I won’t say its name. It’s one of several in the area. I go there often, particularly on Tuesdays with my daughter, when she’s off work and can drive.

A Hispanic restaurant. The menu is a mix of specialties from back home en mi país, and mainstream (i. e., gringo-friendly)—taco salad, guacamole, beans & rice, habanero sauce close but on the side. We’re watched by big hovering TV screens, featuring probably the longest soccer [oops, fútbol] match ever played, between commercials and endless chatter on the game highlights, all in Español.

I’m a fan of the food. The juegos not so mucho.

The ambiance, like most of the workday lunch hour regulars, is muy auténtico; sweat- and paint-stained shirts with construction or landscaping service logos proliferate. The prices are surprisingly modest.

Next to  our table the windows are dotted with a haphazard collection of signs about daily specials, occasional musicales, and other events, mostly hand-written with a black marker and taped to the glass, again all in Spanish —

—But wait a minute. Not all. Not today.

There’s a new one today. It’s printed, with bold block letters, which the bright sun shines through and makes the top line visible. It faces out; only three words.  I read it backwards, as it is in English:

NO ICE ACCESS

And now I’m up from the chair, jerking the phone camera from its shirt pocket, leaving the salsa bowl jiggling behind me. Out the door, then fighting my own shadow to get a clear image. Here it is, the best I could get:

My daughter said other patrons watched closely as I snapped the photos. I didn’t notice; lunch was calling.

The flyer did not identify its source. But two lines of very small print at the bottom offered clues:

California Government & labor codes?

All very well, but about ten jurisdictions away from North Carolina.

I knew about the 4th Amendment, tho. That battered and shattered remnant of the Before Times. Can it be resurrected? Reincarnated?

But maybe it was still working here. The lunch customers didn’t seem panicked. They finished around us and headed back to work. I’m told they are good tippers.

On the way out, I stopped to sign the bill. The manager, older than  the server and with more English, recognized and thanked me as usual.

I remarked on the flyer, and he broke eye contact and peered down at the bare counter. Glancing out the windows, I scanned the angular rows of modest apartments that stretched for several blocks beyond the place; I’ve been told many of the occupants are Hispanic.

I’ve read the reports of several thousand local children being kept home last week here, as ICE squads roamed the city on their snatching sprees. I lowered my voice and asked if there had been any trouble nearby?

The manager kept looking down. He slowly nodded, and said “Yes,” in almost a whisper.

I didn’t ask anything more. He might recognize me as the frequent patron who always asks for a large bowl of their good salsa, but had no other reason to trust me or maybe any gringo. The place was muy auténtico; I could be casing it for the best time to set up a raid.

But I wasn’t. Just out shopping, for this and that, taking my safety (and that of my daughter) for granted.

Well . . . nowadays I carry my passport in my cargo pants. But still.