Oscar spooky diaz's Arc

Chapter 4 of 8

The lease sat signed on Oscar's kitchen table. The storefront was his. But a room full of empty tables meant nothing without hands to fill it. He needed a cook, a dishwasher, a person at the register. He could not open alone. That was the trap. Every worker on Freeridge knew the Santos. Every worker could be one the boss sent to listen, then whisper back what Oscar said and did. He wrote a short ad and taped it to the window. Cook wanted. Honest pay. Two men came the first day. Oscar watched their eyes, the way they held their hands, the questions they didn't ask. Both lied about something small. He sent them home. He knew liars the way his abuela knew rain. On the third day, a voice came from the sidewalk before the person did. "You hiring, or just decorating the glass?" Sadeyes leaned in the doorway, white tee crisp, gold chain bright, a grin already loaded. Oscar knew him well. The boss had once sent this same corner boy to watch him, to scare off his customers, to guard his abuela's ring. Now here he stood, hands in his pockets, asking for work. Oscar didn't smile. "You still run for them?" "I run errands for whoever pays." Sadeyes shrugged. "They pay slow. And they skim me back harder than I skim them." He looked past Oscar at the empty kitchen. "You got a stove. I got nothing but jokes and fast feet." Oscar studied him. A watcher asking for a job was the worst possible hire. If Oscar took him, the boss could hear every word through him. But Sadeyes hadn't hidden the Santos. He'd named them first, complained about them, put the danger on the table himself. A planted spy stays quiet about his masters. "You come here, you're mine," Oscar said. "Not theirs. You carry one word of this place back to them, you're done. And I'll know." "I believe that." Sadeyes's grin dropped for a second, real. "Man, everybody believes that about you." Oscar handed him an apron. "Wash your hands. Twice." Sadeyes rolled up his sleeves and got to work. He talked too much. He dropped a pan and swore. But he scrubbed every plate clean and didn't slack once Oscar's back turned. At dusk Oscar locked up. The stray cat waited by the curb, ribs still showing. Oscar set down a strip of stewed meat. The cat ate at his feet now, unafraid. He had his first worker. He had his kitchen crew of one. But he hadn't solved the danger; he'd invited it inside and made a deal to hold it. Sadeyes owed the Santos nothing loud, yet the boss had trained him once and could reach for him again. Oscar had chosen a man who knew both worlds. Now the restaurant's safety rested on whether that man stayed bought.