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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 rape 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 white uniform sex slave.

"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.

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