TIJUANA, MEXICO

AUGUST

SATURDAY, 12:12 P.M.

JOE FAROE CAME OUT the front door of Tijuana Tuck amp; Roll carrying what looked like a two-foot-long section of vaguely curved abstract art carved from oak. The shop that had made the oak piece had been in the same location for more than forty years. It was a hangover from the days of gringo surfers and hot-rodders crossing the border for cheap custom car work. When angora dice and hand-stitched leather seats stopped being cool, the shop had chosen a different business model.

It made the best smuggler’s traps to be had in a city whose economy was based on smuggling.

The output of Tijuana Tuck amp; Roll was the kind of open secret Mexico thrived on. The shop was surrounded by a stout chain-link fence topped with lazy, deadly loops of razor wire, the kind that would cut a man to rags.

Joe Faroe knew about wire like that, just like he knew about the auto upholstery shop’s real business.

Been there.

Done that.

Burned the T-shirt.

Faroe glanced across the street. The man was still there, still leaning in the shadow of a doorway. The watcher looked away when Faroe stared at him, but he didn’t move from his post.

A cop, Faroe decided.

The dude’s leather jacket and comfortable belly gave him away. For some cops, life was good.

Okay, is he a Mexican cop or an American working south of the line, trying to figure out the latest smuggling wrinkle?

Is he looking for an arrest or a shakedown?

Faroe closed the chain-link gate behind him and stared at the cop whose leather jacket was almost as expensive as Faroe’s.