A middle-aged pedestrian, passing by, said to the girls in Russian, "Have you no shame before the foreign tourists?"
They didn't bother to answer. Paco went back to his attempt to make a deal with the taller of the two.
The smaller, who sported astonishingly big and blue eyes, said to Hank in Russian, "You're too good to associate with metrofanushka girls?"
Hank frowned puzzlement. "I don't speak Russian," he said.
She laughed lightly, almost a giggle, and, in the same low voice her partner was using on Paco, said, "I think you do, Mr. Kuran. In the afternoon, tomorrow, avoid whatever tour the Intourist people wish to take you on and wander about Sovietska Park." She giggled some more. The world-wide epitome of a girl being picked up on the street.
Hank took her in more closely. Possibly twenty-five years of age. The skirt she was wearing was probably Russian, it looked sturdy and durable, but the sweater was one of the new American fabrics. Her shoes were probably western too, the latest flared heel effect. A typical stilyagi or metrofanushka girl, he assumed. Except for one thing—her eyes were cool and alert, intelligent beyond those of a street pickup.
Paco said, "What do you think, Hank? This one will come back to the hotel with me."
"Romeo, Romeo," Hank sighed, "wherefore do thou think thou art?"
Paco shrugged. "What's the difference? Buenos Aires, New York, Moscow. Women are women."
"And men are evidently men," Hank said. "You do what you want."