Page 9 of Nacho Boyfriend

He shrugs. “Like I said. Ignore it. Anyway… I’m guessing you didn’t come all the way down here to watch me eat ice cream,” he says.

“As lovely as this is, no. I need some insurance advice.”

“And you couldn’t have just called?”

“It’s a… sensitive matter. Has to be in person.”

One brow hitches up with interest. “Were you involved in a hit and run? Because if you were—”

“No. Nothing like that. It’s for the business.”

“Oh. Well, I think there’s two million liability coverage on each restaurant.”

Since my dad retired, he left me with all eight locations of the Mexican restaurant chain he built out of nothing. He’d intended one restaurant for each of his children, but my siblings each chose their own careers, and so we worked out a plan that’s fair for everyone. They each get a monthly stipend, and I get all the restaurants.

“I’d like to know specifically, if that covers… embezzlement.”

“Does this have to do with Pancho Two? I thought you worked that out with the vendors.”

“I did. But there’s more.”

Pancho Two is my dad’s old business partner. We call him Pancho Two because he was dad’s second in command—and they share the same name. The nicknames of Pancho One and Pancho Two caught on so well, they named the restaurant Dos Panchos.

The concept was all Dad’s, but since Pancho Two was good with paperwork and real estate, Dad offered him a small percentage of the restaurant. Seven more locations and decades later, Pancho Two had exceeded his original contract. Dad, being generous, gave him an excellent parting bonus. But that wasn’t good enough for Pancho Two. Instead of bowing out gracefully, he stole goods and sold them on the black market, right before he disappeared with his new wife to Costa Rica.

My whole family knows this part of the story. What they don’t know is that Pancho Two had been laundering money for an organized surfer gang called The Point Break Posse for several years.

“They came looking for him a few months after he left the country,” I say, offering every detail I can remember. Maybe Nate knows how I can take legal action and maybe recoup some money in a claim.

“Only Dad and Enrique know this.”

Nate, who’s been silent as I recounted the events of two Christmases ago, how two guys named Churro and Roach came into the restaurant, demanding I get Dad on the phone. How they made threats if they didn’t get the money. How Dad filled a duffel bag full of cash and paid what the surfers demanded.

“We thought we’d seen the last of The Point Break Posse that day,” I say.

“Wait,” Nate says, thinking intently. “Was that when Dad was rushed to the hospital? He thought it was a heart attack, but it was only really bad gas.”

“Yep.”

I don’t need reminding of the fart jokes that ensued after that.

“Woah. Only Enrique knew? Why didn’t you tell the rest of us?”

“The only reason Enrique knows is because he was helping me reshape the business after Pancho Two left a colossal mess behind. And we chose not to tell any of you so you’d have plausible deniability.”

“So why tell me now?” He throws his unfinished ice cream cone in the trash—a very uncharacteristic action for Nate.

“Because they’re back,” I say. “I need to know if insurance would cover… if we can prove a former partner embezzled money.”

“How the blazes would that help you against a guy named Roach and the…” here he whispers harshly, “Point Break Pasta?”

“The Point Break Posse,” I correct.

“I prefer Pasta.”

I press my fingers into my forehead. It doesn’t help against the splitting headache I’ve had for weeks.

“I’m just at my wit's end right now and I don’t want to upset Dad again.”

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