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little puffs of trouble now and again, it was because the visitors had left behind their manners or their judgment, and the pobrecitos, God pity them, were tempted beyond the guardian of their consciences. The little puffs would wisp into nothingness in the sobriety of daylight, with profuse apologies from the Mexicano officials and acceptance of these by the Americanos. After a night in the Juarez juzgado, transgressors were inclined to be gracious beyond their wont. That there were uglier things which occurred, things which could not be erased by apology or dollars, was known on both sides of the border. Of these things one did not speak, Mexico and the United States being good neighbors now, and both north and south of the border there being a will to prolong this happy state. As an Americano, Jose was as safe as on the streets of any village, safer than on the streets of some cities. The Norte Americano prestige was a golden halo gracing his head; the envy and greed with which it might be observed was held in check by men of policy.
    The only actual danger he faced was that of being overtaken by his cousin. Adam wouldn’t follow, not surrounded by that good food. As yet the cafe door had not reopened; Beach hadn’t missed him. He had this much head start. He needed more. Therefore, he eased the gate ajar, the bells merely tinkling, and he slid quickly through the small aperture into the pool of red and green and orange light.
    The narrow street would have slept in darkness but for the sign. On either side of the road the walled houses, old houses, once fine homes of fine families of Juarez, were an unbroken shadow. Jose stepped out of the colored light and turned toward the Avenida. There were no walks, Calle Herrera was laid with uneven bricks. The street itself was scarcely wider than the pavement in front of the Chenoweth where he’d been standing at noon minding his own business. If he had any mistaken idea that it was the tilt of the walls which narrowed the street, it was dispelled when the egress to the Avenue suddenly closed. In a simple fashion. A man stepped into the frame, blotting out the brightness beyond. The man could have been a tourist, standing there to get his bearings or to rest his feet. Gazing out at the kaleidoscope of Avenida Juarez. He wasn’t. He was a big shapeless man in a seersucker suit.
    His back was given to this small street of the Cafe Herrera. It would seem that he didn’t know Jose was approaching his seemingly defenseless rear. But Jose had no illusions in this respect. Mr. Tosteen was there with intent.
    Jose walked quietly, decreasing his pace for thinking time. He couldn’t hear his own steps and was conscious for the first time of the rubber-soled shoes he’d worn tonight. He was as pleased upon the realization as if he’d chosen them deliberately for this purpose. The white suit was not such a careful choice, in the dark he would have the luminosity of a ghost. So much for his vanity.
    The man hadn’t moved. His big frame, in the loosely draped, wrinkled coat and wilted, sagging trousers, had the implacability of a cop on the beat. The comparison struck Jose like a snapping whip. This man wasn’t necessarily the enemy. He might well be the law. It was Jose who was dabbling outside the pale of respectability. Whoever he was he wouldn’t have declared his shoulder holster at the border.
    Jose moved the last few paces with additional silence and with speed. He spoke the moment he was behind the big shoulders, “Your pardon, Senor.”
    The man swiveled ponderously. He didn’t unblock the exit, he merely reversed his position. Jose was wired for quick movement, to dodge away, to duck through the opening into the safety of the Avenue. But there was no opening. Tosteen stood where he was; nothing moved but his pale blue eyes. They were photographing the size and shape and features of Jose Aragon. He gave no indication that he’d ever run into Jose before. He might have been