eyes, almost amber against a darker background. When he turned to meet her gaze, she noticed a jagged white scar that started just below the hairline on the left side of his forehead and disappeared into his full head of jet-black curls.
Marlene hesitated, not wanting to be rude, but then asked, "If I'm not being too nosy…we saw your confrontation with Huttington and Barnhill today. What happened to your daughter?"
Santacristina's smile fell from his face, and he hung his head and appeared to be studying the depths of his coffee. "It is not a pleasant story," he replied. "I may not show it always on my face, but my heart is broken. I do not wish to burden you with my tears."
"I'm a good listener," Marlene answered.
Exhaling, Santacristina explained why he'd confronted Huttington. Indeed, why he'd been asking the same question of the man for the better part of a year, ever since his Maria had disappeared without a trace.
"She was a good girl," he said. "An angel given to my dear wife and me. She was attending the university and majoring in early childhood education. All of her life she wanted to be a teacher. But I am a poor man and unable to pay for her education, so she made her own way through work-study programs, including as an administrative assistant for that sasikumea Huttington."