"Their steaks aren't bad, but you might want to skip the legs—especially the morning crew." It was the peacock man. She'd stopped and waited for him to catch up. She watched as he hung back, aside from his outlandish outfit, he moved in and out of the crowded streets deftly.
She turned to the brightly colored stalker. He tipped his fedora and smiled. "If you're looking for a nice place to eat, I could take you to a café not far from here."
"I think I'll take my chances out here."
He gnawed at the cigar in the corner of his mouth, exposing his yellow stained teeth. A messy salt-and-pepper goatee framed his smile. "I saw you at the station."
"I know. You're a hard man to miss."
"Miguel Ayala, I'm a reporter with the Noticias Independientes Para La Gente, the Independent News for the People. I know, it's a mouthful." He moved his hand to a fanny pack strapped to his midriff. Hatch's left hand instinctually moved toward the small of her back. It hovered an inch from the butt of the Glock hidden beneath the white shirt.
He unzipped the pouch and pulled out an official looking press badge with the man's picture. What lent credence to the pass was that it depicted a much younger version of the peacock man. Somebody using this type of subterfuge would typically use a recent photo. And the photo on the badge was at least ten years old and showed a clean shaven and less gray version of the man standing before her.
Sometimes the reward outweighed the risk. Hatch was in a foreign territory trying to recover a girl from traffickers and, right now, she was running low on leads. And a reporter might be just the right person to remedy that. If nothing else, Miguel Ayala, the Peacock Man, seemed good company in the interim, until she figured her next step.
He leaned a little closer. Unlike Munoz and his nutty vanilla aura, Ayala's was of coffee and stale cigar. He spoke in a whisper, "To be honest, I hate this place."
"Not a steak man, eh?"
He laughed. "I hate this place and all the others like it. But that conversation is one I'd rather have away from the little birdies that fly their messages back to their master." He stepped back and spat. "Take it or leave it. I'll be at Café de Rosa. Two blocks at the corner. Great coffee. And if I may say so myself, some pretty great company."
"I'll think about it."
And with a tip of his hat, Ayala pivoted and continued in the direction of the café. Hatch bent to check her laces. As she did, her eyes swept her perimeter. She watched for movement patterns outside of the flow. She looked for people pretending to be occupied. Surveillance is a cornerstone of any investigator worth their salt, but counter-surveillance was the real test. Harder than it sounds, Hatch was confident in her ability. She was also confident Ayala didn't have a partner and, more importantly, nobody else was following.
She watched as Ayala disappeared into the café's doors two block up from where Hatch stood. Satisfied it was safe to proceed, she stepped off in the direction of the Peacock Man, walking in a slow meandering, touristy sort of way. Blend, even when you stand out, one of her survival instructors always said to her. Hatch was already at a disadvantage in her ability to blend in with the crowd as she was an American female. This was only worsened by the fact that she was also a few inches taller than anybody else around her, including the men.
Two old men squabbled in rapid fire Spanish in front of the bodega next door. The clamor of their argument was washed away by the loud hiss of an espresso machine the moment Hatch entered Café de Rosa. The aroma of fresh ground coffee beans swirled in the air and carried with it a note of vanilla and honey.
Ayala popped his head up from his newspaper and set it aside as Hatch approached the small table in the back corner where he sat. She was glad he chose a table away from the windows, but bothered he chose to take the chair facing the door. That left Hatch with her back to the door. She compensated by adjusting her chair, blading her body to Ayala which enabled Hatch to keep the entrance in her peripheral vision.
A wad of dirty napkins stuffed under one of the metal legs acted to balance the table’s wobble with little effect. Two cups of dark coffee appeared moments later. Ayala smiled.
"Were you expecting company?" Hatch returned the smile as she pulled the porcelain mug closer. The fragrant steam licked at her nostrils. "Pretty confident I was going to follow?"
"Confident, no. Hopeful, yes. I like to find the upside of down." He adjusted his gaze to the returning server. His smile widened. The cigar dangled loosely on the edge of his lip but somehow managed to remain in place as if sealed by super glue. "I also took the liberty of ordering two cups of atole. Ever had it before?"
"Can't say that I have," The cup set in front of Hatch was wider than the mug used for the coffee. In it was a thick, creamy liquid that looked like a cross between a vanilla milkshake and Quaker Instant Oatmeal.
"Well, you're in for a treat. It's my mid-morning snack. And it fuels me until lunch, sometimes dinner. It doesn't look like much, but it's quite filling." He leaned in, just as he'd done outside of the strip club. "Wanna know the secret ingredient here at Rosa's that makes hers so special?"
"Sure."
"Rosa uses masa harina, a traditional Mexican flour. Others have opted for store bought corn meal. Rosa also uses piloncillo, a thick syrup made from cane juice. Brown sugar can be substituted but here, tradition matters. And it makes a difference. You'll see."
"You seem to know a lot about this restaurant." Hatch sipped at the creamy mixture. She was shocked by its smoothness. It was sweet but not overwhelmingly so, with a hint of cinnamon.
"I should," Ayala spread his arms wide as he beamed with pride, "I own it. Well, I don't own it. My wife, Rosa, does."
"This is a great place. You'll have to tell your wife how delicious her atole is." Hatch had already worked her way through half the cup.
"Will do," he winked and then hollered something in Spanish toward the kitchen area. Hatch heard a female's voice return with gracias. "Done. Next up, let's talk about you and why you were at the police."
"I'm looking for somebody."
"I know. I overheard that part. It's why I followed you." "There are far too many eyes around the department. I wanted to wait until I was confident we were alone before I approached."
"Why were you in the lobby?" Hatch continued to scan the surroundings while being visually assaulted by Ayala's wardrobe.
"Waiting for my next story. That place is a treasure trove of leads."
"Looked like you had yours. The fruit thief took quite a beating in there."
"I know. I noted it. Even snapped a couple photos with my cell when nobody was looking. But that story won't print. Ever. Not here."
"Why not?"
"Because our media is tightly controlled. My editor would never accept a piece like that. Nobody would. It would literally be a death sentence."
"Then why take pictures?" Hatch asked.
His infectious smile reappeared. "Just because my paper won't run them doesn't mean there isn't somebody who will. A good pen name is a bulletproof vest for investigative reporters like me."
"How do you pick a pen name? If these stories are death sentences, wouldn't you be signing it for somebody else, then?"