This morning, I woke early. The bed had been more comfortable than the hospital and I'd slept well but I just hadn't felt the need to sleep that long.

I took a leisurely shower, then went to the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Preparations didn't take long - long slices of papaya and banana with fresh lime juice and a sprig of mint (for color), then put the plates in the fridge to cool until Dan woke up.

Outside, the patio, facing west, was still shadowed from the rising sun. Overhead, broken clouds covered the sky and a low, thin fog obscured the ocean beyond the cliff. The air was still cool but the salt-scented breeze off the ocean was fragrant.

I found a comfortable spot and sat zazen, letting my consciousness flow out to contemplate the flowering succulents, the heavy droning bumblebees and the tiger-winged butterflies dancing through the wisps of fog off the ocean. A light-footed calico approached, sniffed cautiously, rubbed cheeks against my knees, then departed in hopeless pursuit of a black-and-white dragonfly. Gulls soared and screeched, riding the thermals along the cliff. A flight of pelicans - looking in silhouette like gliding pterodactyls from another age - headed south along the beach. The shadows retreated, bringing morning sun to my back.

After a while, I collected myself, then spent a half-hour on Tai Chi - getting the kinks out, loosening weak muscles, that kind of thing. Nothing strenuous, just wake-up exercises.

Finally, I went inside and out the front door. A newspaper was waiting on the sidewalk, saving me a walk to the convenience store a few blocks away.

* * *

"Good morning," Dan greeted me, sweeping his wet but thinning hair back with both hands. "What's up? Job hunting?"

I had the classified section open on the table, a generous scattering of red marks checking off various job offerings. "Not exactly," I admitted. "I was marking all of the ones I know how to do. Too many, of course, would require some credentials but I thought this would help fill in some blanks - giving me a check list of skills remembered."

Dan took a moment to look over my shoulder. "Alarm system installation ... bookseller ... chef - yeah, you'd be great at that ... computer operator ... dye chemist ... editorial assistant ... Why'd you check 'electronics assembly'?"

"Simple work, nothing particularly demanding except patience," I shrugged.

"Sounds worse than accounting. Job printer wanted. What about this 'locksmith' item you checked?"

"Wouldn't get the job - you need to be bonded and licensed. Nothing difficult though. Same objections on the 'bonded courier' and 'security guard' positions I skipped. But no particular skills involved."

"Martial arts instructor?"

Just shrugged, seemed hard to explain. It was all memories in the muscles. But I was still too weak to be any good at it.

"Photographer?

"Easy work, most of the developing is done automatically now days. You just need a good eye and some salesmanship skills."

"Scuba and sky diving instructor? Both?"

Shrugged again.

"Stage lighting?"

"I'd prefer set design but I'm probably not qualified for either. Just sounded familiar."

"Typographer?"

"Designing typefaces - specialized skill but interesting. It felt familiar so I checked it. Of course, I'd have to work up a portfolio to apply and there are probably lots of graphics students answering the ad already. Not many openings for typography anyway."

"VCR repair," Dan read on. "Video equipment installation ... Welding?"

"Union position, wouldn't qualify."

"Why don't you," Dan asked in mock exasperation, "just toss out the phone book and throw a dart at the yellow pages?"

* * *

In addition to the fruit, I toasted whole wheat bread and offered a choice of peanut butter or jelly. Along with the prescribed large glass of milk.

"Breakfast?" Dan questioned. "I usually just ..."

"Grab a coffee and danish at Starbucks, I know," I finished for him. "Doctor's orders - a healthy breakfast but nothing irritating. Okay?"

"Peanut butter? On toast?"

"Or jelly. Or both."

A moment later, mumbled around a full mouth, "Hey, this is good!"

* * *

"Guess we should go by the hospital first," Dan suggested. "But I do need to go by the office for a while - answer some messages, check the mail and such. And bring the spare computer home. Yeah, I know - four hours maximum."

"Fine," I agreed. "I'd like to find a bookstore somewhere."

"Try Stacy's, downtown," Dan offered. "I'd like to drop by there anyway. You can use my discount card. Just give me a minute to empty the dishwasher and put these in. No point in washing them now."

I hadn't told him I'd already emptied the washer and put the dishes away.. Dan's comments aside, he was moderately fastidious in his housekeeping. He wasn't fanatic about it but, at any rate, as his guest, I was trying to do my share.

* * *

"So how's it feel to be out on the town," Captain Donavi greeted our entry. "Surprised you came back again - what's the matter, mates? You need a rest, eh?"

"Couldn't take the nightlife," Dan confided. "But the food - well, maybe you'd better not smuggle Alex aboard as ship's cook. No telling what he'd do if he was allowed to use spices. When you going to bust out of here and join us?"

"Maybe Friday," the Captain suggested. "When they let George out, eh?"

"Where is George?" I asked - he wasn't in the ward but there was a book open on his bedside table.

"On the phone," the Captain answered. "'Nother problem at the quarry yard. Man's ready to weigh anchor and make a run for open water. So am I for that matter. You know those idiots at the insurance company," he tapped the cast on his leg, "are questioning whether I'll be fit to steer a ship with my leg in a cast? Some idiot seems to think it has brakes and an accelerators - like a car. Like to have that slack-brained boob for a trip or two - show him what running a ship is about ..."

"¡Hola! ¡Señor Tambeau! ¿Como esta?" Caesar was across the ward, helping another patient out of a wheelchair and back in bed.

"Bien, Caesar. ¿E usted?"

"Bien, gracias. ¿Que pasa?"

"Nada mucho. We just came by to say hello. See how you're treating the Captain and George. Ah ver los hombres no hambres." - i.e make sure they weren't being starved, the pun didn't translate readily. Not that the pun was that good anyway.

"Los hombres no enfermo, solamente vacio en la cabeza." (They weren't sick, only empty heads.)

"Si," I grinned agreement, "No desputarse." (No argument.)

"Uno momento," Caesar directed. "Padre Hardesty izquierda uno recado por usted."

"¿En la escritoria de las enfermeras?"

"Si, yo traer."

"Uno segundo," I requested before turning back to Dan and the Captain. "Caesar says that Father Hardesty left a message for me. I'll be back in just a moment. Okay?" Caesar had offered to bring it from the nurses' station but I wanted a moment to talk to him ... privately.

* * *

I followed Caesar out into the hall but steered him away from the nursing station to an alcove with a couch where we could have a moments privacy.

"I need to find someone," I informed Caesar. "I was hoping you might know someone? Or know someone who would know someone?"

"¿Este ilegal?"

"Poquito, si." A little illegal, yes.

"¿Que es? ¿Las señoras del noche?"

"No, nothing like that," I laughed. Ladies of negotiable affection were not on my shopping list. "Una licencia del chofer."

"¿De Mexico? ¿O de los Estados Unidos?"

"California, por favor," I assured him. A Mexican driver's license would also demand a passport - which I might want later but not immediately. A driver's license was simpler ... and cheaper - as long as I could get a good one.

"No problema," Caesar assured me, continuing to suggest that he could find someone - an artist, he assured me - later that day. Of course, he added, it would cost a bit.

"La mordita," I nodded - the little bite. "No problema." I gave him Dan's number so he could call when he'd found his contact.

* * *

At the nurses' station, I picked up the note Father Hardesty had left.

Father Hardesty was methodical to a fault. His computer-printed note was headed with both the date and the time - 19:37:17. In twenty-four hour format, that was 7:37 PM and seventeen seconds.

The computer generated timestamp aside, the important part of the message was that Karen Ostrider - at Bay Tour Serices - was expecting a call from me. Any time today or tomorrow. Further, Father Hardesty had explained - as he noted - my circumstances and Bay Tour Services was willing to consider me for employment.

I hadn't really expected such a prompt opportunity - I certainly owed the Father a thank-you.

If Bay Tours didn't work out, the Father's note continued, I should give him a call and he'd try to set something up with Golden Gate Guides or the Matson Agency.

The unimportant part was a request to contact him - Father Hardesty - to schedule counseling. Whether to follow up on that was something I'd have to think about. But it certainly wasn't a matter for precipitate action.

At the present, it was more important that I find a job ... and to see if I could find some answers.

Of course, answers - Father Hardesty would probably insist - were what counseling was for but I didn't think we were using the term 'answers' in the same sense. And, at the moment, I was more interested in my kind of answers than Father Hardesty's.

Last, his note concluded, if I hadn't picked up the message, he'd try to reach me at Dan's number this afternoon - one of those rather curious redundancies even the best of us seem to be unable to omit from our communications.

I borrowed a note pad and envelope and penned a brief thank-you, saying that I'd be in touch later.

* * *

"No breakfast tomorrow," Dan sounded disappointed. "They want me to come in early for an endoscopic exam."

Dr, Patel had found Dan - playing tivoli with the Captain - and had issued supplementary instructions ... which Dan - the man who didn't eat breakfast - suddenly wasn't happy about.

"So," I suggested, "tomorrow we'll have a late breakfast. Okay?"

* * *

When lunch was served in the ward, Dan and I decided visiting hours were over. Admittedly, the hospital food wasn't really that bad but, even with Dan's ulcer, I figured we could do better. And, I still needed to visit a bookstore ... or, maybe, more than ever.

We hit Stacy's first ... and there was a Rand-MacNally less than a block up the street.

Even though it took only a few minutes to find the items I needed - a Lonely Planet guide book to San Francisco, a tourist map showing the highlights of the city and a map of the BART, cable car and Cal Trans rail systems - Dan was already waiting at the checkout counter.

"Found a new one," he announced happily. "Hot off the presses - came in Monday." He held up the hardcover with the glitzy dust jacket and the tile 'Modus Operandi Nova' only slightly smaller than the author's name - 'Gregory Thorn' - across the top.

I knew Dan's fondness for the Thorn's Paul Robeson series. My first thought was that maybe this would keep him from burying himself at his desk. My second thought was that there was something wrong ... but I couldn't remember what.

Whatever, it probably wasn't important.

Dan produced his discount card and a Visa card to pay for both purchases.

I made a mental note to add the amount - ignoring the discount - to what I owed him.

One of the conditions for releasing Wills from the hospital was that he not spend more than four hours a day at the office - which Dan had admitted, at this season, would be easy enough to comply with. "During the off-season," he'd told the doctor, "I spend more time twidding - or playing FreeCell on the computer - than working anyway. May as well relax at home."

In return, the doctor had made an admonition against Dan taking any work home ... and against any 'business' lunches - especially any involving alcohol or fried foods.

During today's lunch - quite decent fish and good pasta, Dan's with only minimal seasonings - we talked about plans for the afternoon.

As a consequence of Father Hardesty's note, my plans - as soon as I'd had a chance to scan the Lonely Planet guidebook and the tourist map - were to call Bay Tour Services for an appointment and to buy a wristwatch.

A quiet place to read and a phone, Dan suggested, could be found at his office. But, first, he gave me a quick - half-hour - tour of the Embarcadero - the waterfront - pointing out the major landmarks ... including Alcatraz in the bay. "This is where most of your tourists want to go anyway," he advised. "But I can show you more of the city later."

I didn't explain that the city - in general terms - was already familiar to me ... old memories from my 'previous' life. What I wanted with the book and maps was to find out what had changed and to refresh what were distant and hazy recollections in many areas.

Made a mental note to get the compass key ring and carry it. Now there was some point in knowing which way north was.

* * *

On the street outside Dan's office building, the wristwatch turned out to be easy. A street vendor was offering an excellent assortment - your choice for ten dollars. And I don't mean the kind of vendor who's wearing a raincoat with his goods hanging on the inside. This was a relatively legitimate vendor, hawking discontinued merchandise, blemished seconds ... and possibly a few items which had 'fallen off a truck'.

The Timex Indiglo - I liked the backlighting - would have been two or three times the price in a regular store. Of course, it wouldn't have had a small fracture in the corner of the crystal but, at the price, I didn't figure I had any reason to complain.

From second vendor, I bought a wallet - another ten spot - and a small card case - only three. Both were perfectly good quality. Not that I had much to put in one and nothing to put in the other.

What I did have was an appointment - at three o'clock - in the Trans-America tower building. With time to kill, I spent some of it walking, trying to orient myself and get a feel for San Francisco's financial district. I also checked the BART terminal, taking a moment to figure out the ticketing machine and collecting a time table.

Finally, a little before three, I presented myself at the offices of Bay Tour Services.

* * *

Father Hardesty's introduction - and explanation - had smoothed what would otherwise have been an awkward interview. Not that the interview was a mere formality, only that the awkward questions - like my home address, references and past employment history - were mercifully skipped.

Instead, all I had to do was pass a rather bizarre examination.

"Suppose your group includes an Israeli and an Arab. What do you do?"

"Probably talk to them individually and see if there is any problem at all. They're like anyone else - some are fanatics, sure, but most are perfectly reasonable people. If there is a problem, I assume that alternative arrangements would be in order. On the other hand, since they have similar dietary restrictions, that can simplify matters."

"I see," Ms Ostrider smiled. "Then you'd offer kosher wine to an Arab?"

"Not if he were a practicing Muslim," I disagreed. "He'd prefer mint tea. On the other hand, if he were less than orthodox - or requested wine - I'd suggest some of the better California vintages ... in moderation. And, before you ask, no, I would not tell them where to buy hashish or any other pharmacology - no matter what was the accepted practice in their homeland."

"Sprechen Sie deutch?"

"Ya, ein bitte, Fraulein," My accent was better than Ms Ostrider's.

"How would you greet a Japanese businessman?"

I demonstrated, bowing from the waist - not too deeply - keeping my arms correctly along the creases of my slacks.

The questions continued, how to greet travelers from a dozen different nations and regions and what languages I could handle comfortably - they included German, Hindi, Japanese, Spanish and Thai but not French or Italian.

"No parle Francais," I apologized. "I can understand some but the French are so easily offended by a less than perfect accent that I prefer not to try to speak it. A little Latin but I wouldn't call it Italian. Some Arabic, yes, but not much more than polite phrases. Same for Yiddish, Russian and Portuguese.

"Pero," I continued, "yo hablo un poco Español, Castelian o Mexicali," Dropping the Spanish, I switched to Thai with "Phûut phaasãa Thai dûay, khap." - with a northern accent - then repeated the same in Urdu, "Main kam urdu jaanta hun" and finished in Japanese, "Watashi wa nihon-go o hanashi masu.". During these last, I was standing to adopt the stance and body language appropriate to each, nodding politely for the Spanish, waiing with steepled hands in Thai, keeping the steepled hands but without the bow for Hindi and, last, for Japanese, dropping the hands and bowing again.

"Father Hardesty said you were a linguist," Ms Ostrider admitted. "But he didn't tell me you the extent of your talents. Do you always do that?"

"Excuse me?"

"Become the people you're talking to. Become like them, I mean."

"It simplifies communications," I admitted. "People are more comfortable when you keep the right social distance and stance. And, even if you're speaking English - since it is the contemporary lingua franca - it helps to adopt their accent and speech patterns. Makes it easier for them to understand. An Australian responds better to an abbreviated 'G'day, mate' than to a similar greeting in a Bäa-stun drawl." I exaggerated the drawl on 'Boston' to make the point, then, for contrast, continued with "But-in-Delhi-I-would-be-speaking-thusly" talking rapidly with the clipped, breathless enunciation, musical rhythm and Oxford overtones of India's English-educated upper castes.

Ms Ostrider's eyes glazed for an instant, then she grinned and laughed softly. "Okay, you've made your point - you're a cultural polymorph. Now, what do you know about San Francisco?"

* * *

The regional questions were harder - if only because Ms Ostrider's knowledge of the region was much more comprehensive than mine and much more up to date.

Still, after an interminable quiz - and a promise to finish reading the Lonely Planet guide, Ms Ostrider was satisfied and, provisionally, was ready to book me as a tour guide.

"Actually," she admitted, "you're overqualified if anything. We're usually happy to get people with a fair command of one or two languages and presentable manners. Father Hardesty's introduction, however, sounded too good to be true - which was why I gave you the third degree. If anything, he rather understated your suitability. So, would you be available Friday evening?"

"I haven't any conflicting engagements," I admitted.

"Good,' she continued. "We have a group of executives - Japanese - who are here for a business meeting. They're returning on Sunday but wanted to spend Friday evening and Saturday seeing some of the sights. They specifically requested a Japanese-speaking guide but said that they'd prefer someone more mature. A lot of our guides," she explained, "are students. So, think you could handle them?"

I could try, I agreed.

Ms Ostrider would arrange - through a staff interpreter - for the party to call me - at Dan's number - to make the arrangements and discuss what they would like to see and do. Also, an agency limo would be provided for transportation and I would have an agency credit card to cover expenses. Both provisions which I appreciated greatly.

I was also instructed in how to keep receipts and account for out-of-pocket expenses. "Naturally," Ms Ostrider continued, "anything which they choose to spend doesn't require accounting but do try to persuade them to hang on to important receipts for merchandise which may be needed to clear Customs. And," she finished, handing me a card with a series of names and phone numbers, "if there's any trouble, we have agency troubleshooters who know where to find a lawyer, a bondsman or special medical services. And don't laugh - tourists have a terrible habit of getting themselves into trouble. If there's any question - any problem at all - call in and ask for advice."

"That's true anywhere," I sympathized, vague memories surfacing of inter-cultural problems in a half-dozen countries.

"Keep them happy," she admonished, "and we'll have regular work for you." Then she told me what a weekender - her term - paid.

I was impressed. Two and a half days - a maximum of sixty hours - maybe thirty or forty of them actually working - added up to a very generous week's pay.

"Weekday tours and shorter weekend jobs pay proportionally," she added. "The drawback, of course, is that the work isn't steady. The demand is seasonal and irregular. But, if you're good, we'll see that you can make a decent income. Uh, we'll need to straighten out your tax situation, of course, but we can look into that next week. And Father Hardesty said that he thought he could find some assistance in the legal aspects. So don't worry about it right now."

* * *

Karma, I decided, boarding the BART train for the Daly City terminus, was not something to be sneezed at. Unless this weekend was a total foul-up, I'd be able to repay Dan and still have a decent stake ... as well as the promise of regular income.

I didn't even mind the crowding on the train - it was rush hour and I spent most of the twenty-minute trip hanging from a strap.

* * *

Arriving in Daly City, I ignored the local bus in favor of a walk, checking out the area Dan had referred to yesterday as "a little rough after dark."

It wasn't dark yet and I felt like Dan's assessment might be overstated.

The area in question was business, including a couple of garages and a used car dealer, several small cafes, convenience stores, a tile and linoleum dealer, three bars - open but not heavily patronized yet - a small branch bank and an ATM - I was going to need a bank account - an automotive parts house, a supermarket leaning toward ethnic foods - at least three nationalities were catered to - some graffiti - again, in several languages - and two clothing resale shops, one Goodwill and one Salvation Army.

In short, it was a typical shopping neighborhood in any large city ... and had exactly what I was hoping to find ... although I might not be needing it after all.

I walked back toward the BART station and waited for a bus. The amount of walking I'd done today was justification enough for my legs feeling a bit tired.

* * *

"Well, how'd it go," Dan greeted me in the living room where he was hunched over a computer, connecting cables in the back.

"No complaints, mate," I told him. "Start Friday - sightseeing with a group of Japanese businessmen."

"Hey, that's great. Let me get this modem hooked up right, then I want to hear all about it."

"I'll put some dinner together," I replied. "How's the new Thorn novel?"

"Haven't touched it," Dan admitted. "A differed pleasure. Spent most of the afternoon catching up on correspondence and paying bills. Then I was trying to get the notes down for Murder on Account. I brought my portable home as well. You can use the desktop - it's only a 486 but there's a half-gig hard drive and a good monitor. I'm going to have to get another printer for home though. They're cheap and I figure we can share one. You have any preference for Internet access?"

"Preference?"

"Yeah, services? AOL? Prodigy?"

"No idea," I answered. "Which one do you use?"

"Neither actually," he admitted. "I've got an account with a local service provider. Flat fee, local call, unlimited access. Why don't you use mine for tonight? And, tomorrow, I can get a separate account setup for you. At $15 a month, it's cheap and we won't be getting each other's e-mail."

"Uh, sure," I agreed. "I'm going to need some business cards also. Maybe I can design them on the computer and then take a disk down to a Kinko's or a Copy Shop and have them run some."

* * *

Over dinner - green salad with peanut dressing, grilled lamb with mint sauce, new potatoes and green peas - we talked more about the plot for 'Murder On Account'.

The biggest problem, to my mind, was that Dan had both too much plot and not enough. Too much of the plot centered around accounting details and not enough was given over to the people involved. "If your readers aren't interested in the people," I cautioned, "they won't be interested in what happened ... or why. You've got to plan a group of characters - and make them at least human. Same for the detective/accountant."

"I know," Dan agreed, "but that's the hard part. Mickey Spillane had it easy - Mike Hammer was pure macho tough-guy ... and his villains were the same. But you can't get away with that today - not in mysteries anyway. Your characters have to have more than one dimension. Of course, a lot of authors seem to be going overboard the other way - their characters are walking neuroses. Always concerned about one hang-up or another."

"Holmes had his needle," I suggested.

"You're right, I guess. Even the perfectly logical, emotionless detective had to have a weakness. But at least he wasn't all weaknesses - ready to fall apart at the first setback."

"So, which way are you going to take your accountant?"

"I think," Dan grinned, "I'll give him ulcers."

"And a deep dissatisfaction with his occupation? An itching wanderlust? And a reluctance to pull up roots and strike out for the unknown?" I smiled to soften the comments but I could see Dan wince slightly.

"Something like that," he occupied himself cutting a potato for a moment. "I guess it's therapy, isn't it?"

"Could be," I agreed. "If you treat it right. Just don't run him down too much - or yourself."

"You'd make a lousy character for today's market," Dan redirected the conversation. "I mean, here you are - shot in the head, no name, no family, no roots ... but you show all the emotions of a cucumber. You should be a basket case. I ... I would be. What's the difference?"

"Not sure," I admitted. "Hard to explain." - I didn't want to tell him that being dead made being alive it's own joy - "There are things that worry me ... so I'm trying to do something about them. And I've got a job ... at least, I hope so. And I'm hoping it may - eventually - have bonus effects. Had to start somewhere, this seemed as likely as any."

"You mean the escort job? How does that figure in?"

"Pretty simple - I speak several languages. That implies either that I was a translator or a professor of languages or something like that - which doesn't feel real likely - or that I traveled a lot. Since the latter seems more likely, I thought I'd try finding a position where I'd be in contact with other travelers.

"Two reasons: First, that it's a job which I can do and one where I'm not asked for credentials that I can't produce. And, second, maybe I'll run into someone who knows me ... from somewhere else."

"Now that sounds like a long shot," Dan poked a forked potato in my direction for emphasis.

"Not as long odds as hiding in a kitchen somewhere ... and it pays better than washing dishes."

"Okay," Dan laughed, "You're right. But it's still long odds. But that still doesn't account for why you're not more upset."

"It wouldn't do any good," I replied calmly. "I may never find out who I was ... or what happened. What am I supposed to do? Spend the rest of my life being upset over it? Doesn't sound like much of a life to me. So, I don't let it worry me. Simple."

"Sure, 'simple' he says! You should be climbing the walls with frustration. I've seen guys go to pieces just because they didn't get a promotion or something - and go totally bonkers because they got fired. Here you've lost everything and you don't worry about it."

"Maybe I also lost the worries," I suggested. "I have clothes, a place to sleep ... I'm starting a job ... I have friends ... I could always ship out with Captain Donavi ... what's to worry about? Maybe it's just that I don't have that many needs."

"Don't you wonder if you have a wife somewhere? And a family?"

"Yes, I do ... but more on an intellectual level than an emotional level. I can't really miss what I know nothing about. How did you like dinner last night?"

"Huh? It was great. But why?"

"Had you had chicken like that before?"

"No."

"Had you missed it?"

"I see ... I think," Dan considered the implications. "You're saying you can't miss something that you don't know anything about."

"Something like that." I didn't mention the vast emptiness which had only begun to acquire a few features. It was an emptiness but there wasn't anything missing which I could name ... or miss in its absence. And time would fill the spaces. Dan was one point in the expanse - George, Caesar, the Captain, even Father Hardesty were others. And Doctor Patel with her care and concern and there were others.

But there was still a great deal of terra incognia remaining to be filled.

* * *

"Okay," Dan announced out of the blue, while loading soap in the dishwasher. "So I'll use it as therapy - let my characters vent all my frustrations."

"There is precedent, you know."

"How's that?"

"In a lot of cultures, the purpose of a sacrifice - a sacrificial lamb, for example - is to carry away your sins ... or problems or personal demons or whatever."

"Humh, then should I kill off my detective?"

"Seems a little extreme," I laughed. "What if the book succeeds and you need him for a sequel?"

"Right!"

* * *

I was browsing through Dan's bookshelves when the phone rang. His house, I let him answer.

"For you, Alex," he announced a moment later, "Caesar, from the hospital."

I took the phone, then, a moment later, reached for a notepad and pen. "Otra vez, por favor - no muy despacio." (Again, please - not so fast.) ... "Si, Colma, off Hillside." ... "Gracias, medio hora, mas o menos, si. Hasta luego, mi amigo." I hung the phone up and turned to Dan.

"Feel like getting out for a few minutes?" I invited.

"Sure," his forehead wrinkled with curiosity. "Where?"

"A place called 'El Gallo Rojo' - the Red Rooster," I translated roughly, passing him the address. "I told Caesar we'd meet him in a half-hour or so. That okay?"

Dan looked at the address, trying to place it in his mental map of the area.

Finally, he grinned. "Why not? After complaining about things being dull, I can hardly turn it down."

"A 'rough' area?" I guessed.

"Something like that."

"Relax," I counseled. "Just leave your diamond stickpin and gold Rolex here."

"And don't forget my walking stick with the sword inside?"

"Right!"

* * *

El Gallo Rojo wasn't too hard to find - the neon sign with the strutting rooster was almost bigger than the establishment.

Parking was harder to locate. The street outside was solid with cars - mostly older models, several pickups and a few motorcycles. We found a curbside opening a block distant and pulled in.

Dan took a moment to look around, then shook his head briefly. "I hope you know what we're getting into," he lamented but didn't finish the sentence.

"Come on," I grinned. "You'll be fine." I'd changed from the sports coat I'd worn earlier to the beige jacket and the louder of the knit shirts, suggesting a similar attire for Dan. The best he'd been able to come up with was an open-necked white shirt and a button-front sweater that still had a faint odor of camphor.

When it came to dressing down, Dan needed some serious lessons ... but at least he'd left the tie behind.

It wasn't that I didn't want to make an impression - just that I didn't want to make the wrong one. And, while Dan's idea of casual attire might be okay for a downtown bar after work, he'd have been pretty out of place in a working-class Hispanic dive in one of the older sections of Colma.

Personally, I thought El Gallo looked fine - and smelled great. From a half a block distant, I could smell spicy carnitas and asada together with chili colorado and steaming tamales. We'd just eaten but my mouth watered as we stepped inside.

Inside, the decor was tropical jungle ... with dozens of paper-mache parrots among the plastic fronds and vines ... and without a single red rooster in sight. The principal lighting was provided by strings of chili pepper Christmas lights supplemented by votive candles on the tables and along the bar. The music - no surprises - was salsa. The bar along one side of the room was covered by a palm-thatched roof and bottles of Corona, Dos Equis, Cervesa and Negra Modelo stood in front of the mirrored wall next to dozens of varieties of tequila and baskets of limes. No mescal or pulque in evidence but I wouldn't have offered long odds against their being available.

"Mi amigos, Señor Tambeau. Señor Wills. Aqui!" Caesar greeted us from a table against the wall. The remaining three chairs were occupied. One by an older gentleman in a worn but clean dungaree shirt, another by a younger man - Caesar's age - in a brilliant green silk shirt with an equally brilliant blue tie. The third seat held a middle-aged man - bearded with more gray than black - wearing an open sports coat over a light-blue knit shirt. Which of the three we were here to meet was an open question.

We maneuvered through the crowd - El Gallo did a brisk business in both food and beverages - while Caesar collected a pair of empty chairs, making space at the table for us.

Introductions came next, with Caesar offering a rather effusive account my history, then announcing that Señor Wills was also a much learned man. "However, my friend," he addressed Dan directly. "Please do not enjoy the salsa," he gestured at the generous bowl on the table, "or you will be back waiting for me to bring your breakfast."

He continued with a description - including an improbable pun involving habañero peppers - of Dan's ulcers, finally introducing his companions.

Señor Juan - or John -Verde - the younger man with the shirt matching his name - shook hands briefly, offering the explanation that he was in sales and that if I needed a car, I should give him a call sometime. He also provided his business card which I accepted and tucked in a pocket. Juan's speech was fluent and almost without accent - or, more accurately, with a native Californian accent.

Señor Jorge Ortega - the next in age - admitted to owning an office supply store in the neighborhood and to dabbling in real estate to a small degree. "Caesar tells me you are staying with Señor Wills. But, if you decide to move," Jorge offered, "please give me a call. Maybe I can help you find a location." Señor Ortega's English was fluent but held overtones of Tex-Mex - the bastard Spanish of the border and ghetto communities.

Señor Aguilar - no first name offered - was introduced sans occupation but with the suggestion that he was an 'expediter' ... and, I assumed, the man I was here to meet. Señor Aguilar - it appeared - did not speak English although his Spanish held the accents and intonations of an educated man - un hildalgo.

When the waiter appeared, I requested a round for the table, a soft-drink for Dan and a tequila with lime for myself. I wasn't really that fond of straight tequila but circumstance dictated it.

While waiting for the drinks, I reached for the chips and a generous dip of the salsa, sprinkling salt on top of the mixture of tomatoes, onions, cilantro and peppers.

The salsa was excellent ... and only a little fiery. I dipped again, reaching deep for the solids rather than the juice and adding more salt.

When the tequila arrived, I licked the web between the thumb and hand, sprinkled salt on the damp skin, tucked the lime between the first and second fingers, then picked up the shot glass. "¡Salud!" I offered, downing the cactus-based drink, following it with the salt and then biting the lime.

"Negra Modelo, por favor," I dropped a twenty on the waiter's tray. Negra Modelo's a Mexican dark beer and every bit as good as anything Germany has to offer. I was also a little surprised to find it here - El Gallo Rojo was definitely an upscale establishment for patrons with discerning tastes.

"The problem," Dan lamented, "is this place smells great ... and I can't eat any of it."

Caesar translated his remark and was answered by glasses and bottles raised in a sympathetic "¡Salud!"

"Health," I explained the toast, dipping into the salsa again. "There are a few things here you could munch on if you're still hungry. Try the flan - a custard with a caramel sauce. Or deep fried ice cream."

The flan - Caesar's companions insisted - would be just the thing for an ailing amigo. Very healthy - but, when he was feeling better, he should come back and try the molé. Molé they added was a sovereign remedy for illnesses of all sorts. However, I translated, molé was a sauce made from chocolate and peppers used in festive dishes ... but not on the list of ulcer remedies.

We indulged in idle conversation for a while, working on the cervesas, exchanging small talk about the weather, the local soccer teams, chicas, and the weather.

Finally, after I'd ordered another round, the older gentleman across the table - he'd been introduced as Señor Aguilar but no first name - brought up the real reason we were meeting.

"Caesar tells me you need papers," he kept his voice pitched not to carry beyond the table. "Perhaps you need a green card, si?"

"Gracias, no," I disagreed, adding that since I was a gringo there was little chance of passing myself off as a brachero even with a green card. Besides, I added, I didn't know how to pick grapes nor what kind of trees they grew on.

My protest - as intended - brought a laugh from the table

"Una licencia del chofer," I suggested when the laughter died - a driver's license - was something I could use. But only if it was a very good one. "I am a city mouse," I added, "not a country mouse who will take a chocolate peso por oro." I.e. I wouldn't mistake a foil wrapped chocolate for a gold coin.

Señor Aguilar grinned, then named a price, promising top quality - better even than the government.

"Very much I should hope so," I agreed, setting back to haggle, "at prices like that! But I only want a licencia, I don't want to buy your sister as well!" I added a counter offer.

Señor Aguilar sucked air between his teeth for an instant, then relaxed and grinned. "You would make a pauper of a king," he protested, lowering his asking price drastically.

"Better than making a king of a pauper," I countered, raising my offer by a third.

Finally, we settled on a mutually agreeable price - more than I'd hoped, less than I'd feared ... and quite acceptable if the quality was satisfactory. We'd also agreed that I'd pay fifty in advance - when we visited his 'studio' for the photograph - and the balance on delivery - tomorrow, though Caesar at the hospital. I'd also add a mordita for Caesar ... as well as my thanks.

I waved a hand at the bar, calling for a round of tequila to seal the bargain.

* * *

"I hope," Dan complained as we left the 'studio', "that you're still sober enough to explain all of that."

There hadn't been time for translations during the haggling and Dan - unintentionally - was feeling rather left out.

"Two tequilas and some beer? Sober enough. How about you?"

"I didn't drink," he reminded me.

"How was the flan?"

"Muy delicioso," he grinned, using one of the three phrases he'd picked up. "Don't change the subject. Did you or did you not insult Mr. Aguilar at the start of that session? That whistling sound wasn't exactly friendly."

"It wasn't," I agreed. "When he named such a high price at the start, I protested I wasn't trying to buy his sister, only a driver's license. An indirect insult. However, I don't recommend making remarks like that casually."

"So why did you?"

"To let him know I could play rough," I shrugged. "That I wasn't a turista for the trimming. Same reason I ordered the tequila when we first sat down. But, did you notice how suddenly the price came down?"

"I got that impression," Dan admitted. "But tell me the rest of it."

"After that, mostly we traded a few compliments disguised as insults," I translated several. "That was just pro forma - we both knew pretty well where we were going to meet. We were just enjoying the journey at that point. Half the secret of haggling is simply enjoying it.

"By the way, did you notice ..?" I left the question dangling.

"That Mr. Aguilar spoke English when we left?"

"Right," I agreed. "He slipped up a couple of times before that as well - he understood your joke about the parrot perfectly well - without waiting for the translation. Anyone who smiles at a pun has to know the language. It was no big surprise even if he did try to cover."

"Then," Dan laughed, "the whole point of negotiating in Spanish was to give himself an edge?"

"Something like that. And to size us up and make sure that we weren't federales looking for a bust."

"How does that figure?"

"Simple - an undercover policeman wouldn't have haggled as hard ... and certainly wouldn't have started by insulting his sister."

"You make it sound simple," Dan shook his head. "I don't know."

"What's that?"

"How you do it."

"Easy, I'm not a policeman ... and I couldn't afford what he was asking."

"Right!"