The man appeared to be in his early forties, puffy-eyed and pink-cheeked with discount aviator shades, looking like a glad-handing tourist just down to Central America for a weekend of unchaperoned bacchanals. The flowered sport shirt, worn outside the belt, gave him the aura of a tout insufficiently attired without a can of Coors in hand.
How can this be progress? I'm down here hoping to find Sarah, and I end up in a trash-filled park meeting some expat operator.
Steve had explained that the main benefit of Alan Dupre's CIA gig was that he did learn how to fly a helicopter. With that skill he'd ended up starting a tourist agency in Guatemala City using an old Bell he leased: "Mayan Pyramids from the Air." Mainly, though, he was a self-styled bon vivant who knew people.
"Steve the brave." On came Dupre's mirthless smile as he approached a jaunty spring entering his step.
"Alan, any friend of yours has got to be brave." Steve just stared at him.
Dupre had the kind of empty grin that looked like it'd been rehearsed in his high school bathroom mirror. It was thin, kind of forked and dangerous, and this morning its plaster quality undermined any attempts at honesty. Maybe dealing with complaining tourists every day of your life did that to you.
"You called, I came." He was now shifting from foot to foot. "Guess it finally had to happen. What's the phrase? You can run but you can't hide? Surprise us both and pretend you're happy to see me."
Steve looked like he was not entirely prepared for this moment. He used the awkward pause that followed to introduce me. Dupre shook hands like he was fearful of germs, then turned back.
"Jesus, man, I'm still working on the money, honest to God. But do I get a last cigarette before the firing squad?"
"Hey, Alan, ease up." Steve was deadpan. "Good to see you again. I mean it. Love that Waikiki shirt, by the way. Never knew you had such progressive taste."