“How do you live like this?” the Hispanic said. He had no discernible accent. “This is subhuman, man.”

“Did my mother send you?”

The Hispanic ignored the question. “Where is The Breeze? We had a meeting this morning.” He put an extra emphasis on the word meeting. Robert got the message. The Breeze had been hinting that he had some big deal going down. The guy must be the buyer. Silk suits and BMWs were not the usual accouterments of The Breeze’s clientele.

“He left last night. I don’t know where he went. You could check down at the Slug.”

“The Slug?”

“Head of the Slug Saloon, on Cypress. He hangs out there sometimes.”

The Hispanic tiptoed through the garbage to the door, then paused on the step. “Tell him I’m looking for him. He should call me. Tell him I do not do business this way.”

Robert didn’t like the commanding tone in the Hispanic’s voice. He affected the obsequious tone of an English butler, “And whom shall I say has called, sir?”

“Don’t fuck with me, cabron. This is business.”

Robert took a deep breath, then sighed. “Look, Pancho. I’m hung over, my wife just threw me out, and my life is not worth shit. So if you want me to take messages, you can damn well tell me who the fuck you are. Or should I tell The Breeze to look for a Mexican with a Gucci loafer shoved up his ass? Comprende, Pachuco?”

The Hispanic turned on the step and started to reach into his suit coat. Robert felt adrenaline shoot through his body, and he tightened his grip on the towel. Oh, yeah, he thought, pull a gun and I’ll snap your eyes out with this towel. He suddenly felt extremely helpless.

The Hispanic kept his hand in his coat. “Who are you?”

“I’m The Breeze’s decorator. We’re redoing the whole place in an abstract expressionist motif.” Robert wondered if he wasn’t really trying to get shot.

“Well, smart ass, when The Breeze shows up, you tell him to call Rivera. And you tell him that when the business is done, his decorator is mine. You understand?”

Robert nodded weakly.

“Adios, dogmeat.” Rivera turned and walked toward the BMW.

Robert closed the door and leaned against it, trying to catch his breath. The Breeze was going to be pissed when he heard about this. Robert’s fear was replaced by self-loathing. Maybe Jenny was right. Maybe he had no idea how to maintain a relationship with anybody. He was worthless and weak—and dehydrated.

He looked around for something to drink and vaguely remembered having done this before. Déjà vu?

“Nobody lives like this.” It was going to change, goddammit. As soon as he found his clothes, he was going to change it.

RIVERA