and incredulous stare from each of them.
'Murder, banditry, and insurrection are also illegal,' Don Julio murmured.
'So is being an unsavory lepero,' Mateo said, 'yet the streets—and this house—harbor such trash. But, Don Julio, what do you have in mind about this pulque business?'
'Two things are certain to close a man's eyes and loosen his tongue—a woman and drink. You find both in a pulqueria. I have it on good authority that there are a thousand pulquerias in the city, if one counts all the old women who sell from a jug outside their front door. There are no doubt a number of them operating clandestinely who serve africanos exclusively. You will rent one of these establishments, or buy it if necessary. You will uncover others and send our hired africanos into them to drink and listen.'
'How do I locate such a place?'
'Cristo will soon learn of them from street talk, but there is an easier way. They would not be owned by africanos, only run by them. Most illicit profits in this city pass through the hands of us Spanish. I will give you the name of a man, a Spaniard, very respectable on the surface. He no doubt will be able to arrange for your needs in regard to a
'Is he associated with the Recontoneria?' I asked.
Don Julio shook his head in wonderment. 'An hour in the city and already you know the name of the organization that controls most of the corruption. I am no longer worried that you have lost your skills as a miscreant.'
As Mateo and I were leaving the room, the don asked, 'How do you find your rooms? Isabella chose them especially for the two of you.'
I exchanged looks with the picaro. 'Very fine, Don Julio; they are excellent.'
He struggled to keep his lips from cracking with a smile. 'Feel privileged that you are only
EIGHTY-THREE
Mateo rubbed his hand together with zeal as we made our way back to our grand suites over the stable. 'Adventure, intrigue, who knows what this assignment will hold for us, amigo. I smell romance and danger in the air, a woman's lace, a dagger at my throat.'
'We've investigating a revolt of slaves, Mateo, not a duke's love affair.'
'My young friend, life is what you make of it. Mateo Rosas de Oquendo can make a golden ring out of pig's tail. I will show you. Tonight I will take you to a place where you can get the hacienda dust off your garrancha. You have been lying with india village girls so long that you have forgotten what it is like to rub your nose between the breasts of a woman who doesn't smell of tortillas and beans.'
'What is this place, Mateo? A convent of nuns? The viceroy's wife's bedroom?'
'A casa de las putas, naturally. The best in the city. Do you have any pesos, amigo? They have a game of cards there called primera that I am a master at. Bring all your money, and you will enjoy every woman in the house and still go home with your pockets full.'
I glowed in the brilliance of Mateo's camaraderie. What a friend! He was not only going to take me out to enjoy the riches of a woman's body but would ensure that my pockets were full when I returned home.
There are times, however, when I should slap myself when I get caught up in Mateo's enthusiasm for life and love. Times when I should remember that enough money has passed through Mateo's hands in his lifetime to fill one of the king's treasure ships—without any of it sticking to his fingers.
The first hint that this night might not be as enriching as he promised was when he asked me for my money pouch on the way to the house of gambling and prostitution.
'For safekeeping,' he told me, 'and profit. I know this card game like I know my mother's face.'
New Spain, like Old Spain, is a very Christian country. We thrive upon righteousness and piety. Our conquistadors carried the sword and the Cross. Our priests braved torture and cannibalism to bring the Word to heathens. But we are also a very lustful people with romance in our hearts and a certain practicality when it comes to matters of the flesh. Thus we find nothing inconsistent about having as many whorehouses as churches in the city.
The House of Seven Angels was the best, Mateo assured me. 'They have mulattas who are the color of milk and chocolate, whose breasts are fountains that gods would yearn to be suckled upon, whose pink place is as sweet and juicy as a ripe papaya. These women have been bred for bloodlines like the finest horses—for the shape of their haunches, the curve of their breasts, the length of their legs. Cristo, Cristo, such females you have never encountered outside of the spells you were in when the Healer worked his magic potions.'
'Are there Spanish women, too?'
'Spanish women? What Spanish woman would be in a whorehouse? Must I cut your throat to teach you respect for the women of my country? Of course there are no Spanish women, although some of the houses are owned by Spanish women, who run them with the permission of their husbands. A Spanish whore would get a hundred offers of marriage her first day in New Spain. There are a few india for those whose luck at the gambling tables was bad. But they do not compare to the mulattas.'
An africano almost as big as the front gate of the House of Seven Angels let us in after Mateo flipped him a reale of my money. I memorized the arrogant way Mateo sneered at the man and the contemptuous manner in which he flipped the coin, as if money grew from the lint in his pockets.
The reception area of the house had four card tables set up with men crowded around each.
'Wander around, select the puta who tickles your pene the most. I will run your pesos up so we can each have the best women.'
The women of the house were in a room off to the left. They sat on benches padded with red silk cushions. Another slave, almost as large as the one outside, guarded the entry. One could look, but no touching until the financial arrangements had been agreed upon.
Mateo had not lied about the quality of these women. Mulattas like I had never seen, women whose legs could wrap around a man's waist and nearly reach the ceiling after he mounted her. Off to the side were several india girls, of a more delicate nature than the girls I knew, who developed powerful arms and legs from working in the fields and rolling tortillas, but to me they were as pulque is to a fine Spanish wine. I had had pulque, now it was time to taste another intoxicant.
Several of the women had half masks covering their face. I did not know whether the masks were meant to ape the fashion of well-to-do ladies—or if the women believed their faces were less attractive than their bodies.
One of the masked women, an india, smiled at me. I suspected she wore the mask because she was much older than the other girls, probably in her late thirties, old to be in whorehouse, although she was still firm and reasonably attractive. Her body was pleasant, but lacked the eroticism of the other women.
I asked the guard about her.
'She's a bondservant, sold to the madam by the magistrate after she was arrested for theft.'
Criminals were sold for harsh punishment, men even to the mines, but I was shocked that a woman could be sold into prostitution.
'It was her choice,' the guard said. 'She could have sewed clothes in an obraje labor shop, but she asked for prostitution because she is allowed to keep extra money given to her by the customers and the work is easier. At her age she would have been better off in a house with only india putas. The owner of this establishment keeps her for only one reason—men who lose at the tables.'
I pointed at a particularly lusty wench, a mulatta who I intended to mount and ride as if she were one of Cortes's fourteen famous horses. 'That is the one I will sample as soon as my friend is finished playing.'
'Good selection, senor. The finest puta in the house, but she is also the most expensive—and there is usually a small token paid to me because she is my wife.'
'Naturally,' I sniffed, trying not to sound provincial by being shocked that he was renting out his wife.
Pleased that I had made my choice and looking forward to a tryst with a creamy goddess of love, I sought out Mateo at the tables. As I approached he rose from a table with a black look on his face.
'What's the matter?'
'Santo Francisco did not guide the cards to me tonight.'
'How did you do?'
'I lost'
