Air and Fire Read Free Page B

voice an octave. The second almost blinded you.
    There followed a bewildering sequence of events, one of the last of which would have been Wilson’s delivery to the mildewed sheets of none other than La Huesuda, the skinniest whore in the Gulf of California – she was so skinny, you could gather her in your arms like a bundle of sticks. She was short too; her shoulder knocked against your hip-bone if you walked together down a street. It had been agreed in the cantina that whoever lost the contest would be expected to spend the night with her, all expenses paid. Wilson could not remember losing, though he supposed he must have. Not remembering and losing were two horses that pulled the same cart.
    He leaned on one elbow, looking down. From her hairline to her nostrils was one long curve, except for a slight dip that signified the bridge of her nose. Her mouth had fallen open, as neat as that first notch you cut in the trunk of a tree before you set about the work of felling it; the breath sizzled past her teeth like lard heating in a skillet. He was looking down at her with some curiosity. She claimed to be descended from a tribe of Amazons who, according to legend, had once ruled the waters of the gulf. They were believed to have captured men in order that they might breed from them. Afterwards the men were put to death. Dressed in black pearls that had been threaded on lengths of wild flax, the Amazons would dance until the moon changed shape, and it was said that the thunder of their feet could be heard for miles around, and on the mainland too. Nobody could ignore that sound. Women carved holes in cactus plants, hollowed out the middles and hid their man inside. Even to this day, if they heard a storm coming, the Indians would often hide their men.
    La Huesuda did not dance on beaches, nor had she been known to put men to death – business was slow enough already, God knows – but she did christen herself Pearl, which was in keeping with her lineage, and she painted the name on the wall of her house in letters so tall that they could be read from a ship anchored in the harbour. The people of the town were not impressed. They saw less with their imaginations than their eyes. They called her La Huesuda which, literally translated, meant ‘the Bony One’.Though her nostrils shrank whenever the name was used, she could often be found in Mama Vum Buá’s establishment on the waterfront, eating plates of jerked beef and refried beans in an attempt to put on the inches that would bring with them not only trade, but credibility as well. For as José Ramón, the customs officer, said, if she was descended from a tribe of giant women, then how come she was only four feet eleven?
    A ship’s horn sounded, long and mournful.
    La Huesuda murmured something, licked her lips, but did not wake. Wilson Pharaoh quietly left the bed.
    Unlatching the shuttered door, he pushed it wide and stepped on to a small balcony that overlooked the port.
    It was early morning. The water, tight and pale, glittered in the harsh light. Boys were diving off the south quay. Dogs pushed blunt muzzles into piles of trash.
    Another low moan from the ship’s horn. Wilson shielded his eyes against the glare. A steamer edged past the headland, trailing smoke across an otherwise clean sky. He wondered if they could read her name yet. He wondered if they could see him standing on her balcony like some advertisement.
    â€˜Hey! American!’
    He faced back into the room. La Huesuda was leaning on her elbow, her black hair sliding sideways past one shoulder and down on to the stained pillow.
    â€˜Did you pay me yet?’
    â€˜The others,’ he said. ‘They paid you.’
    â€˜How much did they pay me?’
    He was almost ashamed to answer, and his shame took the shape of courtesy. ‘I believe it was twenty pesos, ma’am.’
    â€˜Ma’am?’ She let out a rasp of laughter. A pelican lifted,