buzzes, long and loud, and for a moment it is all Manny can hear.
“I will come tomorrow,” Michele says. “And we will go.” Dumb, big-eyed Michele. “We, ah, fly home,” he is saying. “Tomorrow.”
Before she can answer, Manny presses the speaker button. “Darla,” he says. “The lineup. Now.”
When Manny finally opens the door, the chunky man who’s been buzzing spins his keys on his index finger and steps inside, tonguing a monstrous divot of tobacco down in his bottom lip. He picks Darla, though she barely bothers to look at him. What did Manny expect? Michele, this fat fuck, they’re all the same, stumbling in from the middle of nowhere, trying to fill the empty space in them with her.
In the morning, after feeding the peacocks, Manny says a little prayer and then steps into Darla’s room, where she’s watching a black-and-white movie. She motions him to her and they lie together on the twin bed, head to toe. He says, “What are we watching?”
“
You Were Never Lovelier
,” she says. “Fred Astaire. Rita Hayworth. It’s public access.”
Manny rests his cheek on the tops of her bony feet. Rita Hayworth spins through Buenos Aires, all sheen and tinsel. “Honey,” he says finally, “you really like this boy?”
Darla keeps her eyes on the screen. “Is that why you came in here?”
“He’s been through some shit.”
She shrugs. “Him and everyone else around here.” She shifts her feet under the blanket. “You know I love you, Manny. You’ve been hella good to me. But that boy is my ticket out of here.”
“Girl, this is for real. You’re gonna hurt somebody.”
“Hurt somebody? What happened to ‘Give ’em a little attention’? What happened to ‘Make them feel better than their girlfriends, better than their wives, better than they are’? You don’t have to touch these men, Manny. You don’t have to fuck their sorry asses. You sit out there stroking your goddamn peacocks, writing letters to Jim about what a good boy you’ve been, how much money you’ve made him, hoping he won’t die on you. You come inside to sign the paychecks, to tell me I might hurt somebody? Too late, old man. I been hurting them. And you taught me how.”
• • •
W hen Michele leaves the La Quinta the next night, he leaves it for good, Renzo’s backpack laid out on his bed. Amy opens the door before he buzzes, and takes him to the bar. “Have a seat, baby. Budweiser?”
“Yes. Please.”
She puts a beer on a napkin and beside it sets a little shot glass filled to the top with brown liquor. “For courage,” she says. Michele drinks it and pats the bundles of twenty-dollar bills in the pockets of his cargo shorts. It’s all there, the Search & Rescue money from the teller machine, the two thousand dollars his parents wired him, his own money. Renzo’s money. He’s made up his mind. He can’t go back to Genoa. His flight leaves in the morning. He’ll buy a plane ticket for Darla. An engagement ring. Put a security deposit on an apartment in another city, away from his family. Away from Renzo’s friends. God, Renzo’s family. He feels his new life folded inside his pockets. Yes, a whole new life for nine thousand American dollars, he believes this. A new life with a woman there to busy his hands, to pour his drinks, to help him forget. A life where he came to America alone. Or not at all.
He waits. The night pulls on. He reaches around the bar for the tap and refills his own glass when he needs it. Men come and go around him, but each time the bell reverberates through the building it’s the old woman who opens the door for them. He waits for Darla, but she never comes. When he asks about her, none of the girls will answer him. His head is hot and clouded and his cab isn’t coming until morning. He doesn’t know what else to do. He walks outside through the dust and gravel to Darla’s fifth wheel and knocks on the door and then the windows. The lights are off but
“I will come tomorrow,” Michele says. “And we will go.” Dumb, big-eyed Michele. “We, ah, fly home,” he is saying. “Tomorrow.”
Before she can answer, Manny presses the speaker button. “Darla,” he says. “The lineup. Now.”
When Manny finally opens the door, the chunky man who’s been buzzing spins his keys on his index finger and steps inside, tonguing a monstrous divot of tobacco down in his bottom lip. He picks Darla, though she barely bothers to look at him. What did Manny expect? Michele, this fat fuck, they’re all the same, stumbling in from the middle of nowhere, trying to fill the empty space in them with her.
In the morning, after feeding the peacocks, Manny says a little prayer and then steps into Darla’s room, where she’s watching a black-and-white movie. She motions him to her and they lie together on the twin bed, head to toe. He says, “What are we watching?”
“
You Were Never Lovelier
,” she says. “Fred Astaire. Rita Hayworth. It’s public access.”
Manny rests his cheek on the tops of her bony feet. Rita Hayworth spins through Buenos Aires, all sheen and tinsel. “Honey,” he says finally, “you really like this boy?”
Darla keeps her eyes on the screen. “Is that why you came in here?”
“He’s been through some shit.”
She shrugs. “Him and everyone else around here.” She shifts her feet under the blanket. “You know I love you, Manny. You’ve been hella good to me. But that boy is my ticket out of here.”
“Girl, this is for real. You’re gonna hurt somebody.”
“Hurt somebody? What happened to ‘Give ’em a little attention’? What happened to ‘Make them feel better than their girlfriends, better than their wives, better than they are’? You don’t have to touch these men, Manny. You don’t have to fuck their sorry asses. You sit out there stroking your goddamn peacocks, writing letters to Jim about what a good boy you’ve been, how much money you’ve made him, hoping he won’t die on you. You come inside to sign the paychecks, to tell me I might hurt somebody? Too late, old man. I been hurting them. And you taught me how.”
• • •
W hen Michele leaves the La Quinta the next night, he leaves it for good, Renzo’s backpack laid out on his bed. Amy opens the door before he buzzes, and takes him to the bar. “Have a seat, baby. Budweiser?”
“Yes. Please.”
She puts a beer on a napkin and beside it sets a little shot glass filled to the top with brown liquor. “For courage,” she says. Michele drinks it and pats the bundles of twenty-dollar bills in the pockets of his cargo shorts. It’s all there, the Search & Rescue money from the teller machine, the two thousand dollars his parents wired him, his own money. Renzo’s money. He’s made up his mind. He can’t go back to Genoa. His flight leaves in the morning. He’ll buy a plane ticket for Darla. An engagement ring. Put a security deposit on an apartment in another city, away from his family. Away from Renzo’s friends. God, Renzo’s family. He feels his new life folded inside his pockets. Yes, a whole new life for nine thousand American dollars, he believes this. A new life with a woman there to busy his hands, to pour his drinks, to help him forget. A life where he came to America alone. Or not at all.
He waits. The night pulls on. He reaches around the bar for the tap and refills his own glass when he needs it. Men come and go around him, but each time the bell reverberates through the building it’s the old woman who opens the door for them. He waits for Darla, but she never comes. When he asks about her, none of the girls will answer him. His head is hot and clouded and his cab isn’t coming until morning. He doesn’t know what else to do. He walks outside through the dust and gravel to Darla’s fifth wheel and knocks on the door and then the windows. The lights are off but
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