“The dead woman we found...” I faltered.

“Are you still carrying on about that? That’s life on the streets. Tell your client she was at the Club Tropical and let it go. What’s it to you, anyway? You didn’t care that she was a hooker.”

“...I don’t think she died accidentally....”

“¡Que mala suerte!” she swore, stamping her foot. “I knew I should have stuck with blowjobs. I wondered why there was no spoon next to her to cook her smack.”

My silence must have made her even more nervous, because she began to pace the sidewalk. A gray car slowed down and honked at Lupe, but she didn’t look up.

“Who did it? You think they know about me?” She stopped pacing and put her hands on her hips.

I had trouble meeting her gaze and keeping my voice up. “I don’t know. A man followed me today.”

“Followed you! What about me?” she asked furiously. “You got me into this. You have to take me with you.”

“I said not to worry. I’ll figure it out. I know what to do.” Did this have as hollow a ring to her ears as it did to mine?

“What? What are you going to do?” she demanded.

I had screwed up. I had taken her downtown. I didn’t want her in my way and I didn’t want to feel responsible for her. “I need time to decide if you can stay at my place,” I hedged.

“Okay, but let’s get off the street whether we go to your crib or not.” She glanced nervously around. One of the black working girls on the opposite side of the street—the one who looked like Diana Ross on steroids—waved at her. Lupe waved back, looking distracted. “What’s your plan?”

It felt dark under the pepper tree. Protected. Darker than a womb.

“So, what are you gonna do? You ain’t said yet. I don’t think you got a plan,” she prodded impatiently.

“I do,” I snapped defensively. I did not.

“Good.” She folded her arms across her chest. “Then I’ll go with you. I’m very observant. Besides, what are you going to do next time you need to speak Spanish? You gabachas are in the minority here now, you know.”

“All right, come along,” I said, exhaling in defeat. “But I’ll do all the talking, understand?”

Lupe’s car, an old red Fiat with the passenger door painted primer gray, was a couple of blocks away on Wilton. Birds of paradise grew around the doors of an old red brick apartment building we walked past. A yellow dog ran across the street and was chased noisily by a couple of Mexican kids. She unlocked the car doors, got in and started it up.