El Pinche Reynoso surveyed the image in the mirror. Not bad, eh? His tight baby blue pantaloons were embroidered in silver, and his red leather jacket had all the shoulder pads money could buy. Black snakeskin boots with silver toes clad his feet, and his small sombrero perched atop his head at a jaunty angle, completing his ladykiller persona. El Pinche, he thought, tonight you will get lucky. She’s out there. She’s waiting. Go get her, cabron!                      

     He took one last look in the mirror, flashed his whitest smile and a practice wink, then with bullwhip in one hand and breath spray in the other, he swaggered into the bar.

     It was Lady’s Night Out for Lesmerelda Katz and her friend Vivian. Lesmerelda hadn’t been lucky in love, was on the verge of giving up the chase, and had to be coaxed into going out. “Oh c’mon Les,” said Vivian. “Who knows? This might be your night.” Lesmerelda reluctantly agreed. She thought about what her father had told her. “Sweetie, he said, Your lovely name will be your saving grace. After all, in Castilian, Lesmeralda means The one to whom others go.” She had meant to ask him where he had found this information, but never got around to it.

     She sat at the end of the Cucaracha Club bar, idly stirring her mai tai, watching the goings on. B.L. and the Icemen were on stage playing The Five Cent Boogie, and booties were shaking all over the place. Her friend Vivian was already bumping hindparts and hips with a longhaired blonde guy named Kerr.

      “Please God, prayed Lesmerelda, let me find somebody!” She’d never had a steady boyfriend. Those young miscreants at school had been creeps, every one of them. She hadn’t met one young man that had shown any interest in her other than leering and drooling. She had been through all the castigation, tried dating services, (nothing but self-centered divorced professionals with good teeth as their only redeeming social value) and she was discouraged and fed up with it all.

      Maybe tonight I’ll just sit here and watch, she thought resignedly, when the entrance to the bar exploded in color and something jingling. El Pinche had entered the building. Lesmerelda’s heart stopped. She realized she was staring at the handsome yet surreal figure diddybopping into the bar. Somehow, she thought, he should have been riding a horse. A big white one. A big white horse raring up on two legs. Knees shaking and drinking hand trembling, she knocked over her mai tai and jumped up from her chair as the contents of her glass spilled onto her leg. El Pinche, noticing the commotion, flashed over to her table, and with an elegant two-fingered flourish, pulled a large pink bandanna from his hip pocket. He leaned down, his mustache close to hers. She could smell the earthy scent of Old Spice. “With your permission, Señorita?” “Thank you, yes!” she nearly screamed. He reached down and carefully dried her leg. Lesmerelda thought she would faint, but merely swooned instead.

     “May I join you?” His smile was wide and toothy.

      “Please do.” she said. “I’m Lesmerelda.”

     “El Pinche Reynoso, but my close (wink, wink) friends call me Lucky.” El Pinche laid his pearl handled bullwhip on the table, clapped his hands above his head, and yelled above the din for the drink hostess. Ten minutes later he managed to catch her eye and ordered himself a near beer and a refill for Lesmerelda. “Dance?”

      She thought he’d never ask. The first few bars of Blue Moon over Biloxi pulled them together in a slow dance, bodies touching, lights dim. Lesmerelda had to pinch herself. Was this for real? Here she was, in the arms of this handsome stranger, emotions in overdrive, and enjoying every tasty minute. The stage lights were reflected in El Pinche’s silver belt buckle, creating a point of brilliance that moved in slow rythm across the ceiling.

     The last beats of the music faded away and both couples headed to the table, eyes locked on one another, touching, flirting, lips ready. Introductions all around, everyone sat down, and Kerr broke his gaze from Vivian long enough to take a really good look at El Pinche.

      “Hey man, what’s with the whip?, Hyuk, Snhyuk.” Kerr looked like a stallion and laughed like one, too.

      “Self defense.” said El Pinche, his voice suddenly tight and small, eyes narrowed and glittering. “Perhaps you’ve seen me on the cover of Whipmaster magazine.”

     “Sorry, no.” said Kerr. “Can’t say as I have.”

      “I am a Tenth Degree Whipmaster.” said El Pinche, suddenly expansive. “I proudly wear the small sombrero to mark my ascencion to the top ranks of competitive whip snapping.”

     “Oh, so that explains the weird little hat. Is the clown suit part of the uniform too?” El Pinche ignored him and turned to Lesmerelda. Without a word, she gathered up her belongings, threw a twenty on the table and hand in hand, El Pinche and Lesmerelda left the building.