Re: Motel 77: Cris & Sam
But she shook, and he walked, outta number five, no mind to worry even un poco 'bout what people around thoughta the soaking Cubano carrying the wet white girl through the street in the middlea the night next to a shit motel. It wasn't nobody's business in the barrio. They'd look, but they wouldn't say nothing.
It wasn't 'til they were a bit away that he finally talked again, something other than soothing sounds.
"She wrote to me, mami. Me 'n' Lou. She's not gonna send you to jail. You're never goin' back to a place like that, hm? I promise." Cris shifted Sam careful, and he started walking backward, eyes on the road for anything likea taxi. (And if he couldn't find one, he'd take the door out and back in and see where it put 'em.) "She ain't gonna die. Not 'causea you. She was good enough to be up, talkin' stupid, and if Neil's pickin' her up, she'll cry and try 'n' make him forget what just happened, huh?" Water was close. You could feel it in the air, and after a minute, a couple seconds, who knew, a cab finally slowed near the curb in a hissa exhaust. He looked at Sam, Cris did, chin tucked down. "¿Qué recuerdas?"
He got them in to the white-and-yellow cab. Rapid Spanish exchanged with the driver along with a small wadda bills, and he got a smile, a nod, a '¡claro, asere!' and the guy was back in the back seat with Sam in half-a-minute. He tucked lank hair back from her face, behind her ear, and lifted an arm so she could lean against him if she wanted. The car pulled away. Five minutes, they'd be somewhere better.