Lupe shook her head as though discouraged with me. “By his accent,” she explained gently, as though to a slow child. “All of the different countries have distinctive accents, just like in the different parts of the United States the people have different accents.” “Y’all know what I mean?” she drawled in perfect Southern,

The morning was already hot. I looked around the parking lot, but there was no shade. I leaned against the Fiat. “When was the Cuban here?”

Lupe asked the boy something and he responded, then she translated for me. “The same day the woman was talking to the red-haired man. He says there was a hell of a fight between the woman and the Cuban, then the Cuban left.”

“Did he hear what they were saying?”

“No, but he saw the woman slap the Cuban. Then the Cuban got in his car and drove away.”

“What kind of car?”

“Trans Am,” said the boy, obviously proud of his English. “Big engine pero viejo. Negro y muy sucio.”

“A dirty black Trans Am,” Lupe added. “Bueno, ya nos vamos.” She pressed a five-dollar bill into the boy’s hand. Was she giving him back his money? I had interrupted the flow of commerce. He tried to shrug it away but she said something else to him in Spanish and patted his cheek. The boy blushed again and his hand fell to his side with the money clutched tightly in it. I could almost feel his heart pounding as he watched Lupe turn and walk away with her hips swinging.

She got into the Fiat and adjusted the mirror to quickly check her makeup as she started the car. Her hand caressed the pearls that lay on her smooth brown neck. “Beautiful pearls,” she murmured.

“They should be,” I grumbled, getting into the car. “They’re real.”

“I know.” She took them off and tossed them in my lap. Lupe threw the car into reverse and blew the boy a kiss as she roared out of the driveway.