They say the day you die your name is written on a cloud.

I sell gasoline, I make a small profit. With that I buy groceries. The grocer makes a profit. We call it earning a living. You may have heard of it somewhere.

You don't get vaccinated for Florida, but you do for Mexico.

You say to yourself, "How hot can it get?" Then, in Acapulco, you find out. I knew she had to wind up here because if you want to go south, here's where you get the boat. All I had to do was wait. Near the plaza was a little cafe, called La Mar Azul next to a movie house. I sat there in the afternoons and drank beer. I used to sit there half-asleep with the beer and the darkness. Only that music from the movie next door kept jarring me awake.

And then I saw her, coming out of the sun, and I knew why Whit didn't care about that forty grand.

I knew I'd go every night until she showed up. I knew she knew it. I sat there and drank bourbon and I shut my eyes, but I didn't think of a joint on 56th Street. I knew where I was and what I was doing...what a sucker I was. I even knew she wouldn't come the first night. But I sat there, grinding it out.

She waited until it was late. And then she walked in out of the moonlight, smiling.

It was a nice little joint with bamboo furniture and Mexican gimcracks. One little lamp burned. It was all right. And the rain hammering like that on the window made it good to be in there.

She's a clever little girl and she's always a hop, skip, and a jump ahead.