They all heard yelling from the street—Navajas—and the customer pulled himself away from his date and fled the other way down the alley. The abandoned girl, having already accepted payment, only shrugged casually at the premature evacuation.
The one in the doorway yelled something to her. Peter thought he heard the word “Navajas,” but in his condition, he couldn’t be sure.
The other one was arguing with her, huffing in protest, but in the end, both girls hoisted Peter up and threw each of his arms around each of their shoulders. They half-carried, half-dragged his sorry carcass into the cathouse.
Peter slipped in and out of consciousness. He remembered being lowered onto a bed. As they undressed him, he saw a pile of used towels huddled in a corner.
When he woke again, he was naked, and the girl who poked her head into the alley was washing him with a wet rag.
He tried to speak, but she put her fingers to her lips and said “Shhh.” He did not argue. He closed his eyes.
He was jolted awake by some kind of commotion in the front of the house. He picked his head up and looked around at the cracked plaster walls painted in a faded yellow. There was a condom advertisement flashing up on the wall next to where he lay. He was alone.
He wanted to call out, but given the commotion, thought better of it.
The girl who was nursing him burst into the room and started telling him something frantic in Spanish. She was holding his Mini-com Multi-tasker in her hands trying to operate it, but she didn’t know how. She wouldn’t—it was army issue.
“Ma’am, what are you doing with my…”
She was muttering to herself in frustration until she finally pressed a button and the payment kiosk by the bed registered with a tone indicating that payment had been made.
She began to take off her clothes. When he tried to say something, she shushed him again. She was young and firm and in her early twenties. He was so confused. Why was she…?
She got onto the bed and mounted him, but she did not move. She only looked anxiously at the doorway, waiting.
They heard two men yelling commands in Spanish, and she began to lower herself over him. He was limp, but he understood what she was doing.
Two men with carbines surged into the room—Navajas. They yelled at her in Spanish, and she sat up and raised her hands compliantly.
The men looked them up and down and looked at Peter. He obviously was not Mexican. With sudden panic, Peter wondered where his clothes were. If they saw the camouflaged pants…
Shit. The Mini-com Multi-tasker. If they saw it, they would know he was no local. He wasn’t paying attention. Where the hell did she put it?
Everything was happening faster than his concussed mind could understand. And they were staring at him suspiciously, sizing him up.
Peter did not know what to do, so he smiled.
The Navajas saw this pathetic gringo under this whore with his broken smile and an ad for a popular erectile dysfunction pill flashing next to them.
He must’ve looked like a real travesty because they snickered. One man called him names and used the words “carajo” and “mariposa” liberally. Satisfied with their derision, they left.
The girl sighed heavily in apparent relief, and looked down at Peter. She smiled and whispered something in Spanish.
Peter picked his head up slowly. “I don’t know who you are, but thank you.”
She smiled, looking upon him with pity, and whispered, “Mi nombre Lucita.”
That was her name. It was like music to his weary ears. The name of his savior was Lucita.
Then he suddenly felt very tired. The immediate danger had passed, the adrenaline was waning, and Lucita would look after him.
He was too exhausted to think about what had just happened and that his men were all dead. For the moment, he did not care what was going to happen next, or how he would get back. He succumbed to sweet oblivion, if only for a moment.
Chapter 2
Peter was sitting in Molly Apone’s kitchen sipping lemonade. Her two girls were running around in the back yard playing, undeterred by the unrelenting heat of the summer sun.
Molly was looking towards the back screen door, lost in some private reverie. “I can’t believe Mya’s going to be starting the fourth grade this year.”
“And Courtney’s starting second?”
Molly nodded.
Peter sipped his lemonade. Molly made the best. It wasn’t overly saccharine like store bought and man