"Oiga!" Duarte stopped Skidmore, took his hand, and let loose a stream of Mexican obscenities, spoken in dulcet, smiling tones. When he paused for breath, Skidmore smiled genially, bowed slightly from the hips, and said, "Con mucho gusto."
Hall nearly collapsed with laughter when he and Duarte reached the street. "You bastard," he said, "you'll kill me before my time."
"Let's have a drink before you die."
"Sure. But let's run over to the Bolivar first. I want to see if there's a message. Besides, we could stand some fresh air."
Duarte agreed. "I saw Fernandez and Vardieno trying to gas you," he said. "You could use some air."
"You're not kidding, Felipe."
"How do you like the Falange in San Hermano?"
"You mean Fernandez and his friends?"
"Of course. That Pepito Fernandez, there is an hijo de la chingada for you, Mateo. Once, when he was keeping a woman in Paris ..." and Duarte was off on a long hilarious story about the publisher and his lady of the hour. He was still telling the story when they reached the darkened Plaza de la Republica and Hall suggested that they cut across the cobbles rather than walk two-thirds of the way around the square.
Hall stepped off the sidewalk and took three steps before he noticed the large Rolls-Royce bearing down on them with her throttle wide open and her lights off. "Jump!" he shouted, but Duarte, who saw it first, had already yanked Hall back to the sidewalk.