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That’s when the gringo came in
Conversation in the barroom died
The newcoe Italian suit, a loosened silk tie, a felt hat cocked back on his forehead A blond Sinatra, she thought--soht out of her parents’ record collection
The regular cholos studied him apprehensively, then went back to their conversations The way they turned fro an effort to pretend he was invisible, o had been here before
He walked to the bar, ignoring the uneasy stir he’d caused Men ave no indication of having seen her, but he slid onto a bar stool next to her, placed his hat on the counter He shook loose a Pall Mall, offered her one
"I don’t smoke," she told him
She did, of course She wasn’t sure why she’d lied
He lit his cigarette
"You drink," he noticed Then to the bartender: "Jorge, dos cervezas, por favor"
The bartender didn’t look surprised to be called by naht out two ice-cold Lone Stars
"No thanks," she said
The gringo finally looked at her, and she caught her breath His eyes were startlingly blue, beautiful and distant like stained glass
"Lady comes to a bar," he said "If she isn’t here to smoke or drink, there’s only one other possibility"
She braced for the inevitable proposition, but he surprised her
"You got a problem," he said, "and you need somebody to talk to"
She studied his face
How old was he? Mid-thirties, at least As old as her professor But so different He had an aura about him, as if he owned this bar and everyone in it He was important Powerful No man in the bar dared look him in the eye
He pulled a clip of money from his jacket pocket--a thick wad of twenties--peeled one off carelessly and tucked it under the beer glass
She couldn’t help feeling iht in a riptide An irresistible force was surging around her legs, pulling her toward deeper water
"You want to tell me about it?" he asked
"I don’t even know you"
He grinned "We can fix that"
HIS CAR WAS A NEW MERCEDES 230SL, a hardtop two-seater glea The dashboard glowed like hot caramel She’d never seen a car like this,the dark streets, cutting through neighborhoods she kneell, but fro looked different--insubstantial She felt as if they could go anywhere They could turn and drive straight through her old high school and they’d pass through it like a oing?" she asked him
She tried to sound suspicious She knew she shouldn’t have gotten into a stranger’s car anyabout this rich gringoHe treated her presence as a given As if she deserved to be next to hie about the two of theh the South Side in a car that cost
"You’re the boss," he told her "I don’t know this area Show uard She was the boss
She guided hirandfather had started in the thirties, the shack where Mrs Longoria sold tortillas off the griddle, the homes of her childhood friends She told him stories--her first broken arm from that tree, her first boyfriend lived there They passed within a block of her house, but she didn’t show him where she lived He didn’t ask
"Where would you go for a quiet talk?" he asked
Her heart treerous Her parents, her friends would not approve They were always protecting her, reile she was, how unpractical her dreams were
"I’ll show you," she decided
She directed him down South Alamo, then onto a stretch of dark rural road where her friends and she used to stargaze It was a desolate spot--perfect for ghost stories and underage drinking At night, the fields and woods were so black she always felt she was at the edge of an enoro pulled his Mercedes next to a stand of live oaks and cut the headlights
"Perfect," he said
An orange Nove shadow scars across his face
"What’s your name?" she asked
"Guy Guy White"
He said it as if it were a private joke--as if, with his luminous car, his Nordic features, hisher life was not, would never be
"They wantit out
"Who does?"
"My college advisor He wouldn’t write a recoraphy at best Because I’m a woman"