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as I touched him he gave a moan and grabbed my head. I untangled his fingers. “Be careful of my hair,” I said.
    He lay on his back on the bed. He liked to be on his back, he liked to be admired more for his presence than his performance. Perhaps it was a religious thing; he lacked the Protestant work ethic. He would provide the erection, and after that…well, that was not really his concern. When you have a lot of money and a chauffeur-driven Chrysler Imperial, you don’t need to be a great lover.
    I had never seen him lose control. He was perfectly still, hardly made any noise while I pleasured him. He kept his eyes closed like he was trying to concentrate. I guessed he was trying not to think about his meetings, who owed him money and how much. Perhaps that was why it always took so long to get him off. Whenever I think about Angel these days, my jaw starts to ache. I think they call it cellular memory.
    He finished at 3:23 by the digital clock next to the bed. I kissed him and stroked his curls and held him as his ragged breathing slowed. “That was amazing,” he said. “You are something else, baby.”
    I was so grateful now that I had not married him. I remembered that day in the San Cristobal cathedral, watching Esmeralda walk up the aisle. I thought she had stolen something from me. Now I just felt sorry for her, even though I was living in a tiny room with a bedridden father and performing sexual favours on my old boyfriend for money.
    I figured it would be far worse being his wife.
    I started to cry anyway. I didn’t know why. Angel held me, and when he asked me what was wrong I said it was because I was so happy and he believed me.
     

     
    Angel rang down for room service, and a waiter brought a little trolley in while he was in the shower. I told him to leave it by the window; there was a bottle of Veuve Cliquot and a lobster. As the busboy was uncorking the champagne he looked up at me. I was just wearing a robe. It was only a quick and rather furtive glance, but it made me feel so cheap.
    Angel walked out, wearing just his shorts, and handed the guy a twenty-dollar tip.
    “Am I worth it?” I asked him.
    “Are you worth what?”
    “You know, a hooker would be cheaper.”
    “You think that’s what this is?” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’m not going to let you starve.”
    I sipped the champagne and popped some lobster in my mouth. I was such a hypocrite.
    “Besides, yeah, you’re really something. I like that new thing you did. The Stanberg technique or whatever it is.” He lay back on the bed and grinned, like he knew something he wasn’t supposed to know. For a moment I was baffled.
    “The what?”
    “I saw that book you were reading. You left it on your desk.”
    “The Stanislavski method.”
    “Yeah, that one.”
    “It’s a book about acting.”
    “Acting?”
    “I want to be an actress, Angel.”
    He laughed, then he realized I was serious.
    “You think I want to spend the rest of my life in an empty office staring at a telephone that doesn’t ring?”
    “I never thought about it.”
    “I guess you didn’t.”
    He was quiet for a while, then he asked me how Papi was. I told him.
    “That’s too bad.”
    “Yeah.”
    “I got the name of a doctor for you.”
    “He’s got a doctor, he’s got dozens of them.”
    “No, this guy is the real deal--people wait months to see this guy. You tell him you’re a friend of mine he’ll fit you in straight away. He’s the best heart surgeon in the whole of the east coast, and his billing is very reasonable, too. Like, it would be free.”
    “You say this doctor...”
    “Freedman. Doctor Freedman.”
    “You say he’s a friend of yours?”
    “Not so much a friend. But he likes to gamble; he’s into us for a hundred large losing at some draw poker games I set up.”
    The telephone rang beside the bed and Angel snatched it up. “What?...Yeah, it’s me...She what?...Everything okay?...Good.” He put the phone down,