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gaggle of dirt bikes came down the rutted road, careening around the corner in a high frequency whine of redlining engines. The men sitting on them wore black pants and were shirtless, with heavily tattooed torsos and arms and scarves wrapped around their heads and faces. They slowed down enough to not run anyone over. They gave Ricky and Al quick, nonchalant glances as if they did not belong.
    That’s them, said Ricky
    Who?
    T he Santos Muertos .
    How do you know?
    I don’t know how I know. Just. . .heard a voice.
    A voice, huh?
    Yeah, Dad. It sounds crazy. But. . .
    Well, son. We need to get some food.
    The tablet gave the trip a new sense of urgency, as if the sky had opened up and a wind had swept away the dull, humid air of every day. Al thought of the way time passed and left you with only a residue of memory, and how this new possession, like a slap in the face or a cold-water bath, invigorated their steps. They walked shoulder to shoulder and crossed the road as buses and trucks made their way up and down what was, after all, the highway to Escuintla and from there points north to Tapachula and eventually la frontera and south to El Salvador and Colombia and all along the road in both directions the chain of the mountains that rose out of the jungle. He’d read once in a newspaper, one of those human-interest features from Reuters about a man who’d walked the whole length of the Pan-American highway, north to south, and was headed back the other way, expecting to complete his journey in the farthest northern town of Alaska, was it Barrow? Now with the tablet, he and Ricky seemed like they were somehow linked in a similar life-and-death exploration. What had Coconut Juan meant by a cifra ? Was that a secret code, a number containing the answer they all were looking for? What would that be?
    By the time t hey finished the food shopping. Ricky was carrying three plastic bags in each hand, plus the bag with the tablet and Al had the bag of oranges, the two cases of beer and a box of Ramen noodle packs that were on sale at the last bodega. They took a different, less-trafficked route back to the apartment, passing the cemetery at the north end of the beach. Around the corner of the cemetery, the road ran onto a path that cut parallel with the beach through the dune scrub. They came out of the shade of the ceiba and flamboyant trees that lined the road. The sun was beating down on them. Coming toward them along the trail strode the American man from the morning’s encounter on the beach. Al looked up and saw him and kept his gaze steady as they approached. The man looked up and smiled when he saw them. What was his name? Robert Newman, namesake of the famous actor but without the baby blues.
    Surfer father. And surfer son.
    How ya doin', Robert?
    I’m fine. I expect you’ll be pros by the time your time is up.
    Well, the waves here are a little over our heads. Otherwise the place is perfect.
    Yeah, but its overrun.
    Hey, what more can you tell us about the criminal threat in the area? You look like someone in the know.
    Robert scratched his head and looked up and down the beach.
    It's not good. Look, if I were you, honestly? I'd get on a bus out of here as fast as I could. This place is about to pop.
    Pop? What do you mean?
    These boys been running meth, cocaine, guns through San Jose for about a year. You wouldn't believe it. Nobody does. They're planning to take over, and when they do, it won't be pretty. It's going to go down any day now.
    The American pulled some sunglasses out of his bathing suit pocket. He polished the lenses with the fabric of his oversized bathing suit, put them on, and then produced a pair of binoculars out of the other pocket. There was something seedy about him, as if he'd been too long away from the company of normal people, thought Al.
    Good view from here of the water and if you look way out on the horizon you can see subs.
    Subs. As in submarines .
    Th at's right. Built in the