He slicked back his hair with some water he kept in a jug for when his car overheated. He checked his face in the rearview mirror, pressing down his eyebrows, making sure that everything was in place. He tucked in his shirt and brushed down his pants and noticed his shoes were a bit scuffed. Who would notice? Especially among a crowd. He left his coat opened. His chest exposed to the cold air.

—Palladium, here I come, he said and pushed up his chest and recalled John Travolta‘s strut in Saturday Night Fever. Santo felt the eyes of the women on him as he walked up ahead in the line. He felt good looking. He felt special. He had found parking on a Saturday night. Now all he had to do was get into the hardest club in New York City.

Nonchalantly, he perused the posters of the upcoming Marc Anthony concert. He casually smiled at a group of ladies waiting in the front of the line and walked right over to them as if they had been friends for years. In minutes, the bouncers opened the ropes and let them all in. For free. He walked in with the four ladies dressed in tight dresses and high heels and let them grab his arms. What an entrance, Santo thought.

—Hola, papi, you‘re new around here, one of them said. And he smiled back at them, loving the way the cluster of women‘s bodies felt against his. He gave them the Santo Colón Smile. It was the reason Esperanza fell in love with him and it was the reason the women grabbed him. For the first time since he had arrived in New York City, he felt like himself. Free. No one knew him there. He could be one of the musicians, one of the promoters of the party, or the biggest music producer in town. Who would know the difference? Santo had arrived with four beautiful ladies and was allowed past the red velvet ropes as if he owned the place. He walked through the dark passageway into the large doorway and into the bright red lights and enormous dance floor. He tried to appear indifferent to the high ceilings, the beautiful crowd, the half-naked women dancing on the small platforms around the dance floor. He walked up to the stage, and from the dance floor, the stage was meant to intimidate. He touched it, put his hands flat on it, and thought about all the people who had walked on it and all the songs they sang to him when he still lived back in the campo. He pressed his head against the front stage and didn‘t care if anyone was looking. Women and men were dancing around him to the DJ‘s salsa, pushing and shoving him closer against the speakers. He fought to keep himself from climbing onstage and playing the keyboard. And to avoid being kicked out of the club, he walked back and away. From a distance, he could see the stage more clearly. It was cluttered with drums, and the microphones were in the front line. He watched the bright skirts lift as women spun around. The music, the movement, the big, open smiles filled the place. And the smoke hanging over the crowd made the homeliest woman look as beautiful as the movie star Ava Gardner, who Santo so much loved.