26. Fred and Ginger

The sound of a door closing quietly nearby brings me to sudden consciousness. There should be a gun under my pillow, but there's not. I tense, hoping the pretense of sleep will give me a chance to surprise the intruder when I attack. Then he begins to hum under his breath, doing something with the guitar case, and the tension leaves me. I open my eyes and look over at him. By the way the light has changed, I can tell I've slept all afternoon. It's almost sunset.

He stands in front of the window, shirtless, hair slicked back, looking yummy. I smile. For the first time in the last few days, I actually feel rested. My arm is itching; the bullet wound seems to be healing. I'm a bit sore from yesterday's antics, but a couple caplets ought to take care of that.

He catches me watching him. Walks over and kisses me. He's scraped the stubble off...I've noticed he's fussy about shaving. He's not in the jeans he's had on for the past few days - now he's encased in black pants, nicely tailored, with silver chains laddered down the side seams, jingling lightly. "If you want to freshen up a bit, Catherine," he proposes, "we can go get some dinner...and afterward, dancing?"

"Wonderful. I take my overnight bag down the hall with me, glad I remembered to snag it on the way out of the warehouse. I have a simple navy blue dress with a flared skirt - dress it up, dress it down - it goes anywhere. And has - I've worn it to embassy dinners, suburban cocktail parties, even funerals. Tonite it's going to go dancing. Wanting to at least look like a nice girl, I rummage for cosmetics and fuss more than usual with my hair. When did I turn into such a girly-girl, anyway? The expression on my escort's face shows the effort was worthwhile. He extends his arm; I take it, and we depart for an evening of light-hearted fun.

Contrary to what Sands may think, El Tarantula Azul is not the only restaurant in town. A few blocks from our rooming house is Roberto's, the kind of place my mother would've described as a supper club. It combines food, music and dancing, and it's neither too rowdy nor too upscale. There are candles on the tables, an orchestra is tuneful in the background...in short, it's perfect. The food is quite good. Wow, two whole meals today. Amazing.

"So, tell me," I say over dinner. "What was she like, Caroline?" Okay, so I'm prying, but I'm awfully curious about her.

"What do you want to know?"

What do I have to do to live up to her? Not that I can ask him that. It would sound pathetically insecure. "Was she a nice girl?"

"She was very..." He searches for a word, or its translation. "Demure. Ladylike. Feminine." He smiles at some memory. "You'd never guess to look at her how ruthless she could be. She liked knives, too. I've seen her put a knife into a man's eye from twenty feet away," A little throwing gesture illustrates his words, "and a little while later, she could polish off a bowl of flan like a kitten going after cream. I thought of that last night, while you were having dinner."

"I was hungry!" I defend myself. "All I had yesterday was that lousy cup of coffee. So you don't think I'm a horrible person for killing Gomez?"

"Of course I don't think that," he answers. "I still don't understand why you did it the way you did..."

"Look, Gomez stood there and let those creeps torture me. He wanted to get me hooked and turn me into a sexual plaything. I happen to take stuff like that personally, so I thought I ought to take him out personally." Demure, ladylike, feminine? That lets me out, then. I jettisoned all that stuff years ago, and I don't think I can get it back.

"Si, when you explain it that way, I understand. But please, Catherine, whatever you do - just don't start talking about maintaining the balance. It sounds too much like Sands."

My lips twitch. I try to picture him and Sands and the gigantic cucharacha...that's just wrong. "I have mixed feelings about Sands."

"Oh?" Is that a note of jealously I hear in his voice? Maybe? We've gotten off the subject of Caroline, but that's just as well. The less he compares us, the better off I'll be. "You have feelings for Sands?"

"I have a certain amount of respect for Sands. It's like you said, he's not a good person, but he's fighting for the right thing. He's not having a pity-party about being blind, he's doing something - even if it is crazy, it's something. He's smart and he can take care of himself in a fight. Those are the good things about him. Then again, if he can find a nerve to get on, he's on it. Not that I'm exactly Miss Charm School, I admit."

"Ah, but I wouldn't want to take him dancing," he says smoothly. "Shall we?"

Oh, yes...I learned to dance, sometime between Spanish 101 and Intro to Keggers, for the debut my mother insisted on putting me through. It's been forever since I danced this way, held by my partner, the pattern of the steps flowing in preordained rhythm. Unlike those boys of long-ago, he knows how to move, moves confidently, and we glide gracefully across the dance floor.

Although I haven't danced formally in years, I don't have to think about the steps. I'm aware of what he's going to do through some kind of physical telepathy, and I echo it. Dancing together is just that: we're pressed closely against one another, responding to the music, to each other. It's a mating ritual, sex in public, upright and fully dressed. It seems so natural that it's hard to remember that we've never done this before, never rehearsed...

Or have we?

Not in the sense of having an orchestral accompaniment...but we've verbally flirted a tango since we met, danced with ease a far more deadly dance through a darkened hacienda with only gunfire for music, come together as one at cinco in the morning... It's like each successful dance has led to another, as we've gotten better acquainted. We make a great couple, all of us: Kate and George, Fred and Ginger, Catherine and Benito.

A/N:

Yes, Benito. (Like Benito Juarez, see the previous chapter, "Going With the Flow".) In "Desperado", his older brother hails him as "Manito". Now, you'd think a brother would know, right? Someone posted a comment elsewhere (Sorry, I don't recall who or for what story) that "Manito" isn't a real name. In fact, "-ito" as a suffix is the Spanish-language equivalent of John becoming Johnny...in this case, it's probably a nickname for Manuel. According to what I've read, Benito was the first name of Juarez; I didn't find anything stating a more formal name, like Benjamin. I liked the son of Mexico analogy. So, I'm taking the liberty of stating that El's given name is something along the lines of Benito Manuel Mariachi, and "Manito" was his childhood nickname. (I know "Mariachi" isn't a surname, but there is a limit to how far I'm willing to stretch canon.) If Mr. Robert Rodriguez wants to discuss the liberties I've taken with his charecter, I'm all ears. Otherwise, hey, y'all - it's only fan-fic!

Oh, and about "El" shaving? In "Desperado", he's seen using a straight razor. I figure he keeps that stashed in his boot...for close shaves of one variety or another.