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Dona Alicia asked, "What about-would this be possible?-getting a photo of the plaque on that building to put beside it? Or perhaps having a replica made for the same purpose?"
"Abuela," Charley said. "Trust me. That's a lousy idea."
"Why is it a lousy idea?"
"The gringo's right, Abuela," Fernando said. "Just the photo. The photo's a great idea."
"Don't call Carlos that," Dona Alicia said, but then she let the matter drop.
[-VII-]
Room 202
The Daleville Inn
Daleville, Alabama 1920 8 February 1992 Dripping water, Charley Castillo was wearing a thick terry-cloth bathrobe-and not a damn thing else-when he went to answer his door. The somewhat sour-toned chime had been bonging steadily-amid the downpour drumming on the roof-since before he had stepped out from the shower.
There's no telling how long it's been bonging like that.
Either the motel is on fire or some sonofabitch has stuck a toothpick in the button.
Or, more likely, it's Pete Kowalski with the wonderful news that he's got his hands on an Apache and we can get in a couple of hours airborne tonight.
And my ass is dragging.
It was instead Miss Beth Wilson.
It was one of the rare occasions where he found himself momentarily speechless.
But then his mouth went on autopilot.
"I can't believe that you have the gall to show up here," he said, paraphrasing her greeting to him when he and Miller had first arrived at Quarters Two.
"You are a sonofabitch, aren't you?" Beth said.
"Actually, I'm a bastard," he said. "There's a difference. My mother was a lady."
"Are you going to ask me in? It's raining out here, in case you didn't notice."
"Since I seriously doubt you came here with designs on my body, may I ask why you want to come in?"
"I'm here to apologize," she said, "and to ask a big favor."
"You're kidding, right?"
"No, I am not kidding."
"You realize what will happen if you pass through this portal and Righteous Randolph hears about it?"
"I'm asking you as nicely as I know how. Please. I'm getting soaked."
"Won't you come in, Miss Wilson?" Castillo asked, and opened the door fully.
She entered the living room, took off her head scarf and then her raincoat. She was wearing a skirt and, under a sweater vest, a nearly transparent blouse.
Where are you now, Dick Miller, Self-Appointed Keeper of Castillo's Morals, you sonofabitch, when I really need you?
"Do you think this will take long, Miss Wilson?"
