CHAPTER 18

Scorched Lizard

“This looks like the place,” Aaron Finn said as he pulled the Packard up in front of a broken-down-looking building, with a sign on the roof that said eat. Painted over the door was lagarto chamuscado—cold beer.

“It looks a little crummy, Father,” Seamus Finn said.

“oh, that’s how you can tell it’s the real thing,” Aaron Finn said. “We’re going to have a royal feast here, mark my words.”

It was hard to tell if the place was even open for business or just an abandoned old shack. There were no cars parked outside, the windows were thick with dust, and it was just sitting all by itself way out in the desert. We piled out of the Packard and followed Aaron Finn inside.

Once we got in, it was a little better. There were rough wooden tables, and benches, a fire crackling in the fireplace, and an extremely nice smell. No people, though.

An enormous guy, well over six feet tall, with a big belly, wearing one of those tall chef’s hats and a white apron, came through a little door at the back of the room. His face was all red and shiny, and he had a black mustache that curled up at the ends.

“Gentlemen!” the guy in the chef’s hat said. “Welcome to Lagarto chamuscado! Please be seated, and I will wait on you.”

We took seats on two benches. “May we see a menu?” Aaron Finn asked.

“The menu is in my toque blanche,” the enormous guy said, pointing to his chef’s hat. “I am Antonio Frantoio Del’Fagiolo, graduate of the Culinary Academy of Belgium, diplomate of the Institute of cookery of Rome, and I also attended the Cooks and Bakers School of the United States Army. Today we have Navajo fry bread, Hopi corn stew, cheese and green chile soup, blue corn dumplings, of course, green chile paste, yucca pie, wolfberry jam, and Hopi tea. Also coca-cola and Dr Pepper. What is your pleasure?”

“How about a little bit of everything?” Aaron Finn asked.

“I was hoping you would say that,” Antonio Frantoio Del’Fagiolo said. “I will now busy myself in the kitchen, and in a short while, you will begin a meal which will surpass your wildest dreams of happiness. While you await your spectacular repast, would you care to whet your appetites by snacking on these tortilla chips and salsa? We have hot, dangerously hot, and foolhardy.” He placed a basket of oilylooking chips and three cracked bowls of green stuff on the table, then disappeared through the little door.

“I wonder which salsa is which,” I said.

“I’ll tell you,” Billy the Phantom Bellboy said. He sniffed each of the three bowls. “This one is okay. This one will test your nerves. And this one will cause you to see visions. Be careful with this stuff—this is how I died.”

Aaron Finn then explained to us that the thing about eating hot foods is not to let them know you’re afraid of them. Still, I noticed that after sampling salsa number one and salsa number two, he never touched number three. None of us did.

It’s amazing that I was able to taste anything after the salsa, but I was. Antonio Frantoio Del’Fagiolo brought plate after plate of wonderful things I had never seen before, but every one of them tasted like an old friend.

“Did I or did I not tell you this was the right place?” Aaron Finn said. We all said things like “ummph,” and “mmmm,” and “yum,” except Billy, who said snfff.

While we were eating, Antonio Frantoio Del’Fagiolo pulled up a bench and sat watching us. Nobody was talking much—we were too involved with the food. All anybody said was “Please pass those blue things,” and “Try some of this,” and “May I have more of that?” and “Yum!”

After a while, it sort of came to an end, and we looked around at each other. Everybody looked happy. Antonio Frantoio Del’Fagiolo poured cups of tea. “So, best meal you ever had in your lives, wasn’t it?” he said. “And this one has been eating on the Super Chief, which is famous for good cooking.”

“How did you know I was on the Super Chief?” I asked Antonio Frantoio Del’Fagiolo.

“You’re the kid with the turtle, aren’t you?” he asked me.

“And how did you know that?” I asked, excited.

“There’s a medicine man, comes in here all the time. He loves my blue corn dumplings, and who wouldn’t?”

“Melvin?” I asked.

“That’s the one. He told me you’d be coming in.”

“And how did he know that?” I asked, more excited.

“Like I said, medicine man. He knows all sorts of things. He told me to give you a message when you came in.”

“He did?”

“He did. Now, what was it? Oh, darn, I can’t remember. He said, this kid who has the turtle—that’s you—would be coming in with some other people, and a ghost—that’s how I was sure it was you—and I was supposed to tell you . . . It’s right on the tip of my tongue.”

“So you have no trouble seeing the ghost?” Seamus Finn asked.

“Billy? I see him fine. I eat my own cooking, you know. If you eat that foolhardy-grade salsa, you’ll see all kinds of things. Oh! I remember the message! It’s ‘Get out of this country. You’re in danger.’”

“In danger? What kind of danger?”

“He didn’t say. Just ‘Get out, you’re in danger’—that’s the whole message.”

“Why didn’t he tell me himself? I saw him only a couple of hours ago.”

“No idea. So, what did you think of the food?”