It is an awesome place for a party.
Bringing along the tarpaulins and chemical glove-warmers was my idea. Jolu figured out where to get the beer -- his older brother, Javier, had a buddy who actually operated a whole underage drinking service: pay him enough and he'd back up to your secluded party spot with ice-chests and as many brews as you wanted. I blew a bunch of my indienet programming money, and the guy showed up right on time: 8PM, a good hour after sunset, and lugged the six foam ice-chests out of his pickup truck and down into the ruins of the baths. He even brought a spare chest for the empties.
"You kids play safe now," he said, tipping his cowboy hat. He was a fat Samoan guy with a huge smile, and a scary tank-top that you could see his armpit- and belly- and shoulder-hair escaping from. I peeled twenties off my roll and handed them to him -- his markup was 150 percent. Not a bad racket.
He looked at my roll. "You know, I could just take that from you," he said, still smiling. "I'm a criminal, after all."
I put my roll in my pocket and looked him levelly in the eye. I'd been stupid to show him what I was carrying, but I knew that there were times when you should just stand your ground.
"I'm just messing with you," he said, at last. "But you be careful with that money. Don't go showing it around."
"Thanks," I said. "Homeland Security'll get my back though."
His smile got even bigger. "Ha! They're not even real five-oh. Those peckerwoods don't know nothin'."
I looked over at his truck. Prominently displayed in his windscreen was a FasTrak. I wondered how long it would be until he got busted.
"You got girls coming tonight? That why you got all the beer?"