it with his body. I looked away. Imarte shook her head.
“That man’s race once conquered all their neighbors, for hundreds of miles to the north and east. They had a sophisticatedmonotheistic religion the equal of Christianity or Islam. Look at him now.”
Sic transit Chinigchinix
, I thought.
In the next block, we passed another prostrate beggar, drunk and wailing out “Flow Gently, Sweet Afton” in ghastly Southend Cockney. Two gutters over, an obvious native of Georgia was murdering “Sweet Betsy from Pike.” And a Mexican crawling along on hands and knees implored his little white dove to return to his embrace. The mud is a democratic place, at least.
And here were
señoritas de mala vida
, dressed like our Imarte, liberally represented by the assorted races, swinging along with the set smiles, upper-arm bruises, and blank eyes of the true professional. And a Chinese fellow going somewhere in quiet, self-effacing haste. And an august old shopkeeper standing just inside the door of his emporium and jingling his keys as he watched the passing scene: a Jew, to judge from the name painted on his sign. He looked exactly like Uncle Sam. Put him in a striped top hat and long tailcoat, and he could have posed for a twentieth-century war bond poster.
On Calle Principal we pulled up in front of a little place whose sign read BELLA UNION. It was dark and dirty. Imarte jumped down from her seat with the grace of a cat and made straight for the door, a gleam in her eye.
“Wait a minute,” Einar said, sliding down. “Marcus has something in his hoof. Whats’a matter, boy?”
I climbed down while he coaxed the horse to put its foot up for him. Was the hotel as bad inside as it looked from the street? I ventured close enough to peer inside. God, it was worse. That couldn’t be a dirt floor, could it?
There at the long bar was Imarte, advancing on the British tar who had just been served a local beer and was now staring at his glass with horrified wonder.
“Hello there, sailor. In town long?” she said, flexing a tit at him. “Got time to tell me your life story?”
He turned to meet her eyes. “It’s like piss, for Chrissake!” he complained.
Silly me, to stand in the doorway of a lesser class of hotel looking amused. A regular customer mistook my smile and was suddenly in front of me, breathing rye whiskey through the fringe of his mustache.
“Well, now, señorita, you looking for someone to dance with? You want me to show you how we dance the fandango out Durango way, huh? Nice earrings. They real gold, Chiquita?” He reached for my face.
I took two hasty steps backward and summoned up my best Katherine Hepburn imitation. “Sir, if you
ever
presume to lay hands upon me, I assure you legal action will follow! Do I make myself clear, you palsied, imbecilic, and alcoholic cretin?”
He staggered back, very surprised. “Lady, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I thought you was Spanish.”
Mental note: Leave the gold hoops at home next time you visit sunny downtown Los Angeles. And ditch the rebozo, too. I turned on my heel and stalked out. Einar was just releasing Marcus’s hoof. He stared at me openmouthed. “You went in there?”
“Stupid, wasn’t it?” I agreed, climbing up on the seat. “Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?” I didn’t like mortals, I
really
didn’t like mortals. In fact, I hated the sight and the smell of them.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” he said.
“Not in there, you won’t.”
He got his crazy smile again. “How about a cocktail in the Lost City of the Lizard People?”
It turned out that if you went to a drab-looking little adobe on Calle Primavera and knocked, a mortal man would let you in and obligingly help you unload your crates of tranquilized coyotes. He would then slide back a section of the floor, revealing a service elevator, on which the coyotes descended toward a new life following air transport to a Company zoo. The man would then bow you
“That man’s race once conquered all their neighbors, for hundreds of miles to the north and east. They had a sophisticatedmonotheistic religion the equal of Christianity or Islam. Look at him now.”
Sic transit Chinigchinix
, I thought.
In the next block, we passed another prostrate beggar, drunk and wailing out “Flow Gently, Sweet Afton” in ghastly Southend Cockney. Two gutters over, an obvious native of Georgia was murdering “Sweet Betsy from Pike.” And a Mexican crawling along on hands and knees implored his little white dove to return to his embrace. The mud is a democratic place, at least.
And here were
señoritas de mala vida
, dressed like our Imarte, liberally represented by the assorted races, swinging along with the set smiles, upper-arm bruises, and blank eyes of the true professional. And a Chinese fellow going somewhere in quiet, self-effacing haste. And an august old shopkeeper standing just inside the door of his emporium and jingling his keys as he watched the passing scene: a Jew, to judge from the name painted on his sign. He looked exactly like Uncle Sam. Put him in a striped top hat and long tailcoat, and he could have posed for a twentieth-century war bond poster.
On Calle Principal we pulled up in front of a little place whose sign read BELLA UNION. It was dark and dirty. Imarte jumped down from her seat with the grace of a cat and made straight for the door, a gleam in her eye.
“Wait a minute,” Einar said, sliding down. “Marcus has something in his hoof. Whats’a matter, boy?”
I climbed down while he coaxed the horse to put its foot up for him. Was the hotel as bad inside as it looked from the street? I ventured close enough to peer inside. God, it was worse. That couldn’t be a dirt floor, could it?
There at the long bar was Imarte, advancing on the British tar who had just been served a local beer and was now staring at his glass with horrified wonder.
“Hello there, sailor. In town long?” she said, flexing a tit at him. “Got time to tell me your life story?”
He turned to meet her eyes. “It’s like piss, for Chrissake!” he complained.
Silly me, to stand in the doorway of a lesser class of hotel looking amused. A regular customer mistook my smile and was suddenly in front of me, breathing rye whiskey through the fringe of his mustache.
“Well, now, señorita, you looking for someone to dance with? You want me to show you how we dance the fandango out Durango way, huh? Nice earrings. They real gold, Chiquita?” He reached for my face.
I took two hasty steps backward and summoned up my best Katherine Hepburn imitation. “Sir, if you
ever
presume to lay hands upon me, I assure you legal action will follow! Do I make myself clear, you palsied, imbecilic, and alcoholic cretin?”
He staggered back, very surprised. “Lady, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I thought you was Spanish.”
Mental note: Leave the gold hoops at home next time you visit sunny downtown Los Angeles. And ditch the rebozo, too. I turned on my heel and stalked out. Einar was just releasing Marcus’s hoof. He stared at me openmouthed. “You went in there?”
“Stupid, wasn’t it?” I agreed, climbing up on the seat. “Let’s get the hell out of here, shall we?” I didn’t like mortals, I
really
didn’t like mortals. In fact, I hated the sight and the smell of them.
“Come on, I’ll buy you a drink,” he said.
“Not in there, you won’t.”
He got his crazy smile again. “How about a cocktail in the Lost City of the Lizard People?”
It turned out that if you went to a drab-looking little adobe on Calle Primavera and knocked, a mortal man would let you in and obligingly help you unload your crates of tranquilized coyotes. He would then slide back a section of the floor, revealing a service elevator, on which the coyotes descended toward a new life following air transport to a Company zoo. The man would then bow you
Similar Books
