“Hey, you, what are you doing there?” The man who jumped out of the beat-up old BMW sounded coked up, nervous. He had a high, skinny voice, like Minnie Mouse on gas.

I felt like a doe caught in his headlights. I had landed off balance, one hand on the ground like a break-dancer.

“You, girl, get up, get away from there now.” He reached back into his car, watching me while feeling around by the side of the driver’s seat.

Slowly I got to my feet. I put my hands in the air.

I was surprised to see him pull out a bottle of champagne instead of a gun.

He was short—only about five feet tall—and round. His hair started below his ears and crept down his neck in stringy brown strands. He was about thirty. He wore cowboy boots with high heels.

“My friend, she was just, yes, she was just looking for her contact lens. You know how they fall out of your eye sometimes,” Lupe cooed breathlessly, walking toward us with her hips twitching. The air around us got hotter.

The man stared at her. Dazed, he reached back into his car and took out a camera bag and a medium-priced Nikon.

By this time I was next to him, towering over him. “Actually, to tell you the truth, I came by on the off chance of meeting you, Mr. Sancerre. I know it’s awfully late, seems a little crazy—”

“Are you from one of the credit agencies? I’ve told you people a million times, a million fucking times—”

“We’re not from a credit agency. I came to see you about some photo work,” I said.

“Why didn’t you say so?”

“I have to go the bathroom,” interrupted Lupe. “Can I use yours?” She gave him a promise-filled pout.