The car left the slums and drove into a middle-class neighborhood, stopping in front of an outdoor cafe. Another young Mexican opened the door and escorted Austin to a table where a man was sitting by himself.

The man extended his hand and smiled broadly. “Please sit down, Mr. Austin,” he said. “My name is Enrico Pedralez.”

Austin wondered at the banality of evil, how even a monster could look so ordinary. Enrico was in his fifties, Austin guessed. He was casually dressed in tan cotton slacks and a white short sleeved shirt. He could have passed for any of the merchants who sold sombreros and blankets in the tourist shops. He had black hair and a mustache that looked dyed and wore a great deal of gold in the form of rings, wristlets, and a chain.

A waiter delivered two tall glasses of cold fruit juice. Austin sipped his drink and glanced around. Eight swarthy men sat two at each table. The men were not talking to each other. They made a pretense of not looking at Austin, but out of the corner of his eye he caught quick glances in his direction. Mr. Pedralez might be a bit cocky about appearing in public, but he took no chances.

“Thank you very much for coming to see me on such short notice, Mr. Austin. I hope it was no trouble.” He spoke English with a slight accent.

“Not at all. I was pleased to be put in touch with a potential buyer so quickly. I'm leaving San Diego tomorrow.”

“Senor Latham said you were involved in the boat race.”

“I was one of the losers, unfortunately. My boat sank.”

“A pity,” Pedralez said. He removed his sunglasses, his small greedy eyes moving to the pistol case. He rubbed his hands briskly together in anticipation. “May I see them?”

“Of course.” Austin unsnapped the clasp on the box and opened the cover.

“Oh, truly magnificent,” Pedralez said with the eagerness of a true connoisseur. He took a pistol out and sighted it at one of the men at a nearby table. The man smiled nervously. Then the drug lord ran his finger over the oiled barrel. “Boutet. Made in the English style, for a wealthy lord, no doubt.”

“That was my assessment as well.”

“The workmanship is excellent, as I would expect.” He care fully placed the pistol back in its case and sighed theatrically. “Unfortunately I have a similar pair.”

“Oh. Well.” Austin made a show of trying to hide his disappointment. As Austin went to close the case, Pedralez put his hand on his.

“Perhaps we can still do business. I would like to present these as a gift to a close friend. Have you thought of a price?”

“Yes,” Austin said casually. He looked around, hoping Gomez was serious about his backup, and said casually, “I need some information.”

The Mexican's eyes narrowed. “I don't understand,” he said warily.

“I'm in the market for some property myself. There's a tortilla factory in the Baja. I understand that it might be available in a fire sale.”