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Then she was gone rape. The waiter, a swarthy, short man, his white jacket dirty at the cuffs, the hem worn and frayed, came up to the table.

"More beer, ladies? Maybe something stronger this time, no?"

"Let's get out of here, Fran," Renee pleaded across wedding uniform sex the table. Fran nodded and Renee told the waiter, "No, gracias."

"Don' go, ladies," the waiter said, "there be more later. Bigger show. Better."

"How?" Fran asked acidly. "How can they do anymore on that stage than they've already done?" " Don' worry, ladies," the waiter said again.

"You wait. You see!"

They pushed past him to the door. Renee felt hemmed in, trapped in the filthy room. From the darkness in the back there were scattered wolf whistles as they left.

Outside, the night had grown no brighter, but the street lights and bar signs seemed to give off more light than the house lights inside.

"What time is it?" Fran asked.

Renee glanced at her watch. "One-thirty. Why?"

"We've got to hurry if we're going to be back at that other place by two."

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She couldn't believe what she had heard. Renee's mouth dropped open and she felt stunned. "You can't mean it, Fran?"

"Why not?"

"It's just too ... too ugly. You don't really want to go back there, do you?"

"Of course I do. And so do you." Fran turned to look at Renee. "There'll never be another chance like this, Renee. We'll go back to Eureka and read dime novels and hope a worthwhile man will come to town once before we dry up and wither away. And we'll never know what it was that was going to happen at two o'clock in that crummy whorehouse in Tijuana."

"So what?" Renee's eyes flashed. "Maybe it'll be better not knowing."

"You don't have to come!"

"You'd go alone?"

"If you won't." Fran opened her purse and calmly used her mirror to adjust her makeup by the light of the street lights. She put her compact back and snapped the brown leather bag shut with a click. "After all," she said, "just because you're chicken ..."