In rented tuxedos, Lyons and Blancanales stood at the bar. A hotel bartender in a white coat served drinks to the crowd of guests.

Annoyed by the starched collar of his formal shirt, Lyons twisted his head from side to side. He hooked a finger inside the collar and pulled. But the stiff collar and the bow tie did not stretch.

"Go dance with someone," Blancanales suggested. "A bit of sweat will make the collar softer."

"How do you say it in Spanish?"

"Don't try to fake it, you might say something weird. English is good enough."

"Most of these people are speaking French," Lyons commented.

"And Castilian," Blancanales added.

"Who are all the Europeans?" Lyons asked, looking at a tall blond woman in a sequined red gown. "I thought this was a Salvadoran party."

"Rich Salvadorans. They want us to think they're Europeans, but they're not."

The blond woman — lithe, perhaps twenty-five years old, her face a perfect oval of finely sculpted features touched with powder and rich red lipstick — laughed with a group of men. Two stocky men, one blond and balding, the other with crew-cut salt-and-pepper gray hair, spoke loud in English. The blond woman turned to her escort, whispered to him. The middle-aged Latin, his hair glistening with pomade, smiled. The blond saw Lyons watching her.

Her lips froze in midword as her eyes examined the stranger. The Latin man waited for her to complete her whispered confidence. Then he looked from her face to Lyons. The Latin scowled.

Lyons laughed at the middle-aged man's jealousy. A hand jerked Lyons aside.

"Be cool, Ironman," Blancanales hissed. "That's the general."

"Who's the beauty?"

"How should I know?" Blancanales pushed Lyons through the crowd. "One thing I do know, it's less than diplomatic to make eyes at the main man's girl friend."