face had turned red. Was he embarrassed? Was he aroused? Nestor had no idea. He had no take on pale genteel americanos like John Smith. As for himself, he was down too deep in his Valley of the Shadow to get cocked over whores with banners of money flying from the CRACKS of their ASSES. And that was what they were, every last one of them, WHORES.
—BEAT thung BEAT thung BEAT thung BEAT thung the BEAT thung
Nestor scarcely glanced at her. He was scanning the men still gathered in front of the stage. Just beyond that bunch—what is it about that one? Nestor’s eyes were fixed upon a heavyset man wearing a black shirt unbuttoned halfway down the front, the better to see his big hairy chest. He had no grand mustache… just a scraggly one that only barely went past the corners of his mouth… but that unbuttoned black shirt and that big sloppy show of chest hair made Nestor think immediately of the photo of Igor he got from the Miami-Dade cops. He knew that picture by heart… the black shirt, the hairy chest, even the way the deep gulleys that began on either side of his nose ran down past his lips and merged with his jowls… the crooked twist of the lips that was probably meant to look cool.
He leaned over toward John Smith. “Maybe I’m seeing things, because the guy has only a little mustache, but I’d swear he’s Igor!”
He turned back to show John Smith—mierda!—the man had disappeared.
Uh-ohhh. A bevy of somewhat-dressed girls descended upon the two of them. A blonde—what was it with this universe of blondes?—got to John Smith first. She wore a denim dress with a top like a bib overall’s… denim suspenders over the shoulders… except that she wore nothing under the bib and her breasts bulged out on the sides, and you could see the nether curves, too, where they joined her chest. The dress looked like—one yank!—and it’s off!… a mere puddle of cloth on the floor. She shook hands with him—by clasping the inside of his thigh and giving him a big suggestive smile and saying, “Hi! I’m Belinka. Having fun?”
Where was that guy? Nestor got a glimpse of him again… talking cozily with a bouncer. John Smith at this moment was incapable of thinking about their mission. All he could think about was what had appropriated his thigh… his inner thigh… not far from—The pale white face of Mr. John Smith blushed the bloodiest red Nestor had ever seen. He had no answer to her question except “Unnh hunnh.” Nestor enjoyed his distress enormously but didn’t dare dwell on it—now where has that guy gone? He was right there a half-second ago!
“I bet you wanna have more!” said “Belinka.”
John Smith paused, at a loss for words. Finally he managed to say—his voice distraught with embarrassment—“I… guess so…”
I guess so. It was so lame, Nestor loved it, but he didn’t watch. Any second… he scoured Furniture Land… any second—
In the next instant he felt a hand on the inside of his own thigh.
“Hi! I’m Ninotchka! I can see you’re—”
“Hi,” said Nestor, without looking at her. His eyes remained fixed upon Furniture Land. “What kind of name is Ninotchka?” he said idly.
“It’s Russian,” she said. “What are you looking at?”
“You’re Russian? No kidding,” he said. His eyes remained pinned on Furniture Land.
Long pause. Finally: “No, but my parents are… What are you looking for out there?”
“You grow up around here?” said Nestor—and he still didn’t look at her.
Another pause.
“No,” she said, “I grew up in Homestead.”
He smiled to himself. ::::::That’s the first true thing you’ve said! Homestead is so Low-Rent, nobody telling lies would ever have herself coming from Homestead.:::::: To her he said nothing.
The whore had had enough. He was toying with her, mocking her. Two could play that game. She slipped her hand a little bit farther up the inside of his thigh and said, “What’s your name?”
“Ray,” said Nestor.
“You come here a lot, Ray?” said the whore.
Nestor just kept scanning people moving about in the glamorous-damn-it nightclub gloom.
“You know, you’ve got a really big neck, Ray.” With that she lifted her hand from his thigh and cupped it around his genitals… gently but completely. “A very, very big neck,” she said. She gave him a mocking smile. “Your neck’s getting bigger… How about a big, wet kiss on your neck?”
Out the side of his mouth, without any inflection one way or the other: “No, thanks.”
“Oh,