The business hadn’t taken long.

I’d forced Mr. Buck to sit down on the bed and we’d talked. Apparently, the maid had refused to have sex with him even though he’d offered her good money. While I sympathized, Tony slipped a Mickey into a gin and tonic that knocked the bastard out. The cleaning service would fix his room while he dozed. Probably wouldn’t remember a thing about it until he got a five-thousand-dollar extra on his hotel bill.

Still, as incidents go, not one to write home about.

I found the key card and opened my door.

The room was dark. I yawned again. I wouldn’t even turn the light on. Straight ahead past the sofa and the boom box, a left turn into the bedroom. Go to sleep, wake up, and have some eggs with steak.

“Señor Michael Forsythe?” a voice asked from the sofa.

I said.

The lights came on.

“Do not move.”

There was a man behind me. I could see in the reflection of the mirrored dresser that he was pointing a 9mm at my head. Slightly redundant since the man sitting on the sofa held a pump-action shotgun. They were both dressed in shiny gangster-fabulous suits. They spoke Spanish with northern accents. Colombian, I would have guessed, but that just might be prejudice on my part.

“You are Michael Forsythe?” asked the one with the 9mm.

“No, amigo,” I said. “Don’t know who that is.”

“You are Michael Forsythe,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t a question.

The one with the shotgun motioned for me to put my hands up and the other one frisked my upper body, removing my obvious gun, my binoculars and wallet. They looked at the photo on my ID.

“It’s him,” Shotgun said.

The two men backed away from me. I stood with my hands over my head for a moment.

“Ok, what do we do now?” I wondered.