The Acapulco is quieter on weeknights. A few locals linger on the terrace, their voices softened by the warm air. Buba sits at a corner table, a scarf draped across his lap like an afterthought. He looks up as Alias steps out from inside.

“May I?” Alias asks.

Buba grins, tilting his head. “Of course, Mr. Banker. I thought you only watched from behind glass. Now you sit with the merchandise.”

The waiter sets down two coffees without a word. Buba thanks him quickly in Spanish, then raises his cup in mock toast. “To bankers learning new tricks.”

Alias almost smiles. They sip in silence, listening to the street: a scooter rattles past, the clink of bottles behind the bar.

Alias leans in slightly. “The manteros—you all work together, don’t you? Cover each other when the police come?”

Buba’s smile fades. He places his cup down with care.
“Some questions,” he says, voice lower, “are only asked by policemen. Don’t make me hear them again.”

The weight hangs. Alias meets his eyes, then lowers them briefly, nodding once—acceptance, not defence.

Buba studies him a moment longer. Then his shoulders ease, and the corner of his mouth lifts again. “Good. You learn fast. Most people would have argued themselves into a hole by now.”

Alias exhales softly. “Maybe I’m not most people.”

“Maybe,” Buba says. He picks up his cup again, back to easy rhythm. “So tell me, Mr. Banker—do you play golf like the rest of your tribe? Or is staring at men like me your only sport?”

Alias lets the question pass with a faint smile. They talk of smaller things then—the heat, the tourists, how the Germans always order beer too early. The tension dissolves, leaving something less certain but more human.

When they rise, Buba offers his hand. Firm, brief, but this time warmer than the night had begun. Enough to mark the difference between a stranger and someone he might allow back to the table.