"Upscale part of this beautiful oasis." He shifted into gear. "But it's more or less on the way." He glanced up nervously at the sky. "We just don't have all day."
Off we headed toward the suburbs, through a ganglia of downtown streets laced with pizza joints and frying-meat vendors, till we eventually ended up on a tree-lined avenue that looked as genteel as Oyster Bay. When we got to the address, I told him to park across the way, and just sat a moment staring.
The building itself was a windowless compound surrounded by trees and a high wall of white stucco, with a guardhouse and wide iron gate (not unusual for Guatemala) protecting a long walkway. The whole thing looked like a fortress, except the view through the gate was a pastoral vista of neat flower beds and a pristine lawn. The guardhouse itself had a dozing teenager, undoubtedly with an Uzi resting across his lap.
"Okay, Alan," I said "time to get with the program. How's your Spanish?"
"Depends on who I'm trying to BS." He shrugged and began cleaning his sunglasses again.
"Well, why don't you see if you can talk us past that guard."
He stared at the entrance a moment. "Be a waste of our precious time. Tell you right now, kids like that only answer to one boss, the jefe, the big guy, whoever he is. That's how they retain their employment. A joint locked down this tight don't give Sunday tours."
"Well, I think he's asleep. So I'm going to be creative and see if there's a back entrance of some kind. Maybe a service area that'll give me some idea of what's going on here."
"Do what you want, but make it fast," he said, leaning back in the seat. "And try not to get shot."
I carefully got out and walked down the empty street a way, then followed the stucco wall/fence—the building covered an entire city block—until I came across an alley entrance, with another large iron gate, padlocked shut.