Lupe crossed her arms and looked back out across the dance floor. Her foot tapped impatiently on the gray tile beneath her. “I can’t believe I used to be into this scene. It’s pathetic. I hate talking to these bozos.”

“Aren’t these women more like courtesans than prostitutes? Aren’t they supplying more than just a sexual service?” I prodded.

“Oh yeah, they’re all marriage and family counselors. I bet more than 99 percent of these guys here are married. Where’d you come from, a turnip truck?”~

The necessity of a snappy comeback was eliminated by the waitress setting two martinis in front of us.

“No olives? You didn’t ask for olives?” Lupe looked at me and shook her head in disapproving disbelief. “A fucking turnip truck.” She lifted the glass to her lips and drained it in three swallows.

My hand shook as I reached for the glass in front of me. I drank the martini in two gulps. I thought I was going to fall over sideways when the first wave of gin hit my stomach, but I didn’t let anything show on my face. If I had to go up against her, she would see that there was nothing she could do better than I could. I left my last ten on the table and rose, slightly woozy, from my seat. Then I led the way majestically to the car.

“So, you used to work in a dance hall? That’s how you know so much about it?” I asked as I unlocked the car door for her. I couldn’t stop myself from needling her.

“Latin place. Not racist like this joint. I don’t know how that one latina we saw in there got hired. Hey, that’s it,” she said, snapping her fingers. “That Carmen, or whatever you say her name was, was probably working at one of the latin joints and she came over here thinking she could make more money but she got the door slammed in her face. I bet she worked at that trap, the Club Tropical, where I used to work. That’s where all the girls start out.”

“Where is it? I’ll go check it out,” I said eagerly.

“The Club Tropical.” She gave it an accent and smiled at me. “You can’t go there. You’re a gabacha and you don’t know your way around.”

“I do, too.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just drive.” Without looking at me, she fastened her seat belt.

I slammed the car door shut and got in on the driver side, mumbling under my breath at her.

“Down to Pico,” she ordered.

The streets were full of latinos standing in front of apartment buildings, drinking beer, making love against their cars. Vendors sold tacos. It was like a small village but in the very center of the city. Lupe’s directions were cursory, and we headed west of downtown.