Provecho

74.

We make our way back to the command center closely followed by the agent tasked with our hospitality. I sit in my usual spot and invite Maria to make herself comfortable to my right. As we settle in I ask the agent for a pot of coffee and two bottles of water. He immediately asks if we will be eating as well. 

“What is the cuisine du jour?” I ask. 

“We have the usual light sandwich or wrap fare as well as some Tex-Mex we rounded up while we were waiting for your arrival,” he says with the obvious inexperience and slight contempt of a rookie waiter. I look at Maria and she asks if any cerveza is available to help wash the rice and beans down. 

“Probably not, but I’ll check,” he says and eyes me for a response. 

“Tex-Mex for two it is” 

With a nod he turns to leave.

Alone, I open the conversation with a compliment, stating my positive impression of her grace under fire and situational awareness as the day’s drama unfolded. “It could have gone off the rails at any time and I applaud your stamina and courage throughout the operation.”

She is strangely silent, looking perhaps for a better conversational opening. I jump-cut to the heart-of-the-matter, “We have a couple of options moving forward, I continue, “with the original plan, the one of immunity and witness protection being the current, pre-existing one.” She straightens her posture and watches the waiter/agent set a stainless-steel pot of coffee on a coaster along with a pair of heavy-duty ceramic mugs in front of us. 

“The second option is the one that opened the door for our daring escape and high-speed chase into the waiting jaws of death,” I say using my very best spaghetti western narration, at which she rolls her eyes and sucks her teeth. “Yeah, sorry, we'll…here is what we have in mind as the second option.” But before I can finish she blurts; “You want me to go undercover with The Axis to provide you with intel on their next move — in the eventual hope of pulling another one of your flash-bang raids and taking them out altogether and for good.” 

“Well, yes.”

“With the ‘daring escape’ part of the guise to get them to accept my pending desire to pick up where we left off.” 

“Affirmative.” 

“We could have been killed.”

“But we weren’t.”

“Why would I even consider trading the deal we made for a suicide mission?” she asks with the perfect mixture of dramatic flair and innocent speculation, “and furthermore, I don’t even know who you are, and hence who I will be risking my neck for.” 

“That is what we are going to discuss,” I answer, “after,” I eyeball and sniff, “we enjoy what appears to be a plate of cheese and onion enchiladas with ice-cold Negra Modelos.” 

“Provecho.” I offer.

“Meaning?” she asks, “Non comprende.”

“Spanish, expressing the desire that something is useful or convenient to the health or wellbeing of someone, often addressed to those who are eating, drinking and plotting great and heroic deeds.”

Instantly aware of the double entendre, reaching for her fork, she echos, “Provecho.”