The Charity Chip (2 page)

The officer opened the front door and tossed the bag of food into the front seat. Instead of getting into the driver’s seat, he leaned against the front of the car and made a phone call. The smell of fresh bread began to mingle with the acrid smell of vomit, and Julio’s stomach growled.

He looked out the window at the passing crowd. Most people hurried by and seemed indifferent to the scene, too busy with their own lives to even care. A woman glared at Julio and shook her head in disgust as she walked by. Julio hung his head.
I should have listened to Mamá.

A man in a black coat strolled across the street through the busy traffic and walked into the glaring lights of the squad car. He had cropped blond hair and a fair complexion that made him look like a marble statue. He was carrying Julio’s skateboard. He pointed at Julio with his chin and his clear blue eyes reflected in the headlights like the eyes of an animal on the prowl. The officer looked over his shoulder at Julio and grinned.

They talked for a few moments, and the towering stranger pulled a silver chain with a large cross dangling at the end from his coat pocket. The officer smiled as he took the crucifix and slipped it around his neck. After the exchange, the man turned his back on the car, but still clutched Julio’s skateboard.

The officer shuffled over and opened Julio’s door. “You are lucky tonight,
ladroncito
. It appears you have a new friend.”

“He’s not my friend. I have never seen him before.”

“Ah, but he is your friend tonight because he has purchased your freedom.” The officer yanked Julio from the vehicle, pushed him toward the towering man, and slid behind the wheel. “
Suerte
,” he said with a wave. He forced his car into traffic and drove away.

The stranger turned and looked down at Julio, and then with a foreign accent greeted him. “
Buenas noches
.”

Julio stared at the ground.

The man held out the skateboard and asked, “Would you like your skateboard back, or should I keep it?”

Julio nodded.

The stranger put the skateboard on the pavement and pushed it toward Julio with his foot. Sensing a small window of opportunity, Julio kicked the skateboard down the alleyway and ran after it for a rolling getaway. But when he jumped for the moving board, he felt a tug on his jacket and his feet flew up into the air. The man suspended him in the air by his collar with one hand as he thrashed about with his legs, but it was impossible to get free with his hands still bound by the plastic restraints.

“Put me down!” demanded Julio.

The man shrugged and dropped Julio onto the dirty street. He wriggled onto his back and glared at the man. The looming foreigner wore a satisfied smirk, and Julio spotted a black earpiece in his right ear.

“Relax, I don’t want to hurt you. I’m trying to help you,” said the man.

“Why would you want to help me?”

“In my country when someone does you a favor, like returning a lost object”—the man nodded at the skateboard a few feet down the alleyway—“it is customary to thank them.”

Julio rolled his eyes. “
Gracias
.”

“Where are your parents?”

Julio wiggled his fingers and could feel the blood throbbing in his wrists. “Dead.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters? Any living family?”

Julio looked away. “No.”

The foreigner grabbed Julio under the armpits and raised him up on to his feet. He squatted down and locked eyes with Julio. “What is your name?”

The softness of his voice disarmed Julio. “Julio César Camino de Pachacutec.”

“That is a very long name for a boy on the street. May I call you Julio?”

Julio shrugged.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen.”

“And still on the streets? You seem small for a fourteen-year-old.”

“That happens when you don’t get enough to eat.”

“Well, are you hungry? Can I get you something to eat?”

Julio’s stomach growled at the mention of food.

“If I cut the restraints off, will you promise not to run away?”

Julio stared up at the man’s chiseled face. He had lived on the streets long enough to know that nothing was free. Everything had a price. Tonight the price for satisfying his hunger was trusting the blue-eyed stranger long enough to fill his stomach and hoping that whatever he wanted in return would not be too costly.

“I promise.”

The stranger pulled a knife from his coat pocket, spun Julio around, and with one swift motion cut the plastic handcuffs from his wrists. Julio rubbed his wrists as the blood began to flow back into his hand.

The man closed the knife and slipped it into his coat pocket. He smiled and extended his large, white hand. “My name is Isak Blixt.”

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Pollo a la Brasa

(Grilled Chicken)

^O
ther than an occasional glance over his shoulder, Isak Blixt moved forward with the full expectation that Julio was going to keep his promise and follow him. He stood a head taller than just about everybody on the street and walked as if he owned the sidewalk. The bustling crowd parted in front of him like the Red Sea in front of Moses. Julio followed a few steps behind, only keeping up with Isak because he was riding his skateboard.

When Isak reached the corner, he crossed the street without waiting. Julio stopped and considered an escape. He kicked the tail of his board to turn it around.
If I turn around now, he will never catch me.
He could see that Isak was crossing the plaza for Roky’s. His stomach growled. Even from across the plaza, Julio could smell the chicken. He turned his board and skated after Isak.

Isak headed across the plaza, past the statue of the Incan ruler, Manco Cápac, and straight for the restaurant. The security guard with the nightstick sprang to attention and opened the door for the foreigner, who marched inside without even looking back to see if Julio was still with him.

Julio hesitated. The guard closed the door and put a hand on his nightstick. The aroma of rotisserie chicken cooking over an open flame hung in the air like the sea fog that had covered the city. His mouth watered, and for a moment, he panicked, thinking that he had missed his opportunity, but then Isak pushed open the door and said, “Well, Julio? You do like chicken, don’t you?”

Julio nodded and picked up his skateboard.

“Then come in and sit down. They don’t serve the chicken in the street.” Isak ushered him in as if he were the restaurant owner inviting in his best customer.

The security guard looked back and forth between Julio and Isak, trying to work out the connection between the foreigner and the ragtag kid with the skateboard. Julio didn’t give him time to figure it out and hurried through the door.

The smells outside the restaurant were inviting, but once inside, the aroma of slow cooking chicken coupled with the sizzling sounds of fat dripping into the fire were intoxicating. Julio swallowed and could almost taste the tender meat. The dining room buzzed with sounds of utensils clinking against plates and dinner conversations. The tables were dressed in clean white tablecloths, real silverware, and clear glasses. The thick moist air clung to the inside of the windows obscuring the view to the plaza.

A waitress in a white shirt, a black tie, and a black apron approached them with a smile. “
Buenas noches
, and welcome to Roky’s. A table for one?” Her shirt was too tight for her figure. Julio tried not to stare.

Isak put a hand on Julio’s shoulder. “My young friend and I would like a table for two.”

The brown eyes of the waitress flitted back and forth between Julio and Isak for a moment before her face broke into a welcoming smile. “
Sí, señor
. A table for two. Right this way.” She showed them to a booth at the back, near the kitchen door.

Isak slipped off his coat and folded it on the bench beside him. His muscles bulged under his black V-neck shirt, and although his clothes were similar to the clothing worn by everyone else in the restaurant, his clothing seemed cleaner, newer, and better. The gold watch on his wrist was thick, not like the cheap knockoff watches hawked by loudmouthed vendors in the local marketplace. Confidence dripped from him like the drops of grease dripping from the chickens over the fire.

By the time Julio slipped off his backpack and secured his skateboard beneath his feet, the waitress had produced a menu, two glasses of water, and a small basket of bread. He didn’t know where to start and eyed the bread, but found himself staring at the picture on the cover of the menu. It was a family, complete with a father, a mother, a brother, and a sister smiling as they sat down to a spread of hot chicken with fries and a bottle of Inca Kola. They looked happy.

“The selections are
inside
the menu,” said Isak. “Are you quite hungry?”

Julio nodded.

“Then I recommend the half chicken with fries, and if you don’t eat it all, they will bag it up for you to take home.”

A half chicken?
He remembered how many nights he had rummaged through the garbage behind Roky’s looking for one or two bites of meat still clinging to the discarded chicken bones, or a half-eaten piece of bread. He couldn’t remember what it was like to have more food than you could eat in one sitting.

“Are you ready to order?” asked the waitress with a tablet in her hand.

“A quarter chicken with fries,” said Isak.

The waitress tapped the tablet and looked at Julio. “A half chicken with fries . . .”—he glanced at Isak—“and a bottle of Inca Kola.” Neither the waitress nor Isak flinched at his request.

Julio sat at the table waiting for some sort of cue from Isak or the people around them about what to do next. Several people were glued to the soccer game playing on the television over the bar. The door to the kitchen swung open several times as the wait staff rushed out with plates of hot food or back in with dirty dishes. Isak sipped at his water and looked at his phone. Julio felt out of place and stared at his dirty fingernails, wishing he still had a menu to look at. Finally, Isak reached for a piece of bread, and Julio followed suit. The small rolls were soft and warm.

“So, tell me, Julio,” began Isak as he set his phone on the table and nibbled at the bread. “How did you get into trouble with the police tonight?”

“I got caught stealing,” said Julio through a mouthful of bread.

“Stealing what?”

Julio could sense that Isak knew the answers to the questions, but he played along with the interrogation. “I stole a bag of food.”

“Is this something you do often?”

“No. Mamá taught me that it is better to suffer hunger than the shame of dishonesty, but since they stopped making money and started converting to money chips, nobody has anything to give a street performer anymore.”

“Ah, so you are a street performer. What do you do?”

Julio shrugged and shoved another piece of bread into his mouth. “I juggle fire batons.”

“Well, I should like to see a performance sometime.” He picked up the empty basket and waved it at the passing waitress. To Julio’s surprise another basket of bread appeared in moments. “Where do you live?”

“Here, in La Victoria,” said Julio, not wanting to be too specific. He grabbed another piece of bread.

Isak’s phone vibrated against the table. “Excuse me a moment, Julio.” He tapped the earpiece and answered, “This is Isak Blixt from Caritas
.
” He continued the conversation in a foreign language.

Julio ate the bread and enjoyed the feeling of food in his stomach. A cheer went up from the bar area, and he glanced at the television. His favorite soccer team, Alianza Lima, had won.

Isak tapped his earpiece again and glanced up at the television. “Looks like Alianza Lima will be a formidable foe for La U in
el Clásico
this year.” He focused on his phone and began typing with his thumbs. While Isak typed, Julio slipped the rest of the bread into his jacket pocket for his twin brother, Raúl.

Isak set down his phone. “Why don’t you just move into one of the government
barrios
? I understand they can provide food and housing?”

Julio stared at the television and shrugged. “My father was killed during a protest.”

“Ah, I see. You don’t trust the government.” Isak smiled. “Then we have something in common.”

The waitress set the plate of golden brown chicken and hot french fries before him, and Julio’s appetite surged. Without waiting for any cue from Isak this time, he attacked the chicken with his fingers, ignoring the hot grease that burned his fingertips. The flavor of tender chicken exploded in his mouth, and he could taste every slow turn it had made over the flames.

“Hungry, are we?” said Isak.

Julio looked up, and saw Isak and the waitress staring at him. “Can I get you anything else right now?” asked the waitress as she set a glass and the bottle of Inca Kola next to Julio.

Isak smirked. “Maybe an extra napkin or two for my friend here.”

Julio blushed and sat up a little straighter. He slowed his eating but only a little. He devoured the chicken in a few minutes and picked the bones clean. Then he squeezed a blob of ketchup on his plate and inhaled the fries with ketchup one by one. When he finished, he wiped his mouth and hands with his napkin and washed it all down with the fruity taste of Inca Kola. He was surprised to look up and see that Isak was still picking at his chicken with a fork and knife.