Maria fetched the letters, half-running. She was the most willing girl they had ever had, and within three months she'd be speaking good English, and a month later she would leave, as they all did, because her mother was sick in Tijuana: in other words, someone—often a close neighbour—had offered her even more money, a colour TV set and the whole of every Friday off as well as Sunday.

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Charlie saw her eyes were wet and he didn't know what to say because he wasn't used to thinking about people the way they really were, especially women: he only saw them as people who were going to be dumb enough to buy his line of crap or who were going to slam the door in his face and leave him eating tacos-to-go that night instead of sitting down at a Macdonald's. The Judge had asked him if he had any friends and he couldn't think of any, and he'd never realised it before.

He looked around at the peeling paint and the missing light-tubes and the juke-box with its 'Out of Order' notice stuck across the glass, and she knew what he was thinking: this was the kind of place that made you wonder how the hell it kept going, then a week later you come past and see it's shut down.

He felt her watching him, maybe wondering if he was some kind of nut. He'd been wondering about that himself, as a matter of fact, during the past hour, but very slowly he was beginning to think he might not be any kind of nut at all, and that would make a nice change.