"Nah. In an hour the sports crowd will be screaming. I think we’ll take a quiet booth."

Manuel escorted them to a booth on the far wall and they slid in facing each other over the fat, globular, red-glass candle. Under Manuel’s expert supervision, a young man quickly set the table with ice water, bowls of hot, toasted tortilla chips and fresh-ground salsa.

"Manuel, you can bring me a Gold Margarita," Donna said. "Blended. Make it grande."

"A double vodka, neat," Jackie said.

"I thought the pharmacy lady said no alcohol," Donna said.

"Oh, please."

While waiting for their drinks, they began scooping chips into the pungent mixture of chopped chilies, onions, garlic, tomatoes, cilantro and other secret goodies. Manuel returned in record time with the drinks and poised himself for their meal request.

"I’ll have a number 9," Donna said.

"A number 13 for me," Jackie said, tossing down the vodka, "and another one of these."

"Jackie, I’m not sure that’s wise."

"Donna, please. Besides, this part of town makes me nervous. You know, I was thinking. Do you realize we’ve been eating here since high school? We feel safe here because we’re familiar with it. But it’s not really safe anymore. Not like it was."

Manuel cruised by and dropped off Jackie’s second drink. She uncapped her vial of pills and looked inside. "Look. They’re shaped like a house." She extracted a couple of the pills, tossing them down with a gulp vodka.