CHAPTER 5Juaquin Prado slid into the red leatherette booth that smelled of decades-old cigarettes, grease and beer. He grabbed a napkin from the metal dispenser that also served as a holder of keno slips, and wiped away the rings of water and bits of food that remained on the table. Grimacing, he looked around the tavern-s***h-neighborhood-restaurant, the name of which he could never remember. He always came in the back door of the cinder-block structure where there was no signage, so he simply referred to the place as The Chicken because it smelled like the seldom-changed deep fryers in the kitchen behind the bar.
In front of the bar, a couple regulars slumped over their drinks while the bartender, a frenetic rail-thin woman of forty, ran back and forth dropping drinks and making a few q
