Tikki stands by the telecom at the side of the stall toking on a slim Hoyo de 
Monterrey panatela. She isn’t really expecting trouble, not right now, which is
why she allows herself the indulgence of a cigar. She keeps her eyes moving 
anyway. The maze of passageways between the vendor stands and stalls are crowded 
with people, all of them jammering, walking, turning to and fro, moving their 
hands, reaching inside jackets and into pockets. A killing stroke could come 
from any one of a hundred directions.