Turn up the Heat

what to think of Blythe or how to feel about her until I’d sorted out her role in stealing from Simmer. Or, of course, in murdering Leandra.
    Josh was on the couch looking at me. God, I just loved him. No amount of fatigue could wipe away how gorgeous he was in my eyes. I sidestepped the dancing pair and sat on Josh’s lap. I ran my hands through his dirty-blond hair and kissed him softly on the lips. “I love you,” I whispered in his ear.
    “I love you, too, babe. I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered back.
    By the time the tamales were finally done, the four of us had gone through a good portion of the pilfered beer. The apartment lacked a dining room, so we sat at the kitchen table.
    “Who’s hungry?” Snacker asked loudly as he placed a platter of steaming tamales in the center of the table.
    I reached behind me and lifted my garlicky salad bowl up and onto the table. I nudged it toward Blythe.
    “Here’s to Simmer!” Josh toasted, raising his bottle high in the air. Blythe, Snacker, and I all clumsily clinked our bottles against his.
    “Okay, now open them neatly!” Snacker demanded as we reached for delicious-smelling bundles. “We have to show a little respect for the tamale! Fold your foil back and tuck it under the packet, and then gently peel back the banana leaves to reveal the contents! And don’t go dumping it out in a big mess, either!” Snacker was shouting excitedly. “Oh, yeah! Look at that baby!” Steam was rising up from his plate.
    Fact: to a person in a beer-induced haze, there is no better food in the world than fresh, hot tamales. “Good God, these are perfect,” I said with a groan.
    “Yeah, my friend really hooked me up with this recipe, huh?” Snacker looked very pleased with his dish. “You ladies will have to take some home with you.”
    “Yeah, if there are any left,” Josh said with a laugh.
    We worked our way through the salad and an obscene number of tamales without making much of a dent in the hundred or so that we’d cooked. The ones I’d take with me would be perfect for the nights I ate at home alone, the nights when Josh was working. And there’d be many nights like that. I sat back in my chair and faintly regretted that last tamale. I was stuffed. “Snacker, you have to give me this recipe. I bet these would be great to give as holiday gifts to friends.”
    “Oh, definitely. I usually do exactly that. And you’re in luck because I’ve already got a bunch of photocopies of the recipe. Here,” Snacker said as he reached behind him and grabbed some sheets off the counter.
    I gasped as I skimmed through the ingredients. “Fifty chicken thighs! Forty tomatoes!”
    “I know it sounds crazy, but if you’re going to go to the trouble of making tamales, you might as well make one giant batch,” Snacker explained.
    “I guess that’s true. It’s pretty labor-intensive, huh?”
    “True, but totally worth the time,” Josh added as he licked his fingers.
    “Hey, Snacker,” Blythe began. She pointed to his hand. “How did you get that big scar on your finger?”
    “Battle scar from a few years ago,” he explained. “Not a big deal. Everyone done here?”
    Josh started laughing. “Not a big deal, is that right? You’re not going to tell them?”
    “Come on, dude! Don’t do that to me! I’m trying to make a good impression here.” He winked flirtatiously at Blythe.
    “If she still likes you after this, then you’re safe!” Josh spoke way too gleefully. He stretched back in his chair. “So this was back in the days,” Josh started in his best storytelling voice. “Back in the days of mayhem, when we were known to get a little wild. Not like now, of course, because we are very serious and professional at all times.”
    “Yeah, whatever.” I laughed. “Go ahead.”
    “Snacker and I were working at this awful little restaurant together, where we were both line cooks. All we served was crappy frozen appetizers that we had to fry up for service and stuff like that. But the place was always packed, and the so-called chef was hardly ever around, so it was always me and Snacker frying up mozzarella sticks and wings. So one night,” Josh said as he took a swig of his beer, “Snacker and I were getting slammed at the restaurant, and he cut his finger pretty badly on a meat slicer. I tried to get him to go to the ER, but he said he wanted to wait until after service, since it was only the two of us and a dishwasher there. So we wrapped