lights and people. It was hard to believe that there were still places in Juarez where tourists haggled innocently over so-called Swiss watches and native ponchos. Jesus turned off this street, driving circumspectly, and made some more turns that left me lost.
“There is the bridge, señor,” Jesus said presently without turning his head. “I do not think they will stop us on this side, there has not been sufficient time for an alarm, but on the other side there will be the usual questions. The lady is a citizen of the Estados Unidos?”
“Yes. At least I think so.”
“She must say it, señor. Remember that. They will ask and wait for the answer. They will act as if it is not important, but the words must be spoken, always.”
“Thanks, Jesus.”
It was nice to work with bright people. He had noticed that the third occupant of the cab wasn’t really happy in my company. I glanced at Gail. She was rubbing her strained wrist. In the darkness of the cab, she did not look noticeably disheveled in spite of what she’d been through. Her fluffy, tumbled hairdo was only a little more so, her dress and furs and gloves seemed to be intact, and if all went well nobody was going to examine her shoes and stockings, so I didn’t. But I did note that she had a tense, wound-up look that said she was only waiting for a chance to make trouble.
I took a ball-point pen out of my pocket without letting her see it. I couldn’t risk being separated from her by chivalrous immigration inspectors, even briefly. Right then, I couldn’t afford to let her out of my sight for a moment. I took her in my arms, rammed the pen into her side, and spoke softly in her ear.
“It’s a gun, Gail,” I said. “We don’t want trouble. But if there is trouble, honey, you’ll sure as hell get it first.”
She didn’t move or speak. I saw the bridge loom before us, and I laid myself against her and kissed her hard, holding the pen in her ribs. I claim no credit for originating the idea. It’s been done before, in the movies and elsewhere. The thing about it is that it often works. The cab stopped. Money changed hands as Jesus paid the toll. There were sympathetic words in Spanish, and appreciative laughter. The cab drove on.
“We have passed the Mexican side,” Jesus reported. “No sweat, si?”
My companion smelled nice, and she felt warm and feminine, but it wasn’t really much of a kiss. There was a noticeable lack of enthusiastic cooperation, and I felt considerably like a fool, slobbering over the face of a woman whose main reaction was probably a strong desire to throw up. The cab stopped again, and somebody asked a question. I came up for air and saw a face surmounted by a uniform cap at the window.
“Oh,” I said foolishly. “What was that, officer?”
“Did you buy anything in Mexico, sir?”
“Not this trip,” I said.
“What is your citizenship?”
“U.S.,” I said.
“And yours, ma’am?”
The woman in my arms hesitated. I nudged her with the pen. She drew a long breath.
“I’m American,” she said.
The uniformed character straightened up, stepped back and waved us on.
I said, “Honey, you shouldn’t have said it like that.” She glanced at me quickly, startled. “But—”
“Our neighbors don’t like it,” I said. We were driving away, but it seemed best to be heard talking naturally. “They’re not our continents, you know, either one of them, although sometimes we act as if we own them both. Jesus is American, too, aren’t you, Jesus?”
“Si, señor.”
“You, Gail, are a citizen of the United States of America,” I went on pedantically, “but from Hudson’s Bay to Tierra del Fuego we’re all Americans together... It’s the Hotel Paso del Norte, Jesus.”
“Si, señor.”
A few minutes later, I was ushering Gail into my sixth-floor room at the hotel. I locked the door behind us, and took my hand out of the pocket, leaving the ball-point pen there. I looked at the pretty,
“There is the bridge, señor,” Jesus said presently without turning his head. “I do not think they will stop us on this side, there has not been sufficient time for an alarm, but on the other side there will be the usual questions. The lady is a citizen of the Estados Unidos?”
“Yes. At least I think so.”
“She must say it, señor. Remember that. They will ask and wait for the answer. They will act as if it is not important, but the words must be spoken, always.”
“Thanks, Jesus.”
It was nice to work with bright people. He had noticed that the third occupant of the cab wasn’t really happy in my company. I glanced at Gail. She was rubbing her strained wrist. In the darkness of the cab, she did not look noticeably disheveled in spite of what she’d been through. Her fluffy, tumbled hairdo was only a little more so, her dress and furs and gloves seemed to be intact, and if all went well nobody was going to examine her shoes and stockings, so I didn’t. But I did note that she had a tense, wound-up look that said she was only waiting for a chance to make trouble.
I took a ball-point pen out of my pocket without letting her see it. I couldn’t risk being separated from her by chivalrous immigration inspectors, even briefly. Right then, I couldn’t afford to let her out of my sight for a moment. I took her in my arms, rammed the pen into her side, and spoke softly in her ear.
“It’s a gun, Gail,” I said. “We don’t want trouble. But if there is trouble, honey, you’ll sure as hell get it first.”
She didn’t move or speak. I saw the bridge loom before us, and I laid myself against her and kissed her hard, holding the pen in her ribs. I claim no credit for originating the idea. It’s been done before, in the movies and elsewhere. The thing about it is that it often works. The cab stopped. Money changed hands as Jesus paid the toll. There were sympathetic words in Spanish, and appreciative laughter. The cab drove on.
“We have passed the Mexican side,” Jesus reported. “No sweat, si?”
My companion smelled nice, and she felt warm and feminine, but it wasn’t really much of a kiss. There was a noticeable lack of enthusiastic cooperation, and I felt considerably like a fool, slobbering over the face of a woman whose main reaction was probably a strong desire to throw up. The cab stopped again, and somebody asked a question. I came up for air and saw a face surmounted by a uniform cap at the window.
“Oh,” I said foolishly. “What was that, officer?”
“Did you buy anything in Mexico, sir?”
“Not this trip,” I said.
“What is your citizenship?”
“U.S.,” I said.
“And yours, ma’am?”
The woman in my arms hesitated. I nudged her with the pen. She drew a long breath.
“I’m American,” she said.
The uniformed character straightened up, stepped back and waved us on.
I said, “Honey, you shouldn’t have said it like that.” She glanced at me quickly, startled. “But—”
“Our neighbors don’t like it,” I said. We were driving away, but it seemed best to be heard talking naturally. “They’re not our continents, you know, either one of them, although sometimes we act as if we own them both. Jesus is American, too, aren’t you, Jesus?”
“Si, señor.”
“You, Gail, are a citizen of the United States of America,” I went on pedantically, “but from Hudson’s Bay to Tierra del Fuego we’re all Americans together... It’s the Hotel Paso del Norte, Jesus.”
“Si, señor.”
A few minutes later, I was ushering Gail into my sixth-floor room at the hotel. I locked the door behind us, and took my hand out of the pocket, leaving the ball-point pen there. I looked at the pretty,
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