Romero looked up smiling.
“This gentleman,” I said, “is a writer.”
Romero was impressed. “This other one, too,” I said, pointing at Cohn.
“He looks like Villalta,” Romero said, looking at Bill. “Rafael, doesn’t he look like Villalta?”
“I can’t see it,” the critic said.
“Really,” Romero said in Spanish. “He looks a lot like Villalta. What does the drunken one do?”
“Nothing.”
“Is that why he drinks?”
“No. He’s waiting to marry this lady.”
“Tell him bulls have no balls!” Mike shouted, very drunk, from the other end of the table.
“What does he say?”
“He’s drunk.”
“Jake,” Mike called. “Tell him bulls have no balls!”
“You understand?” I said.
“Yes.”
I was sure he didn’t, so it was all right.
“Tell him Brett wants to see him put on those green pants.”