The Goth girl who had insulted me on my stoop the week before, Yara, was talking to a woman named Dolores for whom Viviana had a thing (her infidelity was by no means gender specific – she had explained that many of the women, like her, felt imprisoned by their relationships and would fuck anything that moved so as to express their frustration and cause psychic damage to their significant others – Club Sexy provided them with a perfect cover). She started up from her barstool. I caught her arm and asked what was wrong, but she shook me off, beelined for the table and proceeded to chew out Yara, who regarded her with an impassive expression. When Viviana paused for breath, Yara spoke briefly. Whatever she said must have been potent, for without further ado Viviana went off to sulk at a corner table. I watched the girl for a while. Her gestures were slow, calm, languid, as if she were explaining a serious matter, taking her time, being patient. Several women at other tables watched her as well – dotingly, I thought. Intently. The way you’d stare at a movie star. This girl had a definite presence. In a room full of beautiful women, she was the one who stood out, who drew your eye.
‘Oh, Guillermo!’ I beckoned him over. ‘Could you make one of your elegant mango mojitos for Viviana?’
‘Of course.’
I put my elbows on the bar and interlaced my fingers, using them as a chin-rest, watching him prepare the drink.
‘I believe I’ll have one, too,’ I said. ‘Extra sweet.’ Then, leaning close, I added in a whisper, ‘Why’s Viv so upset?’
‘She thinks La Endriaga is hitting on Dolores.’
‘You mean the girl in black? She’s La . . . what was it? La Endriaga?’
He poured lime juice. ‘Aren’t you familiar with the story? La Endriaga’s supposed to be a creature part snake, part dragon, part female. The girl’s real name is Lara . . . or Mara. Or something. You know how I am with names. But people call her La Endriaga because she lives in the jungle, near the skull.’
‘I thought that was just a story . . . the skull.’
‘I’ve never seen it myself.’ Guillermo gave his hair a toss. ‘But Jaime Solis . . . you know, the boy who dyes his soul patch all different colors? He told me it’s real. He offered to take me to see it, but I said, “Why would I want to look at some nasty old bones? There are better ways to impress me.”’
I had drained the larger part of my mojito when Dolores passed Yara a fat envelope, the kind that in the movies often contains a payoff. Yara stuffed it into a straw market bag, presented her cheek to be kissed, and headed for the exit. Curious, I followed her outside. It was almost eight o’clock and the sidewalks were crowded, the street dressed in neon, choked with clamorous traffic, the night air steamy and reeking of exhaust. Music from radios and storefronts contended with the crowd noise and the squeal of arcade games. Grimy children, mainly pre-teen girls of the sort Aurora House was purported to help, plucked at my sleeve, held out their hands and made pleading faces. I surrendered my pocket change and shooed them away. Yara had been swallowed up by the crowd, but I spotted the psycho army captain’s Hummer, its hood decorated by red and purple smears of reflected light. He was hunting for a parking place, leaning on his horn – instead of a honk it produced a grandiose digital fanfare. We had long since made our peace, but I thought it best to move on. I went west along Avenida Seis, uncertain of my destination, pausing to look in shop windows, and caught sight of Yara in an otherwise empty electronics store, talking to a clerk, her black figure as slim and sharply defined as an exclamation point under the bright fluorescents. The clerk – a tall, stringy guy with a shock of white in his forelock – appeared upset with her, making florid gestures, but he cooled off when she passed him the envelope Dolores had given her. He inspected the contents, glanced about as if to ascertain whether anyone was watching, then removed a few bills from the envelope and handed them to her. She stuffed them into the hip pocket of her jeans and headed for the entrance. I turned my back and pretended to be studying a window display of cell phones, but she walked up to me and said cheerfully, ‘I wondered when we’d meet again.’
Put off by the dissonance between her tone now and that she had employed during our first encounter, I said, ‘You wondered that, did you?’
‘Don’t you want to know how I knew we’d meet again?’
‘Sure. Whatever.’
‘I always know that sort of thing.’
I waited for a deeper analysis and when none was forthcoming I said, ‘Well, this is nice, but I’ve got to be stepping.’
‘Don’t go.’ She linked arms with me and did this little snuggle-bunny move against my shoulder. ‘There’s something I want you to see.’
‘Whoa!’ I disengaged from her. ‘Last week you treated me like I was a fucking STD and now . . .’
‘I’m sorry! I was in a terrible mood.’
‘And now you’re coming on to me in this retarded way. What’s that all about?’
