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from that point everything was easy enough.
A small "F.L." stamped across the lower edge of the picture led
the journalist through the dusty streets of Tacuba to the offices
of Fotos Larios, a photographic studio used frequently by El
Dem6crata. Half an hour later he emerged from the shop with a
photo in his hand more or less identical to the one he'd seen in the
station house, but with an added advantage: it had the subject's
name and address printed on the back.
    He hesitated for a moment before heading down Avenida
Juarez, then marched stoically on under a blazing sun, drops of
sweat breaking out over his bald dome and running down the sides
of his face. "When it comes to journalists," he told himself as he loped along, "you've got your cavalry and you've got your infantry."
Manterola crossed the street, neatly dodging a cart driven by a
fellow who'd gotten an early start on his jug of mezcal. The man
seemed to have infected his horses with his own distorted sense
of direction.

    The poet waited in the street, composing a bit of deprecatory
verse in honor of General Manrique, the new military governor for
the State of Mexico, requested by Manrique's second in command,
General Vinuelas. He'd been asked to supply an effectively stinging
bit of doggerel that would also guarantee the anonymity of his
employer. He'd experimented with variations on: "A rose by any
other name would smell as sweet; a man by any other name would
reek as...," but it didn't seem to him either original or to the point.
He stood in the middle of the street sipping on a bottle of La
Camelia brand soda pop when he saw his friend the journalist
bustling around the corner with that peculiar walk of his, like a
rheumatic locomotive with a full head of steam, his head jutting
out leading the way.
    their friendship dated back to before the domino club. The
journalist had rescued the poet from abject poverty, finding him
odd jobs here and there in the newspaper world. And the poet had
once arrived in time to cut the rope the reporter was trying to hang
himself with, victim of an unrequited love. Neither of them was
inclined to talk much about the past. The poet liked to think of
himself and his three friends as something like the tide scum left
on the beach at the high-water mark: the indefinable children of
a turbulent decade marked by a social upheaval much bigger than
themselves, a series of changes they'd experienced peripherally as
spectators, protagonists, and victims.
    "Got it," announced Manterola, wiping the sweat off his bald
head with a white handkerchief from his vest pocket.
    "Is she the same one? Let's have a look at her."
    "One and the same. And not only that, I've got her name and
address, too."

    "Let me see," said the poet, taking a careful look at the
photograph. "That's the one all right. So now what? I never really
thought of you as the detective type."
    "I was just saying the same thing to myself." He pointed to the
bottle of soda in the poet's hand. "Where'd you get that?"
    "In a store. Where'd you think? Come on, I'll treat you to
one.
    While the two men stood drinking their sodas in a shop front
on San Juan de Letran, the lawyer Verdugo stood in front of his
mirror combing a healthy dab of Tres Coronas brilliantine into his
hair. He'd woken up from a nightmare and, after counting the few
pesos he had on hand, decided it would be a good idea to combine
breakfast and lunch into a single meal. Without having to think
too much about it, he decided to head over to the Tampico Club
near the Ciudadela for a double portion of pork chops in chile
pasilla.
    With his hair freshly combed and the prospects of a decent
meal ahead of him, the aftereffects of the nightmare began to fade.
Just then somebody slipped an envelope under his door. It was an
invitation to a private moving-picture show in the home of the
Widow Roldan, courtesy of Arenas, Vera & Co. Ltd. The invitation
was signed at the