Kincaid and Manuel walked into McDonald’s Boarding House in St. Louis and approached a round man with a flush face. Drammin’ probably caused the red face, Kincaid thought, and idlin’ made him fat.
“How much for room and keep for thirteen men?” Kincaid asked.
“Are the others like him?”
“What do you mean ‘like him’?”
“Greasers. I won’t have no greasers here,” he said. “Good, god-fearing men live in my establishment. I won’t have them put up with papists crossing themselves, muttering their mumbo-jumbo, and playing with beads.”
Kincaid tried to push down his anger, but felt it rising instead.
“And you. You’re wearing the same get-up he is. Are you a greaser-lover?”
Kincaid lunged at the man but met a horse pistol in his face. The gaping muzzle seemed large enough to blow his head off.
“Watch it, laddie. Best be movin’ along. And take your ‘friend’ with you.”
Kincaid started to turn away, but Manuel grabbed him by the arm. "No," he said. "I can take care of this." Kincaid was about to protest, but he noticed the determined glint in Manuel's eyes. "You don't have any room for us?" the Mexican said to the clerk. "Even if I offer you this?" He pulled a waxed paper parcel out of his pocket and slowly opened it. A thick, flour tortilla, packed with ground beef, lettuce, tomato and a special spicy sauce.
"Okay," the clerk said, breaking into a grin. "I got rooms for you all!"
[The rest of Kincaid's group enter, playing and singing a jaunty Mariachi song.]
Voice Over: "Taco bell. We put the 'I Can' into Mexican Food."
Opening: Wes.....Continuation: Anon.