"Jetta, chica Mia!"
It was Perona, standing by the pergola preening his effeminate mustache.
"Jetta, little love bird, come out and talk to me."
Jetta slammed the window slide and sat quiet.
"Jetta, it is your Greko."
"Well do I know it," she muttered.
"Jetta!" He strode down the path and back. "Jetta." His voice began rising into a strident, peevish anger.
"Jetta, are you in there? Chica, answer me."
No answer.
"Jetta, por Dios—" He fumed, then fell to pleading. "Are you in there? Please, little love bird, answer your Greko. Are you in there?"