The shadow of the bulky Mexican was still motionless outside the door. I was in the other chair, sitting in it backwards with my forearms folded over the back. It had grown dark outside the office and del Rio hadn’t turned on a light, so we all sat in the aftermath of sunset as del Rio talked. “She was already starting to get a little attention,” del Rio said. “She had that face, and the body . . . eighteen years old, maybe. The face says I’m an angel, and the body says, The hell I am. We were at a fund-raiser for barrio kids.” Del Rio paused to laugh softly. “Nobody there ever been to the barrio, except me. I was the most important barrio graduate they could find . . . and I was a crook.” He laughed again. “It was a fashion show, and the models were supposed to be well-known actresses and TV people, but mostly they were kids like Jill. She tagged on to me. She didn’t have much class, she didn’t know how to act, but she had a quality.”
