Eyes closed, Ken scornfully contemplated himself, as the pious Mexicans knelt before the altar. His room in the Casa Verde was really a filthy cell, Frank and Jack's a smelly, evil den; Tia Juana itself, a loathsome hell. To pleasure-seeking Americans who visited the Baja California town, Ken Gracey—Buddy Renault, as he was now known—was just another puppet with painted face and dancing legs.
She was still asleep in her cabaña. He pushed open the door and entered. She lay on the bed, clad in a lacy nightgown.
The scent of perfume saturated the little room. Cosmetics littered the dressing table. Shades were drawn tight, the door closed so that the air was heavy, pungent, almost acrid. On the night table was a half-empty bottle of Jamaica rum, beside it a glass and a tray piled high with cigarette stubs.
Ken seldom came to the cabaña, which stood at the end of a path curving downward toward the arroyo.
As he leaned over the bed peering down at her, she was soundly asleep, breathing deeply and regularly. Her head lay on her arm. Her mouth was open, her hair tumbling over the pillow. She looked old, unbelievably old. Her skin was hard, caked with old rouge, her lips purplish, her teeth gray.
Ken turned away from her. An alarm clock ticked noisily. On the floor lay an old magazine. Above the bed was a picture of Anita and himself, taken in Sacramento.
He remembered the day. An itinerant photographer had stopped them on the street in front of the theatre. Anita had not wanted to pose.
