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anybody ever notice what’s happening to
this city?" Jackie said.
    "No, they don’t. And neither are we going to.
What we are going to do is get you something to eat. We’re going to
do the one thing we can do. The rest of the world will simply have
to get along without us for awhile."
    Donna swung into the Rite Aid parking lot and
parked and they went in. A few minutes later, the pharmacy tech
called them to the counter.
    "Ativan is for anxiety," the tech explained.
"You break these in half and take a half tablet three times a day,
one at a time, with food. Then you will be taking Trazodone at
bedtime. Take a whole one. Don’t take any more than that without
checking with your doctor. Don’t drive or operate heavy machinery
while using it."
    "Okay. I’ll park the bulldozer. But is it
okay to drink?" Jackie asked.
    "No. It could cause a kind of hypnotic
effect. Ativan is actually something which helps people with
alcohol withdrawal. And you don’t want to mix a sleep medication
with alcohol."
    Jackie and Donna exited the coolness of the
pharmacy and hit the blast furnace temperatures outside.
    "Whew," Donna sighed. "Let’s make tracks to
Taxco before we burn to death out here."
    They hurried across the parking lot and took
refuge in the cool dark foyer of the restaurant. The whole place
was a pleasant miasma of stucco, exposed brick, wrought iron and
tile, the walls adorned with huge velvet paintings of macho men in
Charro hats. The singularity of the decor brought forth in the two
women the strong emotions associated with a fresh arrival in a
distant land. The atmosphere was heavy with the smells of sizzling
lard and frying peppers. The booths and tables ahead and to their
left, softened by candlelight, contrasted with the garishly lit bar
to the right, stacked with bottles and a TV blaring the pre-game
show. The proprietor, Manuel, a slim, pleasantly handsome, middle
aged man with a trim mustache, eased himself down from his perch
near the TV and gave each of them a hug.
    "Donna, do you want to sit here in the bar?"
he asked.
    "Nah. In an hour the sports crowd will be
screaming. I think we’ll take a quiet booth."
    Manuel escorted them to a booth on the far
wall and they slid in facing each other over the fat, globular,
red-glass candle. Under Manuel’s expert supervision, a young man
quickly set the table with ice water, bowls of hot, toasted
tortilla chips and fresh-ground salsa.
    "Manuel, you can bring me a Gold Margarita,"
Donna said. "Blended. Make it grande."
    "A double vodka, neat," Jackie said.
    "I thought the pharmacy lady said no
alcohol," Donna said.
    "Oh, please."
    While waiting for their drinks, they began
scooping chips into the pungent mixture of chopped chilies, onions,
garlic, tomatoes, cilantro and other secret goodies. Manuel
returned in record time with the drinks and poised himself for
their meal request.
    "I’ll have a number 9," Donna said.
    "A number 13 for me," Jackie said, tossing
down the vodka, "and another one of these."
    "Jackie, I’m not sure that’s wise."
    "Donna, please. Besides, this part of town
makes me nervous. You know, I was thinking. Do you realize we’ve
been eating here since high school? We feel safe here because we’re
familiar with it. But it’s not really safe anymore. Not like it
was."
    Manuel cruised by and dropped off Jackie’s
second drink. She uncapped her vial of pills and looked inside.
"Look. They’re shaped like a house." She extracted a couple of the
pills, tossing them down with a gulp vodka.
    "Jackie, I thought the druggist said you had
to crack that in half. You just took two."
    "Donna, this neighborhood makes me nervous. I
need some relief here. The worst that can happen is I’ll get a
little drowsy."
    "Whatever. If that’s what you need that’s
what you need."
    The heavy platters of food arrived and the
sisters began to eat.
    "Ooooh!" Jackie exclaimed.
    "What? Too much jalapeno?"
    "No, not that. I think I took too many
pills."
    "Oh great,