Through the fence Solon could see a driveway that curved around back and out of sight, and cobblestone walkways lined with ferns. The house itself had an elaborate adobe look to it. Solon thought a whole tribe of Mexicans might as well be living there. To the left stood a fountain with water spilling out of some fool concrete animal’s mouth. Solon grasped the bars of the fence with both hands and put his face up to the opening between them. The trees above him were old and big and were hung with long gray beards of Spanish moss. There was something just slightly too Mexican about this place, it seemed like to Solon. Seemed like, any minute, somebody might be jumping out at him and jabbering his head off in the Mexican tongue about tortillas and jumping beans, habla-habla. He felt the weight of the pistol in his pants pocket, and he put his hand on the heavy mass of it, for comfort. It was one thing to pull a gun on a queer in New Orleans and roll him for a blow job and his money and his suit, but Solon couldn’t quite picture himself holding a gun on Lord Poindexter Montberclair.
