O l i v e r B e n j a m i n
Eaglefeather sat in the back row, fingering a slip of paper and smiling
contentedly as he watched Vlad hold forth.
Who said it was hard to make a prophet in the restaurant
business?
Milo and Harvey had finished their meals and were presented with
“fortune-tacos,” crisp little tortillas with fortunes inside. They were
terribly dry and stale.
“Check, please,” said Milo. Shiva came over and gracefully placed
the bill on the table. “Last chance for love, baby,” he added, grinning
salaciously.
“Last chance? Oh, no. What will I ever do,” she moaned
theatrically.
“No, I’m serious,” said Milo. “My fortune-taco says that I’m
gonna save ten percent of the world. That means I’ll be too busy for
dating.”
“Here, let me see that.” Shiva reached over and took the piece of
paper. “No, silly. It’s a coupon. You will save ten percent
off
the
world. World cuisine, that is, the next time you eat here. Still, if you
want to try to save the world, I won’t stand in your way.”
Harvey looked glum. His fortune-taco informed him that he was
the fruit from the tree of knowledge, and he was about to be plucked.
“Where do you get these things from?” Harvey inquired. “I’ve
never seen a fortune-taco before.”
“My uncle used to make them for fun. He’s passed away now, but
we still have boxes and boxes of them in the back.”
“They
were
pretty stale,” Milo said.
“Yes, well, business ain’t exactly booming,” she confessed.
“Perhaps if you were more conveniently located,” suggested
Harvey.
“I know what you mean. But Don Wong and I have our reasons.”
“Who’s Don Juan?” asked Harvey.
“He’s the creator of Pangaea. Well, we both are. He’s my
husband.”
Harvey’s heart sagged in a rapid arc towards the exotically
decorated floor. Milo’s libido followed. If metaphors were material, it
would have cost a fortune to clean those Persian rugs,
notwithstanding Milo’s sloppy eating habits.
“It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Eaglefeather,” said Harvey,
shaking her hand and lowering his head. “Now, if you could direct me
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