Despite my lame protests, they took me to the newest, biggest and most expensive hotel on the island -- a huge, stark-white concrete hulk that reminded me of the Oakland city jail. We were met at the desk by the manager, the owner and several hired heavies who explained that the terrible hammering noise I heard was merely the workmen putting the finishing touches on the third floor of what would eventually be a five-story colossus. “We have just ninety rooms now,” the manager explained, “but by Christmas we will have three hundred.”

“Jesus God!” I muttered.

“What?”

“Never mind,” I said. “This is a hell of a thing you're building here: No doubt about that -- it's extremely impressive in every way -- but the odd fact is that I thought I had reservations down the beach at the Caba–as.” I flashed a nice shrug and a smile, ignoring the awkward chill that was already settling on us.

The manager coughed up a brittle laugh. “The Caba–as? No, Se–or Playboy. The Cozumeleno is very different from the Caba–as.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I can see that right off.” The Mayan bellboy had already disappeared with my bags.

“We saved a Junior suite for you,” said the manager. “I think you'll be satisfied.” His English was very precise, his smile was unnaturally thick. . . and it was clear, from a glance at my high-powered welcoming committee, that I was going to be their guest for at least one night. . . And as soon as they forgot about me, I would flee this huge concrete morgue and sneak off to the comfortable run-down palm-shaded peace of the Caba–as, where I felt more at home.

On the drive out from the airport, the PR man, who was wearing a blue baseball cap and a stylish blue-and-white T-shirt, both emblazoned with the lightning-flash STRIKER logo, had told me that the owner of this new, huge Cozumeleno hotel was a member of the island's ruling family. “They own about half of it,” he said with a grin, “and what they don't own they control absolutely, with their fuel license.”

“Fuel license?”

“Yeah,” said the PR man. "They control every gallon of fuel that's sold here -- from the gasoline we're driving on right now in this jeep to the gas in every stove in all the hotel restaurants and even the goddamn jet fuel at the airport.

I didn't pay much attention to that talk, at the time. It seemed like the same kind of sleazy, power-worshiping bullshit you'd expect to hear from any PR man, anywhere, on any subject in any situation. . .