ou're in my seat, asshole."

Becker lifted his head off his arms. Doesn't anyonespeak Spanish in this damn country?

Glaring down at him was a short, pimple-faced teenager with ashaved head. Half of his scalp was red and half was purple. Helooked like an Easter egg. "I said you're in my seat,asshole."

"I heard you the first time," Becker said, standingup. He was in no mood for a fight. It was time to go.

"Where'd you put my bottles?" the kid snarled.There was a safety pin in his nose.

Becker pointed to the beer bottles he'd set on the ground."They were empty."

"They were my fuckin' empties!"

"My apologies," Becker said, and turned to go.

The punk blocked his way. "Pick 'em up!"

Becker blinked, not amused. "You're kidding,right?" He was a full foot taller and outweighed the kid byabout fifty pounds.

"Do I fuckin' look like I'mkidding?"

Becker said nothing.

"Pick 'em up!" The kid's voice cracked.

Becker attempted to step around him, but the teenager blockedhis way. "I said, fuckin' pick 'em up!"

Stoned punks at nearby tables began turning to watch theexcitement.

"You don't want to do this, kid," Becker saidquietly.

"I'm warning you!" The kid seethed. "This ismy table! I come here every night. Now pick 'emup!"

Becker's patience ran out. Wasn't he supposed to be inthe Smokys with Susan? What was he doing in Spain arguing with apsychotic adolescent?

Without warning, Becker caught the kid under the armpits, liftedhim up, and slammed his rear end down on the table. "Look, yourunny-nosed little runt. You're going to back off right now,or I'm going to rip that safety pin out of your nose and pinyour mouth shut."

The kid's face went pale.

Becker held him a moment, then he released his grip. Withouttaking his eyes off the frightened kid, Becker stooped down, pickedup the bottles, and returned them to the table. "What do yousay?" he asked.

The kid was speechless.

"You're welcome," Becker snapped. Thiskid's a walking billboard for birth control.

"Go to hell!" the kid yelled, now aware of his peerslaughing at him. "Ass-wipe!"

Becker didn't move. Something the kid had said suddenlyregistered. I come here every night. Becker wondered ifmaybe the kid could help him. "I'm sorry," Beckersaid, "I didn't catch your name."

"Two-Tone," he hissed, as if he were giving a deathsentence.

"Two-Tone?" Becker mused. "Let me guess…because of your hair?"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Catchy name. Make that up yourself?"

"Damn straight," he said proudly. "I'm gonnapatent it."

Becker scowled. "You mean trademark it?"

The kid looked confused.

"You'd need a trademark for a name," Becker said."Not a patent."

"Whatever!" the punk screamed in frustration.

The motley assortment of drunken and drugged-out kids at thenearby tables were now in hysterics. Two-Tone stood up and sneeredat Becker. "What the fuck do you want from me?"

Becker thought a moment. I want you to wash your hair, cleanup your language, and get a job. Becker figured it was too muchto ask on a first meeting. "I need some information," hesaid.

"Fuck you."

"I'm looking for someone."

"I ain't seen him."

"Haven't seen him," Becker corrected as heflagged a passing waitress. He bought two Águila beers andhanded one to Two-Tone. The boy looked shocked. He took a swig ofbeer and eyed Becker warily.

"You hitting on me, mister?"

Becker smiled. "I'm looking for a girl."

Two-Tone let out a shrill laugh. "You sure as hellain't gonna get any action dressed like that!"

Becker frowned. "I'm not looking for action. I justneed to talk to her. Maybe you could help me find her."

Two-Tone set down his beer. "You a cop?"

Becker shook his head.

The kid's eyes narrowed. "You look like acop."

"Kid, I'm from Maryland. If I were a cop, I'd bea little out of my jurisdiction, don't you think?"

The question seemed to stump him.

"My name's David Becker." Becker smiled andoffered his hand across the table.

The punk recoiled in disgust. "Back off, fag boy."

Becker retracted the hand.

The kid sneered. "I'll help you, but it'll costyou."

Becker played along. "How much?"

"A hundred bucks."

Becker frowned. "I've only got pesetas."

"Whatever! Make it a hundred pesetas."

Foreign currency exchange was obviously not one ofTwo-Tone's fortes; a hundred pesetas was about eighty-sevencents. "Deal," Becker said, rapping his bottle on thetable.

The kid smiled for the first time. "Deal."

"Okay," Becker continued in his hushed tone. "Ifigure the girl I'm looking for might hang out here.She's got red, white, and blue hair."

Two-Tone snorted. "It's Judas Taboo'sanniversary. Everybody's got—"

"She's also wearing a British flag T-shirt and has askull pendant in one ear."

A faint look of recognition crossed Two-Tone's face. Beckersaw it and felt a surge of hope. But a moment later Two-Tone'sexpression turned stern. He slammed his bottle down and grabbedBecker's shirt.

"She's Eduardo's, you asshole! I'd watch it!You touch her, and he'll kill you!"