Yaquita never managed to sing that evening for anyone but Smith.
The next morning, sunlight streamed through the window Smith had smashed with his suitcase the day before. The gold-tasseled curtains hung open, ruffled by a breeze. The big brass bed had been knocked askew; the rumpled scarlet bedspread looked as if a herd of llamas had stampeded across it.
Smith lay on the mattress, dead to the world, or at least wishing he was. One arm dangled off the bed to the pile of his discarded safari outfit. The buttons were loose, threads frayed from when Yaquita had torn off his clothes.
The aftereffects of the rum made his head pound, and Yaquita had ridden him hard. Smith cradled his head in his hands; he had already learned not to sit up. “Oh, my skull!”
Yaquita stood on the other side of t
