believe it. They were a continuing explosion. Everything was passionate like you dream about, you know, like in the movies. Flowers and candy and champagne and midnight suppers and, well, I shouldn't be telling tales out of school, but, honey, they were hot."
"Sex?"
"Everywhere, all the time, according to Lisa."
"How nice," I said. "So what happened? How come she ended up with Frank Belson?"
"I don't know. It was awful sudden. I know that Luis was pushing her to marry him."
"And she didn't want to?" Typhanie shook her head. "Why not?" I said.
"I don't know, really. I mean, he was younger than she was, and he was, you know, Hispanic, and I don't know what kind of job he had. But boy, he was compelling. Looks. Charm."
She shrugged.
"On the other hand, boy toy is one thing," Typhanie said. "Husband's a whole different ball game."
"You married?" I said.
"Not right now," Typhanie said. "You?"
"No."
"Ever been married?"
"No."
"You gay?"
"No."
"With someone?"
"Yeah."
"I shoulda stayed with my second husband. Now every time I meet somebody interesting they're either taken or gay. You fool around?"
"No. But if I did I'd call you first. The name Vaughn mean anything to you?"
"Stevie Ray Vaughn," she said hopefully.
"Un huh," I said. "You know where Luis Deleon is now?"
She shrugged. "Proctor, I imagine."
"You know what he does?"
"Like for a living?"
"Un huh."
"No, I never did know. I always kind of wondered."
"Why?"
"He seemed to have money, but he never said anything about his job."
"What'd he talk about when you were with him?"
"Lisa, theater, movies. He loved movies. Had a video camera. Always had a video camera."
"You wouldn't have a picture, would you?"
"Of Luis? No, I don't think so. I'm not one for keeping stuff, pictures and all that. I just keep right on moving, you know?"
"How is Luis's English? He speak with an accent?"
"He speaks very well, only a slight hint of an accent, really."
The yellow cat rolled over and onto his feet and padded away from me to a plaid upholstered rocker across the room and jumped up in it and curled up and went to sleep.
"Thanks," I said.
I took a card out of my pocket and gave it to her.
"If you hear anything or think of anything, please call me."
"You don't think anything bad has happened, do you?"
"I don't know what has happened," I said.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to go find Luis Deleon," I said.
Typhanie's eyes widened.
"Because of what I told you?"
"Because of what a couple people have told me," I said.
"Don't tell him I said anything."
"Okay."
"Luis is, ah, kind of scary," Typhanie said.
"Scary how?" I said.
"He's so passionate, so… quick. I wouldn't want to make him mad."
"Me either," I said. "But you never know."
He had not touched her yet. She didn't know if he would. He had her. He could force her. Why would he not? What he felt for her wasn't love. She knew that. But maybe there was love in it. Maybe it kept him from forcing her. Yet, of course, he was forcing her. Forcing her to be here. Forcing her to wear his stupid outfits and live in this cartoon set of a room. Still he had not forced her sexually. And he had not physically hurt her. The air-conditioning hummed, the monitors played. The sound track was on and she heard herself again and again giggling at the beach, struggling in the back of the truck. There was no way for her to tell time. No light, no dark except as he turned the lights on and off, no television except the mocking images of her own bondage, no radio, no clocks. She saw only him, and now and then the young-faced serving woman who never spoke. The food offered her no clues; what she ate was not specific to any meal, and she wondered if it were deliberate on his part, a kind of brainwashing. It underscored how captive she was. She could not choose to eat. She had to wait to be fed. Or was it simply a part of how she knew he was enveloped in make-believe, creating still another artificial
"Sex?"
"Everywhere, all the time, according to Lisa."
"How nice," I said. "So what happened? How come she ended up with Frank Belson?"
"I don't know. It was awful sudden. I know that Luis was pushing her to marry him."
"And she didn't want to?" Typhanie shook her head. "Why not?" I said.
"I don't know, really. I mean, he was younger than she was, and he was, you know, Hispanic, and I don't know what kind of job he had. But boy, he was compelling. Looks. Charm."
She shrugged.
"On the other hand, boy toy is one thing," Typhanie said. "Husband's a whole different ball game."
"You married?" I said.
"Not right now," Typhanie said. "You?"
"No."
"Ever been married?"
"No."
"You gay?"
"No."
"With someone?"
"Yeah."
"I shoulda stayed with my second husband. Now every time I meet somebody interesting they're either taken or gay. You fool around?"
"No. But if I did I'd call you first. The name Vaughn mean anything to you?"
"Stevie Ray Vaughn," she said hopefully.
"Un huh," I said. "You know where Luis Deleon is now?"
She shrugged. "Proctor, I imagine."
"You know what he does?"
"Like for a living?"
"Un huh."
"No, I never did know. I always kind of wondered."
"Why?"
"He seemed to have money, but he never said anything about his job."
"What'd he talk about when you were with him?"
"Lisa, theater, movies. He loved movies. Had a video camera. Always had a video camera."
"You wouldn't have a picture, would you?"
"Of Luis? No, I don't think so. I'm not one for keeping stuff, pictures and all that. I just keep right on moving, you know?"
"How is Luis's English? He speak with an accent?"
"He speaks very well, only a slight hint of an accent, really."
The yellow cat rolled over and onto his feet and padded away from me to a plaid upholstered rocker across the room and jumped up in it and curled up and went to sleep.
"Thanks," I said.
I took a card out of my pocket and gave it to her.
"If you hear anything or think of anything, please call me."
"You don't think anything bad has happened, do you?"
"I don't know what has happened," I said.
"What are you going to do now?"
"I'm going to go find Luis Deleon," I said.
Typhanie's eyes widened.
"Because of what I told you?"
"Because of what a couple people have told me," I said.
"Don't tell him I said anything."
"Okay."
"Luis is, ah, kind of scary," Typhanie said.
"Scary how?" I said.
"He's so passionate, so… quick. I wouldn't want to make him mad."
"Me either," I said. "But you never know."
He had not touched her yet. She didn't know if he would. He had her. He could force her. Why would he not? What he felt for her wasn't love. She knew that. But maybe there was love in it. Maybe it kept him from forcing her. Yet, of course, he was forcing her. Forcing her to be here. Forcing her to wear his stupid outfits and live in this cartoon set of a room. Still he had not forced her sexually. And he had not physically hurt her. The air-conditioning hummed, the monitors played. The sound track was on and she heard herself again and again giggling at the beach, struggling in the back of the truck. There was no way for her to tell time. No light, no dark except as he turned the lights on and off, no television except the mocking images of her own bondage, no radio, no clocks. She saw only him, and now and then the young-faced serving woman who never spoke. The food offered her no clues; what she ate was not specific to any meal, and she wondered if it were deliberate on his part, a kind of brainwashing. It underscored how captive she was. She could not choose to eat. She had to wait to be fed. Or was it simply a part of how she knew he was enveloped in make-believe, creating still another artificial
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