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didn’t get an answer at Roscoe’s apartment. The owner of the joint, an old friend, confirmed my suspicions. Roscoe was, indeed, there.
    The Tampico had an old-time Mexican feel, with scattered late breakfast customers seated at tables and booths and a mariachi album playing on a behind-the-counter Victrola. Potted cacti were placed everywhere, and the walls showcased framed black-and-white photographs of people I guessed were Mexicans: Mexicans posing by old jalopies, Mexicans working in orchards, Mexicans dancing in courtyards, Mexican revolutionaries riding horses alongside a train.
    I knew the owner; sweet old Miguel, one of the nicest fellows I’d ever met. Balding and beefy with an inky black mustache, he always wore a pristine white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, black trousers, and shiny patent leather shoes. Back in the days when I worked Dawn Patrol, the midnight-to-8 A . M . shift, Roscoe and I would drive out here every night because it was one of the few restaurants open twenty-four hours. Roscoe still dined here frequently.
    â€œSeñor Arturo!”
    â€œMiguel! How’s every little thing?”
    We shook hands and he nodded at the kitchen door. “ Bien! Our little restaurant, she catch on big!”
    â€œThat’s swell,” I said. “Is Lupe still making those delicious what-do-you-call-’ems…?”
    â€œEmpanadas?”
    I snapped my fingers. “That’s it! Empanadas!”
    â€œTomorrow and Friday, she make them. Only two bits a box. Best deal in town. You want to order?”
    I fished a dollar out of my billfold and handed it to him. “I’ll take two. I’ll come by and get them tomorrow.”
    â€œGood! They ready by, oh…” He closed one eye. “Four o’clock. Let me get you your change.…”
    â€œNo. Keep it.”
    He stopped in his tracks and smiled. “Thank you, Arturo! Is very generous!”
    â€œDon’t mention it.” I drew a deep breath. “I believe you have someone…”
    He flashed a palm, as if to suggest, No need to say anything else. “This way.”
    I followed him into the kitchen, where an army of his relatives fried food, stirred pots, and rattled dishes and silverware. I tailed him over the clay tiles as he entered a darkened back room containing a desk and chair, a davenport, and a corner cot, where somebody slept soundly. The shades were closed. He gave one a gentle tug and it shot up, flap-flap-flap- ing several times, letting sunlight flood in. I could tell from the sleeping man’s shaven head that he was Roscoe. I crossed the room to get a better look at his face. He’d taken a few punches no doubt, which had left his face marred by bruises and cuts, a fat lip, and a black eye thrown in for good measure. I looked at Miguel, who was watching me intently, waiting for me to say something.
    â€œWho did this to him?”
    Miguel shrugged. “He come in last night, about two. First he say he hungry for supper, then he pass out cold. I bring him back here. My sons help.”
    â€œThank you, Miguel. You fellas did good.”
    â€œYou and Roscoe very good to us, Arturo. You welcome here anytime.”
    â€œThat’s awfully kind. Thanks.”
    I leaned forward and gave Roscoe’s shoulder a shake. He continued sleeping. I repeated the shaking twice, each time longer and more rigorous than before. Not so much as a break in the snoring. I stepped back, straightened, and scanned the room, weighing options.
    I turned to Miguel. “Do you mind me getting your bedding wet?”
    â€œWet?”
    â€œYeah, is it okay if I get the blanket and sheets wet with water?”
    â€œ Si. Yes. We got clothesline out back. What you got in mind?”
    â€œYou don’t happen to have a bucket or a pail…?”
    â€œSi.”
    â€œWould you mind bringing it to me full of cold water, please?”
    His mouth opened and eyes