Behind us five Mexican cowboys with big hats were crowded into a booth next to the cigarette machine. I noticed the machine had a padlock on it. We were only a couple of blocks from the bus station. The cowboys howled like coyotes at Lupe’s legs. Lupe didn’t seem to notice, even when the cowboy on the end of the booth fell off the black banquette. None of the cowboys had even looked at my legs, and I have very nice legs. Over the cash register hung a tattered Dodgers’ schedule and a large red sign announcing the management’s intent to arbitrarily refuse service. I found myself pushing my fingers through my hair as I died to collect myself. I felt like I’d run a 10K instead of walking half a block.

“I can’t believe it. She’s dead,” I repeated to Lupe, leaning toward her, my mouth pressed against her ear.

There were more animal sounds from the banquette. It was the third time in less than fifteen minutes that I had made this statement to her.

“Dead as a mackerel. Hey, shaken not stirred,” she said to the bartender.

“Of course, ladies.” He turned his back to us, and there was a violent sound of metal hitting glass before he laid a spoon down on the counter and turned to us with his wet red smile.

I dried my hands on the little napkin printed with dirty limericks and pictures of naked women that the fat man slapped in front of me.

“Oh, for crying out loud, calm down. Drink your drink. Here’s looking at you. Here’s looking at you, kid,” Lupe said in a throaty voice, lifting her glass and giving the mirror a left profile. Casting her eyes demurely downward, she raised her eyebrows slightly as she studied the effect in the reflection of this Lauren Bacall impersonation.

“I am calm. Very calm. I just need to figure out what to tell the police about why I was there.” I crumbled the napkin and dropped it on the bar. My job is to protect my client. And I don’t like the police much, anyway.

“You want me to call the police? I’m not scared. I called the cops when my cousin Beto o.d.’d.”

“No. I’m on my way to the phone right now. I was just practicing in my mind what I’m going to say. Like what time it was when we were there.” I looked down at my watch. Seven fifteen. Less than an hour and a half since I’d left the office.

Lupe drained her glass, watching me without saying anything, waiting for something. She sucked the last olive out of the drink. “The cops are going to be real excited about a dead hooker.”

“What are you talking about?”

Lupe tossed the matchbook in front of me. It was black with red lettering. Blossom Club.