Chapter 2

Renee struggled against the scorn in Fran's voice. She didn't want to admit it, but her friend was right.

She hadn't come to Tijuana to buy bamboo purses or look at moldy old statues of a revolution that was reincarnated in history books and countless Hollywood movies. She was here to FEEL sin, to see it, to touch it and smell it the way she never would in Eureka where it was buried in cellars and blacked-out rooms. She wanted to move through it without being touched.

So far, that's what they'd done. There was no reason why they couldn't go on. Mexico was a civilized country.

It was just her inbred prejudices: distrust of a language she stumbled through with the grace of a wounded elephant, suspicion of men who were different from those she was used to, loneliness for the sight of a symbol of authority and law and order--like a solidly real cop in a blue uniform walking down the street twirling his nightstick.

Could she forgive herself for letting Fran go by herself? Of course not? She laughed uneasily. "All right, Fran. We'll go. But not alone!"

"Who do you suggest we go with? John Wayne?"

"Well," Renee said. "He'd be a comfort."

"Look, we haven't much time."

"Okay, let's get looking then. We haven't much time." Grabbing Fran's arm Renee tugged her down the sidewalk. She had to hurry. Fran was getting impatient and Renee had roomed with the older woman long enough to know that she was going to be pushing to go and nothing would stop her.

When she'd made the statement about not going alone, something had popped into her head. What she wanted was a solid American male. The sort that showed up at barn dances and then scraped his feet because he was too shy to dance. It would also help her morale, she thought grimly, if he was a professional football player on the sidecar a golden gloves champion. But at two o'clock in the morning, they weren't what they turned up.

"Well," Fran said impatiently. "We don't have all night."

Renee looked about helplessly. There wasn't anybody on the streets. The only thing they could do was try the bars.

The closest nightclub didn't seem too likely a place. It had the outrageous name "Boom Boom Club" flashing across its whole front with photographs of half-naked women decorating the entrance. They pushed past the doorman before he could get the curtain pulled back for them and plunged into the club. It was much lighter than the Brooklyn Bar. A huge room, half empty, with a large dance floor in the center occupied, temporarily anyway, by a comedian with a microphone. He was telling dirty jokes in less than perfect English.

Renee looked around. Her heart plummeted. It was hopeless. There wasn't a man in the place she'd trust to hold her purse, much less protect her. She turned to go, then realized Fran had started off on her own.

Fran slid onto a stool at the bar next to a burly sailor wearing a string of hash marks down his sleeve.

Renee grabbed Fran's arm and tugged her off the stool before she could get set. The sailor had turned and was looking them both over appreciatively. Renee kept her head turned away, just so he wouldn't get the wrong idea and make something out of a stray glance.

"Well, it's what you want, isn't it? Fran complained. She flashed the sailor a smile and followed Renee outside.

"I did not want a sailor!"

"Why not?" Fran pouted. "I thought he was cute. And I'll bet he's tough as leather."

"Because he's a sailor. That's why. We need protection-- not a boards party."

"Maybe that's what you need," Fran shot back.

Renee ignored the jibe and walked away, leaving Fran to make up her mind whether to follow or not as she wanted to do. What Fran said had hit a nerve, even if she didn't show it. It could well be that what was bothering her was more than just a desire to be safe.

Angry, Renee pushed the thought away. It didn't change her mind. No sailors. And that was that!

Renee pushed the first door she came to and sighed with relief. The sign said "Capri Bar," but it was really a music bar. At one end, water splashed down a cement waterfall. The bar had a few solitary figures sitting at the bar. There were no whores.

Making a snap decision, Renee sat down next to a man near the end of the bar. He was wearing a suit and looked around thirty. Pleasant, but heavily built. He didn't look up when she sat down.

"Excuse me," she said timidly. "But I don't know any Spanish. How do you order a drink here?"

"Try English." The man's voice wasn't exactly encouraging. But Fran was standing gesturing at her wrist, trying to indicate urgency.

Fran's display of impatience made Renee's mind up for her and she decided to drop the facade and phony buildup she planned.

"Look," she said. "You're an American, aren't you?"

"Unfortunately!" The answer was dryly ironic.

Renee wished she had time to try again. But time was running out. "We're Americans too..."

"That's the trouble. Most people are."

Renee ignored him. The more he talked the surer she was that he was more than just a little drunk.

"We were hoping you'd do us a favor."

"Anything your little hearts desire." The drunk hoisted his glass and toasted Renee in silent salute.

"My friend wants to go to a... to a dirty show tonight," Renee blurted out and then blushed. "I can't let her go alone. And I won't go with her by myself. Could you... could you come along as sort of an escort?" Renee's voice trailed off and she realized how ridiculous she sounded. But she couldn't help that now.

"Of course." Swaying slightly, the man slid off the stool and stood, a little wobbly-legged to be sure, but at least he stood. Renee was thankful for that.

She took one of his arms and Fran took the other. Between them, they steered him to the street where they waved down a cab.

Fran helped cram their "escort" into the back of the cab. "We would have been better off with the sailor," she said in an I- told-you-so voice.