"Where is he?"
"Who is this speaking?"
"Who am I?" Hall hesitated. "If he's there, just tell him it's Johnny Verde Luna. He'll know who it is." Lobo called all Americans Johnny; Verde Luna was a horse he and Hall had played for three straight weeks at the Hipodromo until it romped home in front at the longest odds in ten years.
"I will, Mr. Johnny Green Moon," the other man said, in English. "When I see him tomorrow."
"I don't understand you, señor. I ..."
"He is not here, señor."
"I know. Don't tell me where he is. But do you know?"
"That depends."
"Listen to me, my friend," Hall said, his voice rising angrily, "I have no time to play games. If you know where he is, find him and give him my message. I'll call you every fifteen minutes until you get word from him."
"Yes, señor. I will do what I can. Where can I call you?"