“Unpuro.”

“Ahoritita.”

The fat owner of the cantina hurried away and returned moments later with an open box of long cigars. He held it out for inspection. Don Ambrosio took his time in selecting one, then held it to his ear and rolled the tip in his fingers to test the cigar’s texture. He nodded approval, opened a large clasp knife and carefully cut off the end of the black Orizaba cigar. The proprietor, Chucho, scratched a sulfur match on the underside of the table, waved it to life, then carefully lit the cigar.

“You, there, more wine,” the captain shouted. Chucho did not respond until the cigar was lit and drawing well. Only then did he stroll slowly into the back room, returned some minutes later with a clay jug.

“The locals get all the service, don’t they,” the captain said, scowling in the direction of the dark-skinned man who was languidly blowing a cloud of rich smoke into the air.

“Helps to speak the lingo I imagine.”

The wine slopped onto the table when Chucho put the jug down. He wiped at it lazily with his stained apron. Major Chalmers sipped at his wine and looked idly at the man at the other table who was now using his clasp knife to sharpen a point on his pencil. He put the knife away, opened a small bound book and began to write. The major looked at him and frowned with suspicion.

“I say — who’s that blighter?”

“Mande?”

“That man, the one at that table there who is doing the writing. Who is he?”

“Yes. He ees Don Ambrosio. A big planter from Santo Domingo Tehuantepec. Much land, many trees with fruits.”

“Next town down the road,” the captain said. “What’s he writing down in that bloody book? Has he been listening to us? I can’t say that I like any of this.”

“Nor do I,” Chalmers said, coldly suspicious. “If he speaks English he could overhear our conversation with great ease. Does he understand English?”