Bolo was nowhere in sight when Yaquita burst downstairs into the cantina. She paused only a moment to preen in front of the numerous mirrors on the wall while the practicing musicians hid from her, then she raced into the alley. Her eyes blazed, her coppery skin flushed with simmering anger. Even the feral chickens squawked and scuttled out of her way, ducking to safety under rusty gutters.
By one of the outbuildings with the corrugated metal roofs, Yaquita tore away a stained tarpaulin to reveal a beat-up black Volkswagen beetle. She tossed the tarp into the gutter, adding more stains, then leaped into the car. Even before she managed to swing the door shut, she twisted the key as if wringing the neck of one of the chickens.
Yaquita sped away at a suicidal pace. Leaving Santa Isabel beh
