Snow did not believe Luisa had bought into his story. She maintained a cool and disaffected mask throughout and he had been planning to amp up the emotion, to say that he expected nothing of her, he realized how badly he must have hurt her, and he would go his own way if that were her wish, etc. . . . but at this juncture she drew him into a passionate kiss, drowning him in perfume, engaging him with tongue and breasts, eliciting cheers and approbative comments (‘Fuck, yeah!’ and ‘Dude, if you don’t hit that, I will!’ and the like) from the nearby twenty-somethings, some of whom had been eavesdropping. Luisa blushed and led Snow from the bar, accompanied by a smattering of applause, and into the elevator, where unrestrained kissing and fondling supplanted the need to speak, and thence to her suite on the ninth floor, an interior decorator’s wet dream of ‘travertine floors, faux-zebra-skin rugs, Calcutta marble counters, and petrified wood accent tables . . .’ (Out of boredom he had read and re-read the hotel’s brochure while waiting for Luisa.) Amidst this hideous thousand-dollar-per-night splendor the evening held few surprises, yet Snow was unsettled to discover how demanding Luisa was in the bedroom. He felt like a German Shepherd being put through his paces. Harder, faster, deeper. Heel. He supposed her aggression and dominance were due to her enforced docility at home. Thankfully he had procured a supply of Viagra and was able to perform up to her standards, emerging from the training run unscathed apart from a bite mark or two and a sore tongue.
Around noon they went shopping for lingerie, a brief excursion that saw her buy a variety of peignoirs, bra-and-panty sets, and a number of more risqué costumes. Upon their return to the Bon Temps, Luisa put on a fashion show, modeling each and every item, breaking from the process for bouts of coitus interruptus. Their involvement had been so all consuming that it had frustrated Snow’s desire to extract information from her about the PVO, but the fashion show afforded him an opportunity to ask his questions. He had thought that he would have to be subtle in his interrogation, but once he got her started Luisa spoke freely about her husband’s lack of character and his nefarious activities. One typical exchange went as follows:
Luisa (from the next room): Here I come, baby!
Snow: Okay!
(an interval of several seconds)
Snow (hushed): My God.
Luisa: It’s pretty, no?
Snow: That’s not the word I’d use. You look . . . incredible. Amazing. There are no words. Enrique’s eyes are going to bug out when he sees you in this.
Luisa (sternly): Enrique never see me like this. Never. These clothes . . . they are for you. No one else.
Snow: Don’t you have to show him stuff that proves you went shopping?
Luisa: I buy some junk at the airport . . . at the duty free shops. Here. You like me like this?
Snow: Oh, yeah!
Luisa: You ready for me?
Snow: What do you think?
Luisa (giggles): Look. I can slide this over like so. And then I can sit like . . . Ohhh! That’s so nice!
(a minute or two of strenuous breathing)
Luisa (playful): Let me go, baby. I don’t want you to come yet.
Snow: You’re going to fucking kill me.
Luisa (laughs): I’m going to try.
During a viewing of the next outfit:
Snow: I don’t get it. Won’t he be able to tell you bought lingerie from the receipts?
Luisa: Enrique don’t ever look at the receipts. He don’t do nothing. I take care of the receipts, the bank, everything. That’s how I know where he goes on and the presents he buy for women. Puto pendejo! Lambioso! He don’t care if I know about them!
Snow (casually): Where’s he go on these trips?
Luisa: Mexico, sometimes. But mostly he goes to Tres Santos.
Snow: Tres Santos? That’s a little speck of a village. At least it used to be. What’s he do there?
Luisa: It’s where he meets the Jefe. The guy who runs the PVO. How’s this?
Snow: Very sexy. Beautiful. So what’s his name?
Luisa: Jefe. They just call him Jefe ’cause he’s the boss, the chief. He don’t like names. He got lots of secrets and he don’t ever leave Tres Santos. Enrique says he’s a really weird guy. He spend all the time flying inside this big building.
Snow: I’ve never heard of anything like that – flying in a building.
Luisa: I don’t know nothing about it. That’s what Enrique says.
Snow: What’s Enrique do? Does he fly, too?
Luisa: He fucks whores. I can smell them on him when he come home. And I can tell there are many because of the clothes he buy for them. Clothes like this. Different sizes.
Snow: I don’t recall there being any whores in Tres Santos. The population couldn’t support them.
Luisa (impatiently): Well, they got some now and Enrique buys them presents. Why you care? You want to talk about Enrique or you want more of this?
Snow: It’s just I can’t believe he goes with whores when he has a beautiful woman like you.
Luisa (coyly): You like these, eh?
Snow: When you shake them like that, I can’t think of anything else.
And again:
Snow: Maybe he’s a fag. You ever think about that?
