On the second floor of the Cantina de Espejos, the late morning air carried the smell of hot cooking oil, bananas and boiled Inca corn from the doorsteps below. Roosters crowed and dogs barked.
Smith stood in the open bathroom dressed only in his skivvies. He rinsed the dangerous straight-edged razor in the sink, then inspected his shaving job in the chipped mirror. Better than yesterday, at least; he’d kept the injuries to a minimum. Satisfied, he patted his face with a damp towel.
The jackhammer pounding in his head was better as well, especially now that Yaquita had stopped throwing things at him. She had dressed in a bright red skirt and frilly white blouse with intricate embroidery, then left him early in the morning. She had promised to bring him fresh roses from the flower market
