“Doing what?”

“Oh, now you want to know things.”

The tourist was coming back with his camera. Isidro walked over to the taxi to wait, ready to smile.

Before returning to the DuPont Plaza they stopped at the Fast Foto place on Ashford Avenue-perfect-where the tourist left his rolls of film overnight. Perfect because now they drove past La Concha where a couple of afternoon whores who could be college girls in shiny pants, blond hair like gringas, stood by the street.

“Oh, my,” Isidro said. “Is okay to look at them, but if a man wish to have a woman he has to be careful. Know the ones are safe so you can avoid disease.”

The tourist said, “I imagine you know some, ‘ey? Being a cab driver.”

“All kinds,” Isidro said.

“I don’t go for hoors,” the tourist said. “I don’t want any parts of ’em.”

“No, of course not. These girls you pay and then you do it. There are other girls, you don’t pay them but you leave a gift.”

“What kind of gift?”

“Well, you could leave money, is okay.”

“Then what’s the difference?”

“One is a payment,” Isidro said. “The other, is for her to buy her own gift. Save the man the trouble.”

The tourist said, “What about, you know of any that aren’t hoors but like to, you know, do it?”

“Let me see,” Isidro said. “A girl who’s very pretty? Has light skin, nice perfume on?”

The tourist said, “ ‘Ey, sounds good. But don’t bother.”

“Please, is no trouble.”

The tourist said, “No, see, I’m not gonna need you no more. I know my way around now. I’m gonna rent a car.”

Isidro’s wife was no help. He asked her how this could happen to him, losing his prize, his dream tourist. His wife told him to pray to Saint Barbara, thank her for sending him away, this Mr. Magic.