Wyatt usually took a long lunch on weekdays at El Primero, an air-conditioned, darkly-appointed little joint about three blocks from the U.S. Consulate where he worked as a cultural attaché. Shake found him at the bar paging through an old copy of The New Yorker and sipping gin and tonic. He signaled for two more as Shake straddled a barstool and shook hands.
“Marine Gunner Shake Davis—as I live and breathe! I was hoping to run into you. My calendar reminds me it’s payroll time for your soldados.”
“Yep—and naturally, I can’t find Fat Frank Arenas.” Shake nodded his thanks for the drink, tossed the straw and chugged half of it. “I was due to meet the bastard today at Pan American. Of course, he wasn’t there.”
“No surprise there, my man.” Wyatt pulled a notebook from the inside pocket of
