“Grab your coat, bucko,” Angel Rocco calls out from the kitchen. “We’re goin’ on a mission.” He heads to the front door with a sign that reads, “Closed for Cuban Celebration.”
Arturo watches his pretend uncle put up the announcement on the glass, puzzled. “What Cuban celebration is that?”
“Dunno, it’s Cuba. They celebrate a lot. Grab your coat.”
“Can I bring Chuco?” He gets up from a side table where he’s reading a newspaper.
“Sure, why not?” Angel Rocco yanks off his apron, tossing it over a chair before stuffing himself into his plaid wool jacket. He picks up a covered container steaming with the smell of chilies.
He looks like one half of a salt and pepper set, Arturo thinks while he puts on his coat, and smiles. Whistling, he runs upstairs to get Chuco.
Sitting in the rusty green
