Longarm 244: Longarm and the Devil's Sister by Tabor Evans

to a real dog, or an ugly woman, least ways. I never dreamed I was saving this up for a gal as friendly and pretty as you, Miss Perfidia!”
    She arched her spine and moaned, “ Ay, que hermoso! I am enjoying it, too! You may not believe this, but there are times I do not enjoy this at all with a parroquiano.”
    He shoved teasingly and allowed he doubted he’d enjoy it with a parrot, either. He pretended not to get it when she laughed like hell. It made her innards ripple swell around his shaft and there’d have been no jest at all if he’d admitted he’d understood her to mean there were times she didn’t enjoy it with a customer.
    From the way she was offering up her sweet meat Longarm doubted the warm-natured little gal hated it all that often with most anybody. They all said they were only in the trade for the money, and there had to be some customers who really disgusted them. But for all their talk about men being beasts and their having no other way to make a living, whores bragged on who they would and wouldn’t service and it only stood to reason that a self-respecting whore who didn’t enjoy fucking at least as much as a top hand enjoyed riding would settle for some other line of work, like waiting tables or minding kids for rich ladies.
    He rolled her on her back to finish right with that pillow under her rolicking rump and her tawny legs wrapped around his waist whilst he found himself kissing her, to his mingled surprise and distaste. It sure beat all how a man could walk the straight and narrow for days at a time and then wind up wallowing in sin and degradation like that Ben Hur in Governor Wallace’s book, enjoying every vile wriggle and jiggle.
    They wound up with her on top, sobbing about how he’d ruined her for any other customers that evening whilst he sucked a nipple and shot yet another wad up into her. Then she said she’d go fetch them that sangria at last, and he was too spent and too thirsty to do anything but lie there sweaty and too out of breath to want another smoke or, hell, anything at all, for the foreseeable future.
    Some kindly old philospher had written, doubtless in French, that the only times a man was completely sane was after a good lay. Longarm proved his point as soon as Perfidia was back in her chemise and out in the hall, by rolling out of bed to get the double derringer from his denim jacket and flop back in bed with the wicked little weapon in hand under the sheet he’d draped modestly over his privates.
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    Down in the kitchen, the fully dressed Chongo loomed out of the shadows to demand, “Que tal? Hay algo para mi? ”
    Perfidia replied in a desperately casual tone, “No se preocupe. He knows for how to treat a woman, but he is nobody important. They would not send a diputado federale here alone who did not speak more Spanish than that one, eh?”
    Chongo growled, “He could be pretending to know less than he lets on about everything.”
    The pretty whore fluttered her lashes and smiled knowingly as she assured Chongo, “He does not speak much Spanish. There are ways for a working girl to test a man when he is at his most maravilloso in her. I tested him with other surprise questions. I am sure he knows little or nothing about anyone around here or any problems they might be having. I told him I’d come down here for to get some sangria. It is starting to get muy caliente and the wine may get him for to tell me more. But I am certain he is no more than a wandering vaquero Yanqui looking for work.”
    So Chongo told her she was doing swell, patted her on her rump, and let her pass to fetch the sangria.
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    Sangria translated literally as “bloodshed,” but Mexicans as often meant a cooling summer drink made from citrus and other fruit juices with red wine, ice, and tequila if there was either handy. It looked more like cherry punch than blood and tasted ... well, like sangria.