Chapter Forty-Eight
Griffin
Manny’s Tacos is a local chain restaurant owned by a family that’s been in Los Angeles for at least a couple of generations. My brothers and I love the place because the food is amazing, the price is right and the portions are generous. None of that French two-bites-at-best stuff here.
The one in downtown is the original, and the largest. I park my car in a garage attached to an office building two blocks from the restaurant and walk over. As I open the door and step inside, the mouth-watering aroma of sizzling meat, onions, bell peppers and spices hit me hard. My stomach growls.
A smiling hostess comes over. “Hi and good evening. How can I help you?”
“There should be a reservation under Noah Lasker.”
She looks at a small tablet, then lifts her head with another smile. “Your party is already here. This way, please.”
She takes me to the back where the private room is. It’s large enough to host a dinner for twenty people, and I don’t know what magic Noah pulled to grab it for us. Not that I’m complaining. After Sierra and I went viral with that concert video, it’s best we aren’t where people will notice and try to talk to us. Some local social columnist figured out that I was the man who requested the song and sent emails and left voice mails on the phone in my office, requesting an interview.
I’d rather skydive with a defective parachute.
In the room are Huxley, Sebastian, Grant, Noah and Nicholas. As expected, Emmett is absent. Sierra hasn’t arrived, but it’s barely seven.
A pitcher of margaritas sits on the table. Manny’s has the best—strong with a clean finish. There are seven coupe glasses as well, two still unused, while my brothers took the others to start drinking.
Noah is hogging a basket of chips and salsa, but that’s to be expected.
I take an empty seat next to Sebastian and pour myself a margarita. “We didn’t invite Emmett, right?” I don’t want him to get morose when I’m introducing Sierra. I want her to like everyone.
“No. Even if we had, he wouldn’t have been in the mood. He’s working late. I don’t know why. Nothing’s urgent enough to work at the pace he set, but everybody is pulling all-nighters to please him,” Grant says with a small, resigned sigh.
“Is he still pining over Amy?” Noah looks utterly confused. “He should just get himself a new girlfriend.” Noah’s never been in a relationship for long. He claims he “just knows” when it’s time to move on. And he moves on quite frequently. His sneakers have been with him longer than any girlfriend.
“Emmett isn’t like you,” I say.
“I’m tempted to get him a hot hooker to help him get over her,” Sebastian says.
“He’ll murder you.” I try not to grind my teeth at the memory of the damn escort and the public embarrassment it caused me in front of my students and Charles.
“Not me. Joey,” Sebastian says. “He’d be the most likely suspect in Emmett’s mind.”
Nicholas looks at the ceiling contemplatively. “I like it. A horrible death at Emmett’s hand would be well deserved.”
“I think it’s the baby that Emmett can’t give up. You know he has a thing about his responsibilities. He probably wants to be the best dad possible, if for no other reason than to prove that he’s nothing like our dad,” Grant says. “Somebody should tell him that babies create an enormous carbon footprint or something. He’s into the environment.”
“I saw a paper about that last week,” I say vaguely, recalling some preliminary research.
“Seriously?” Huxley raises both eyebrows. “That’s harsh.”
“Well, yeah, if you view babies as an opportunity to shill your clients’ products.” Nicholas’s tone drips with cynicism.
I just shrug. Economists look into all sorts of topics. There are papers on abortions and their impact on violent crime—
“Did you agree with the premise?” Sebastian asks.
“I never prejudice myself that way. My job is to rip apart their assumptions and methodology, look for holes in their analysis.”
“Tell me more about this paper,” Grant says.
“It was an early draft, but it basically calculated all the waste that gets created because of a baby. Babies need new things all the time, every few weeks at least,” I say, trying to recall exactly what it said. The data used should be refined somewhat, and the statistical analysis could be more rigorous. But it was an early draft, so I don’t bring up those shortcomings. “The conclusion, which is preliminary, was that if we care about the environment, we should have fewer babies.”
Huxley scoffs. “Right, save the planet and face extinction.”