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<P>"Whores!" the driver said in disgust, hawked and spat out his window.
Alex dodged back in time to escape the backlash. "Yes," he said.
"It's no good talking to them. What can a man say to a woman who makes a living on her back. They are only good for one thing." The driver took both hands off the wheel to punctuate his words with a short, vicious gesture. "Putas! They say they are too busy to take you now. That they are too good to wipe their shoes with you. Come back tonight, they say." The driver unleashed another stream of disgusted spittle out the open car window.
"It's all right."
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<P>"Bueno. We go someplace else. I know a nice girl in the hills. No casa de putas. Clean. Better for you than those whores. Si?"
"No," Alex said. "Take me to the border for now." The driver shrugged. "You are loco!" "Yes. I am that!"
Alex went to his apartment where he changed his clothes. Then, making a face at himself in the mirror, he went to the San Diego Police Station, a rambling Spanish style building that sprawled on the edge of the waterfront across from the Coronado Ferry.
At least the Mexican police had listened to him. But the American version was so much more precise, logical.
Did he know the women's names? No! Just Fran and Renee.
Did he know where they were staying? No! He thought it was a hotel in San Diego, but he wasn't sure. That brought a chuckle and the question, "You know how many hotels there are in San Diego, buddy?"
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