It took him a few minutes to see the taxi rooftop signs were lit whether the taxis carried passengers or not. He waved. With a screech of brakes, an old Plymouth skidded up to the curb. A woman was sitting in the back seat, and the driver opened the front passenger door for Merrill, who hesitated to get in. The driver said something in Spanish and motioned to him to get in.

Merrill looked at the woman in the back seat. She was about twenty, full-figured, brightly-painted, in a red dress that showed large portions of her very large breasts - – and her black lace brassiere. Now Merrill realized that her bright red hair was a wig. “No hablo Espanol,” he said to the driver. “Americano. I want to go downtown.”

“Dowtow’?” he repeated.

The woman said something to the driver in rapid-fire Spanish. He looked up at Merrill and smiled. “El Centro,” he said with an authoritative rolling r. Merrill got in and slammed the door. The driver mashed the gas pedal to the floor and, as the taxi fishtailed into traffic, he spun the dial on the radio. A baritone singing a ballad came up. Merrill saw that the silver tube wedged between the top of the dashboard and the windshield frame was in fact a piece of radio antenna. The woman in the back seat started speaking again. The driver answered loudly.

The woman called in a clear voice, “Americano.” Merrill turned to her. She raised her hips, rotated them, ran her hands over her breasts, squeezed them together, and spread her legs wide. No underwear. A pubic thatch as thick as the pelt on a chow. Pursing her lips, she made a chirping sound. Feeling his blood come to his cheeks, Merrill turned to the front. She laughed loudly and said something to the driver. He said something in return, and she answered him loudly. He shouted at her. She was silent and then, after minutes passed, said softly, “Americano.”

Merrill kept his eyes front. They were rolling into town, the white stucco buildings getting closer to each other, taller.

“Ah-merry-can-oh!”

The driver giggled. She called again, stretching out the word even longer. Merrill looked at the driver and shook his head. The driver tapped him on the thigh. “No pussy?”

“Not tonight.”

The driver said something to the woman. She answered, and the driver motioned to Merrill to look back again. Merrill hesitated, but thought of the consequences of offending them. He looked. The woman had her skirt up to her hips and was rubbing herself with both hands. She thrust her pelvis at him. The driver laughed loudly, banged the steering wheel and slapped at Merrill. “Mucho mas! Eh, senor? Mucho mas!”