Free The Dogs of Mexico by John J. Asher Page A

after the tourists. Traffic from the side streets circled counterclockwise around the tiny square with its little gazebo. Grackles swooped in, swarming the trees. Underneath, men pulled on ropes, banging clappers in oil drums high in the branches overhead. In great shimmering clouds the grackles turned back and resettled on the surrounding rooftops. Again and again.
    Robert ordered another drink and gave the waiter a few pesos for the mariachis. They strummed their guitars, blew their trumpets, sang their heartrending songs.  
    He became aware of a commotion down on the street. Glancing over the railing, he saw several men rushing along, shouting after someone disappearing into the doorway below. Almost immediately the couple from the Hidalgo’s restaurant back in Mexico City burst into the bar. Ana and Helmut.
    Helmut staggered, suitcase banging his knees. Ana wrestled with her own bag, its under-wheels clacking on the concrete floor. She pleaded urgently, first with Helmut, then in Spanish with the angry Mexicans close behind. Helmut dropped his bag, made a spitting noise and shot his middle finger at the nearest Mexican. The Mexican whipped out a knife. Waiters rushed between them. The music fizzled for a second, then the mariachis picked it up louder than ever.
    The waiters argued, first with the Mexican, then with Helmut. Ana took several bills from a small leather purse on a strap around her neck and gave them to one of the waiters who in turn pressed them on the furious Mexican.
    “Gringo hijo de puta!”the Mexican shouted as he and the others backed down the stairway. “Gringo hijo de puta!”  
    Helmut made the belligerent spitting noise after them before Ana steered him to a rear table and he slumped into a chair. The crowd had paused to watch, but Helmut crossed his arms on the tabletop and lay his head down, the show over.  
    Robert watched as Ana’s distracted gaze moved around the bar and came to rest on him with a jolt of recognition.  
    His pulse had quickened at this unlikely coincidence—Helmut and Ana popping into a bar where he just happened to be? halfway between Mexico City and Acapulco? The moment he saw them he knew Fowler was having him followed. That would be Fowler all right, covering his bases.  
    Robert took another look at Ana. It was no secret that women were the most effective tools in the book when it came to separating a man from his senses : God gave man two heads but only enough blood to use one at a time. He tipped his glass to her.  
    She lifted her chin, barely acknowledging him while ignoring entirely the inquisitive glances from the other patrons.  
    A waiter approached her, one eye on Helmut. She shook her head and the waiter went to attend another table.  
    Robert hesitated only briefly before taking his drink to her table. Keep your friends close, your enemies closer.
    Small world, he said.  
    She stiffened as he slid into the chair opposite. “What are you doing here?” Her tone was cool, remote.
    “I was about to ask you. I thought you were going to Acapulco?”
    She lifted her chin. “Helmut wrecked the car. Then we were thrown off the bus.” Her tone dared him to suggest there was anything unusual about wrecking cars and getting thrown off buses. She removed Helmut’s glasses and put them in her purse.  
    “Looks like you could use a drink yourself,” Robert said.
    She shook her head. “I’m going to let him sleep it off a bit, then find a hotel.”
    “I’m staying at the Victoria. They might have a room.”
    Her gaze flickered over him with studied suspicion. Mariachis wailed, trumpets trilled.
    Robert stopped the waiter. “Patrón Reposado, por favor,” he said. He looked at Ana, one eyebrow raised. “You sure?”
    She frowned briefly, weighing it. “Yes, perhaps I will. Cerveza, del Pacifica.” When the waiter left she unzipped her purse and laid several pesos on the table.
    Robert nodded at Helmut. “Your husband?”
    “No.” Her tone dared