Renee struggled against the scorn in Fran's voice. She didn't want to admit it, but her friend was right.
She hadn't come to Tijuana to buy bamboo purses or look at moldy old statues of a revolution that was reincarnated in history books and countless Hollywood movies. She was here to FEEL sin, to see it, to touch it and smell it the way she never would in Eureka where it was buried in cellars and blacked-out rooms. She wanted to move through it without being touched.
So far, that's what they'd done. There was no reason why they couldn't go on. Mexico was a civilized country.
It was just her inbred prejudices: distrust of a language she stumbled through with the grace of a wounded elephant, suspicion of men who were different from those she was used to, loneliness for the sight of a symbol of authority and law and order – like a solidly real cop in a blue uniform walking down the street twirling his nightstick.
Could she forgive herself for letting Fran go by herself? Of course not? She laughed uneasily. "All right, Fran. We'll go. But not alone!"
"Who do you suggest we go with? John Wayne?"
"Well," Renee said. "He'd be a comfort."
"Look, we haven't much time."
"Okay, let's get looking then. We haven't much time." Grabbing Fran's arm Renee tugged her down the sidewalk. She had to hurry. Fran was getting impatient and Renee had roomed with the older woman long enough to know that she was going to be pushing to go and nothing would stop her.
When she'd made the statement about not going alone, something had popped into her head. What she wanted was a solid American male. The sort that showed up at barn dances and then scraped his feet because he was too shy to dance. It would also help her morale, she thought grimly, if he was a professional football player on the sidecar a golden gloves champion. But at two o'clock in the morning, they weren't what they turned up.
"Well," Fran said impatiently. "We don't have all night."
Renee looked about helplessly. There wasn't anybody on the streets. The only thing they could do was try the bars.
The closest nightclub didn't seem too likely a place. It had the outrageous name "Boom Boom Club" flashing across its whole front with photographs of half-naked women decorating the entrance. They pushed past the doorman before he could get the curtain pulled back for them and plunged into the club. It was much lighter than the Brooklyn Bar. A huge room, half empty, with a large dance floor in the center occupied, temporarily anyway, by a comedian with a microphone. He was telling dirty jokes in less than perfect English.
Renee looked around. Her heart plummeted. It was hopeless. There wasn't a man in the place she'd trust to hold her purse, much less protect her. She turned to go, then realized Fran had started off on her own.
Fran slid onto a stool at the bar next to a burly sailor wearing a string of hash marks down his sleeve.
Renee grabbed Fran's arm and tugged her off the stool before she could get set. The sailor had turned and was looking them both over appreciatively. Renee kept her head turned away, just so he wouldn't get the wrong idea and make something out of a stray glance.
"Well, it's what you want, isn't it?" Fran complained. She flashed the sailor a smile and followed Renee outside.
"I did not want a sailor!"
"Why not?" Fran pouted. "I thought he was cute. And I'll bet he's tough as leather."
"Because he's a sailor. That's why. We need protection – not a boards party."
"Maybe that's what you need," Fran shot back.
Renee ignored the jibe and walked away, leaving Fran to make up her mind whether to follow or not as she wanted to do. What Fran said had hit a nerve, even if she didn't show it. It could well be that what was bothering her was more than just a desire to be safe.
Angry, Renee pushed the thought away. It didn't change her mind. No sailors. And that was that!
Renee pushed the first door she came to and sighed with relief. The sign said "Capri Bar", but it was really a music bar. At one end, water splashed down a cement waterfall. The bar had a few solitary figures sitting at the bar. There were no whores.
Making a snap decision, Renee sat down next to a man near the end of the bar. He was wearing a suit and looked around thirty. Pleasant, but heavily built. He didn't look up when she sat down.
"Excuse me," she said timidly. "But I don't know any Spanish. How do you order a drink here?"
"Try English." The man's voice wasn't exactly encouraging. But Fran was standing gesturing at her wrist, trying to indicate urgency.
Fran's display of impatience made Renee's mind up for her and she decided to drop the facade and phony buildup she planned.
"Look," she said. "You're an American, aren't you?"
"Unfortunately!" The answer was dryly ironic.
Renee wished she had time to try again. But time was running out. "We're Americans too…"
"That's the trouble. Most people are."
Renee ignored him. The more he talked the surer she was that he was more than just a little drunk.
"We were hoping you'd do us a favor."
"Anything your little hearts desire." The drunk hoisted his glass and toasted Renee in silent salute.
"My friend wants to go to a… to a dirty show tonight," Renee blurted out and then blushed. "I can't let her go alone. And I won't go with her by myself. Could you… could you come along as sort of an escort?" Renee's voice trailed off and she realized how ridiculous she sounded. But she couldn't help that now.
"Of course." Swaying slightly, the man slid off the stool and stood, a little wobbly-legged to be sure, but at least he stood. Renee was thankful for that.
She took one of his arms and Fran took the other. Between them, they steered him to the street where they waved down a cab.
Fran helped cram their "escort" into the back of the cab. "We would have been better off with the sailor," she said in an I-told-you-so voice.
Renee got in the cab and instantly cranked the window down. Their companion reeked of liquor. Anyway, she shivered as the chill breeze swept the vehicle, the air might do some good to his circulatory system.
The driver seemed happy to get rid of them. He was muttering something like "gringa loco" through the heavy scarf he had worn around his face. When he got back in the blue and white cab, the first thing he did was roll up all the windows and turn the heater on full blast.
Whipping through the enclosed yard, the wind had the force of a hurricane. Fortunately, it was behind them. It made moving their happy friend in the right direction a little less of a chore.
At the door Fran asked the doorman, "Are we on time?"
"Por cierto, senorita. Always." He bowed, but Renee noticed his leer changed to a frown as he looked their companion over.
"Quien es?"
"A friend," Renee said quickly, before Fran could pour it all out. She felt silly enough, dragging him along without having Fran blab it all over the place.
"Bien," the doorman said. His voice didn't mean it, though.
He collected their money. Renee winced when she realized Fran expected her to foot the bill for their escort, who was pawing ineffectually at his pockets.
Once inside, they were guided back to the room they had been in earlier. Only the movie projector and screen were gone. A circle had been cleared in the center of the room, the chairs and couches ringing it. Overhead, two floodlights blazed down on the small section of flooring.
Renee led the way to a small couch and sat down, putting what she was beginning to think of as "her burden" between herself and Fran.
Slowly, the room started to fill. Renee realized mostly with men. But here and there a man and a woman edged in and took seats near the back.
"Where are we?" The voice was thick, uncertain.
"Do you remember our conversation?"
There was a pause and Renee could almost see the wheels grinding slowly in her companion's head. Finally he nodded. "Yes. I remember."
"Well?"
"Oh!" The man lifted his head and looked around carefully. Renee noticed he was avoiding sudden movements. He had broadly chiseled features. High cheekbones, heavily slabbed cheeks, a broad forehead with his eyes dug in, deeply separated by a thick nose already dented, as if it had been broken and improperly. In a way, his appearance gave Renee a feeling of confidence.
"My name is Alex," he rumbled suddenly.
"I'm Renee."
"Sorry about being drunk. Thought you could tell."
Renee blushed and shook her head. "Not until you stood up."
"That bad?"
Renee nodded.
The man started staring around the room. His eyes lingered. It was almost as if he took the room piece by piece and memorized each section carefully.
"Alex," Renee stumbled, then hurried on. "If you want to go, you're not obligated to stay."
"I paid my money, didn't I?"
Renee started to say something. Then thought better of it and shut her mouth. If he knew she paid he ought make a scene giving her the money back – or just walk out.
The whorehouse didn't give her enough confidence to want to be left alone. And, strangely, even though Alex was less than fully alert, he exuded a sort of physical strength that reassured her.
Finally, Alex scratched at his head awkwardly. "Look," he said. "I don't know how to say this, but you were probably right about not wanting to come here alone. The best thing, I think, is for you to pretend I'm your husband. It satisfies a lot of conventions down here."
Renee blushed. Not because he said it, but because of what she was feeling at the thought of actually being married to Alex. She nodded. And then she realized the two of them had been overlooking Fran.
She leaned across Alex toward Fran and quivered at the feel of his heat seeping into her.
"Really," Fran was saying. "I don't know where he came from. My friend was afraid to come here alone so she picked him up." Fran's voice took on a pained tone as she shifted gears. "We don't even know what his name is."
Renee groaned to herself. Fran was prattling on to some good-looking Mexican a little younger than herself, who had somehow managed to convince the couch to hold four instead of three.
He was nodding his head and answering quietly like a star-struck swain basking in Fran's beauty and the dumb cluck was eating it up.
The less he said, the more she had to say. Fran was running on and on about Eureka and what a regular little Peyton Place it was. Renee groaned and sat back. It was too late to talk her into being coy now.
"Too late?"
Renee nodded.
"It's all right." Alex rested his hand gently on her knee. "Nothing can happen here."
"I know." Just as gently, but much more firmly, Renee moved his hand off her knee.
"All right!" he chuckled.
Renee giggled and patted his hand.
Suddenly the lights went off and they sat in pitch blackness. There was the sound of bare feet padding by them. Then the other sounds she couldn't identify in the center of the room.
It was eerie. Scary.
Instinctively, Renee moved against Alex. Just as instinctively, his arm went around her and she didn't squirm away.
She sat rigid, staring into the darkness, then the music started. A slow, throbbing beat that matched the tempo of Alex's heart against her body.
Renee quivered, willing the lights to stay down. Afraid to want to see what they would reveal when they came on.
Her body was threatening to betray her.
Fear and excitement. She couldn't separate them, one from the other. She knew she was one or the other. One or the other…