The Acapulco bar is wedged between a pharmacy and a real estate office, two streets back from the sea. Its terrace is crowded in the late afternoon: golfers with pink faces, French families in linen, a handful of locals nursing coffee. Waiters slide between tables with trays of olives, beer bottles slick with condensation.

Buba moves easily among them, a folded stack of shirts under his arm, a scarf draped loose in one hand. Lacoste, Ralph Lauren, Louis Vuitton—good counterfeits, discreet, nothing flashy. Clothes you can buy with a grin and wear home without questions.

He changes shape with every stop. At the French table he leans in like a cousin back from Paris, teasing them about their pale skin under the Costa sun. To the golfers he lowers his voice, polite, nearly formal, as though he’s offering membership to a private club. With the waiter it’s quick-fire Spanish, a joke about tips and the heat. At the doorway, he switches to Wolof, sharing fast, coded news with a mantero on watch outside.

Each move is precise, a different register, a different mask. He isn’t tall, doesn’t stand out—until he decides to.

One of the golfers, already red from drink, lifts a polo and asks if it will survive the wash. The jab is half a taunt, half a sneer.
Buba doesn’t flinch. “Two-year guarantee,” he says, eyes glinting. “If it fails, bring it back on Black Friday.”
The table bursts into laughter. The edge softens, the moment flips, and suddenly they’re all in on the joke.

Later, at the French family’s table, the father mutters something about “African discounts.” Buba grins wider. “For you, monsieur, only double the price. Special racism tax.” The man laughs in spite of himself, the children giggling louder than they understand.

He moves on, leaving each table smiling, shaking heads, or just relieved by his lightness. Nothing sticks to him. He bends each moment to his rhythm, never repeating himself, never staying too long.

From a table inside, near the window, Alias watches. His coffee has gone cold. He has been here often enough to see the pattern: every approach is new, every shift exact. He reads in it not theatre but something sharper—an intelligence shaped by years of border crossings, odd jobs in Paris kitchens, factories near Milan, construction sites in Hamburg. Survival turned into art.

Alias does not write. He does not move. He only watches, haunted, as though this performance contains more than salesmanship—as though it hints at the kind of mind Pegged might need.