Especially since I didn't spot a familiar face, or the familiar face, rather, the one I expected and hoped to see here in Tijuana. Fine! No hurry for that, no hurry at all, we were going to be here a week at least. And no need to feel panicky about it, either. Hadn't I already geared myself for the coming encounter? For that matter, there was no reason to feel panicky about anything these days, and it took only a second glance to convince me that the cabaret was about as "sinister" as, well, maybe it wasn't exactly Disneyland, but my eyes were open now and I could recognize a kind of tourist-type innocence in these nice folks sitting around and waiting for the next act. Waiting for another dark-eyed peasant wench to come out and strut and sway and bare her (hopefully!) less fat and more beautiful body. An adult Disneyland, perhaps, and the only thing sinister here was the dim lighting and the grimy atmosphere, all probably home-grown just to titillate the Yankee appetite and rake in the Yankee dollar. What else could one expect of a third-rate Mexican strip-palace that called itself the Blue Grotto?

I found it easier to look around now, too; the lights were a shade brighter and nobody seemed quite so furtive after sharing the dubious thrills of that first act. Other women were well-manicured also, I noticed, and some had evidently dressed up for the occasion, all very sexy in their slinky gowns and heavy makeup and salon-styled hair. My own simple frock was almost dowdy by comparison, although it did bring out the best in me, my hazel eyes and creamy complexion and natural golden hair, and my figure, of course, a figure I'd match against any in the house, on or off the stage. I didn't need fancy clothes and such to prove myself a beautiful girl. Nothing phony! Makeup, for instance, other than a touch of lipstick and eye-shadow, I let my pretty face speak for itself. Even my nails were an unassuming pink instead of a sophisticated scarlet. In spite of my former professional status, or because of it, perhaps?, I preferred the coyly virginal effect rather than the elegantly whorish. The fluffy type, that was me. And I had heard no complaints as yet, certainly not from Jerome, the old darling; oh, how that sweet old man loved his little Dana-baby! The only time he ever complained was when I didn't spend enough of his money.