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“Do we leave a note?” Don asks.
“No.”
“Don’t you think he’ll find it strange when you aren’t here later?”
“No,” I say, patting my pocket for my keys. “Because I will be.”
Chapter nineteen
Agreement
Clint
The sun is gone, but the heat remains. It rises off the street in damp waves, made worse by the pop-up shower that caught me two blocks back and then disappeared like it had somewhere better to be.
The sky is the color of a bruise when I reach the bar. It glows in front of me, all neon and low music and rainbow light spilling onto wet pavement. A few men cluster near the entrance, smoking under the edge of the roof, talking and laughing about the hit-and-run shower.
One of them looks me up and down.
“Wet look works,” he says.
“Tell that to my socks.”
He laughs and steps aside.
The men here are mostly from the States, mostly white, and all flush with vacation pesos. I don’t hear a word of Spanish until I pass two dancers near the bar, stretching and checking each other’s reflections in the mirrored wall behind the stage.
“Papacito!”
I give a chin nod. “¿Qué tal, Emiliano?”
Both dancers give an affectionate laugh at my terrible accent. They seem to appreciate my attempts.
Emiliano replies, “No pesos tonight, bro. Slow night.”
I rub the rainwater from my head. “No?”
“Nah, bro. Shitty pesos.”
“Papacito!” Marco calls from behind the bar.
It’s been one week. Long enough to catch the nickname Papacito, not long enough for most of the crew to know my actual name.
He points at my shirt. “Rain got you.”
“It was more of an attack.”
“Ay, pobrecito.”
“Tip for sympathy?”
He slides a towel across the bar. “Tip for dancing.”
Right.
The arrangement is simple because it’s barely an arrangement. Also, it’s all I’m going to get with just a passport and a smile.
I take the towel and rub it over my head.
