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from its familiar homelands, drifting out into the unknown, propelled by the irresistible force of gravity. But he did not feel the poetic mood taking him today. Today he just wanted a decent coffee.
    The General and Federico marched on, earning a few nods from passersby familiar with their ritual forays into town. But others, especially the Indians, crossed the road as the pair walked forward, darting into homes and down sidestreets. The General pretended not to notice and Federico, relishing it as a sport, occasionally glared after them, or, in the case of fearful young children, sent them scurrying away with a sudden lunge in their direction, followed by a burst of harsh, grating laughter.
    Finally they arrived at the Café Hermann and the General settled into a seat at the back, shielded from the view of the street. Federico perched himself by the door, sitting on a stool, casting an eye out onto the road. The owner of the café scurried over with a steaming pot of coffee and poured the General a cup and then carefully laid a folded newspaper by its side.
    “Thank you, Don Hermann,” Carillo said and he took a sip. That was better. Good Guatemalan coffee, straight from the highlands around Antigua and made hot and fresh. It was worth the walk, the heat and the stares of the strange people in this town, the General thought. He felt a brief and rare sense of satisfaction come over him, of being part of the world again. He glanced at the newspaper and then picked it up, scanning the headlines. The dreary news from the capital and the latest goings on of the government held no interest for him. He could not bear to read such things while he was stuck here. He flipped through to the foreign pages. After all, he was a man of the world. It would not do to become ignorant and it was far too long since he last read a newspaper.
    He fished out a pair of reading glasses from his shirt pocket and perched them on the end of his nose. He peered at the picture on a page devoted to news from America. There was a sudden shock of recognition. The picture was of a man. A man with a solid jaw that Carillo remembered well. A man whose face Carillo had not seen in many years. He was standing, one arm thrust out, protecting a woman behind him. Carillo peered closer, his nostrils flaring as he began to feel his heart race. Yes! It is her too. It is Jack and Christine Hodges.
    He read the headline. “ Presidente Hodges? ” it asked. He put down the paper. He did not need to read the story. He stared ahead of him, out into the street and beyond that, to the thin blue horizon of the sea. His hands clenched into fists and he felt, for the first time in a long time, a true surge of anger at his exile; at the unrelenting shame of it. He folded up the paper and finished his coffee in a single gulp. Enough, he thought. He needed his due. He deserved a reward for all his service and some compensation for his exile. General Rodrigo Estrada Carillo felt a sense of purpose come back into his life.
     
    * * *
     
    MIKE DIALED his hometown area code, tapping out the familiar numbers on his hotel room’s phone with movements that felt ingrained into his mind. The phone rang twice and then he heard Sean’s voice answer.
    “Mike?” his old friend asked. “Is that you? Jesus, where have you been hiding?”
    Mike felt a stab of guilt. It seemed that for the last few years his life in Florida left him no time for anyone except those he worked with. His schedule consisted of a non-stop series of court cases against huge fruit corporations, meetings and organizing drives. Now, if anything, he was even busier on the Hodges campaign, getting maybe five hours of sleep a night, if he was lucky. The campaign was all consuming and ate up time with a ferocious appetite that was impossible to satiate.
    “Sorry, buddy,” he said. “I’m a bad best friend.”
    Sean laughed. Mike knew Sean didn’t really mind. Their families had been friends for years, since before