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him. He covered his
     face and wept quietly.
    When he finally composed himself, he was surprised to find his confidence returning. “Thanks, Padre,” he whispered.
    “Don’t thank me. You’ve bought a ticket, Manolo,” the priest said gently. “But it might be in the wrong lottery.”
    “I still don’t understand you, Father.”
    “I’m going to put you in touch with someone who can explain it to you… and perhaps give you a job.”

    Mano strode briskly across the weed-choked turf of Belvedere Park, still wondering why Father Johnson had insisted he memorize
     his destination rather than write it down. He repeated it to himself once again:
Joe Herrera, Cielo Azul Bookstore, four blocks north of Belvedere Park.
    Crossing Fisher Street, he saw the bookstore. The shop was undamaged by the rioting, its large front window stacked to the
     ceiling with a haphazard clutter of books that blocked the view inside.
    A mild chime rang as Mano opened the door and stepped slowly into the dimly lit shop, the air pungent with the smell of moldy
     books.
    “Buenos días, señor,” said a voice from the darkness.
    As Mano’s eyes adjusted to the gloom, he saw a man behind a counter at the back of the room. The shopkeeper looked well over
     sixty, his gray hair pulled back into a ponytail. The man’s high cheekbones and bronze skin revealed a blend of Spanish and
     Native American ancestors.
    So this is Joe Herrera
, Mano thought as he walked forward and extended his hand over the counter. Though his own beefy grip engulfed the smaller
     man’s hand, he found the shopkeeper’s handshake surprisingly firm.
    “Hello, sir. I’m Manolo Suarez.”
    “What can I do for you, Mr. Suarez?” the older man said in perfect English.
    “Father Johnson sent me. He said you might have a job available, but he wasn’t very clear about what kind of job it might
     be.”
    “Father Johnson has sent people to us before. They’re usually looking for answers they can’t find in a church. Are you one
     of those people?”
    “I’m not looking for answers, sir. I’m looking for a job.”
    “You’re also a man who comes right to the point, I see,” he said, breaking into a smile.
    “Yes, sir. And right now I’m wondering what kind of job a mechanic would find in a bookstore.”
    “Well, let’s start by finding out more about you. We should have our employment applications around here somewhere,” he said,
     crouching behind the counter. “Ah, here they are.”
    The application was far simpler than any of the hundreds Mano had seen over the last six months. He stood at the counter and
     quickly completed the form.
    “I’ll take your application into the office and have it processed,” the older man said, carrying the sheet toward the steel
     door behind the counter. “Our decision won’t take long. If you’d like to wait, you’re welcome to sit down,” he said, gesturing
     toward a pair of upholstered chairs in the corner of the shop.
    “You mean I’ll know today if you’re hiring me?”
    “Yes, that’s very likely.”
    “Then I’ll be glad to wait. Thank you, sir.”
    Too excited to sit, Mano began wandering around the room. With the exception of those crowding the front window, the books
     in the room were carefully arranged, their subjects neatly labeled along the edges of the shelves. African-American Studies.
     Aromatherapy. Astrology. To Mano, the subjects seemed out of place for a barrio bookstore. Then again,
any
bookstore was rare in East Los Angeles. Except for the large number of titles in Spanish, he would have expected to see a
     store like this in Venice Beach.
    The books in the room did not hold his attention. He’d never had much time for reading, but he did have an eye for detail.
     It didn’t take Mano long to realize that from where he stood, there was an eye-level gap in the clutter of books along the
     front window. The space provided a view of the eastern approach to the store.
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