"Good. How about my coffee?"
Souza laughed. "The only waiter on duty is a cabrón, Señor. Mr. Fielding will have much better coffee for you, anyway."
Hall chuckled as he washed the sleep out of his eyes with cold water and combed his hair. The waiter is a cabrón! There was one for the book. Hall made up a song while he dressed, a song about yes we have no coffee today because the son of a gun is a dirty cabrón so we have no coffee today.
Souza slammed his palm down on the bell twice when the elevator let Hall into the lobby. "Pepito!" he shouted.
The biggest cab driver Hall had ever seen outside of the United States bounded into the lobby from the blackness of the San Hermano night. He advanced toward the desk in seven-league strides, wiping his right hand on the blouse of his pale-blue slack suit and taking off his white chauffeur's cap with the other hand. He hovered over Hall like a mother hen.
"Pepito," Souza said, "this is Señor Hall." This he said in Spanish. In English, he again told Hall that the man was a very reliable driver.
"Con mucho gusto, Señor 'All. Me llamo Delgado." Sheepishly, the giant offered his hand to Hall.
"I am much pleased," Hall said. "Shall we start now?"
Pepito Delgado led Hall to a blue 1935 LaSalle parked in front of the Bolivar. "She is my own machine after I make the last payment next month," Delgado said. "I am glad you speak Spanish. It is the only language I know." He drove Hall to the ten-story Comercio building in a few minutes.
When Hall tried to pay him, Delgado shook his head happily. "You'll pay me later," he smiled. "I'll wait for you."