“Huascarán,” he growled into the window. Bernie startled at the sound, but stepped forward. She saw his black eyes shining. Her heart rate spiked. She anticipated another leap.
“Hi. Speak English?” asked Bernie.
“How else can a man talk business? Americans mean money.” One corner of his mouth smiled, the other lay slack. He faced Bernie for the first time and the warp of the window no longer hid his face. His left eye was glass and a fibrous scar rose underneath. Someone had stuck a knife in his head like a watermelon and pulled up the glass eye, a seed from inside.
“Scary business you run?” asked Bernie pointing below her eye.
“It has peaks and valleys.”
“Tours for the rich?”
“My mules do all the work and my customers enjoy. Where are your Pensacola girlfriends tonight? Monday I saw you dancing with Molly and Mary Jane. Muy caliente.”
To read how hot it will be buy my short stories, Waiting for Bells at <http://www.lulu.com/spotlight/BrettRamseyer>.