The coffee and rolls arrived within minutes—real coffee and real butter, not soykaf and EZ Spread. We sat in lounge chairs in the shadow of a gigantic stone head—a staring face with wide lips and flaring nose that looked more Afro than Azzie. It was pitted and worn enough to be an actual Olmec sculpture—and was probably worth a million nuyen, if not more. When the maid had gone—ignoring Rafael’s wink—I took a long, grateful sip of my café con crema and then began grilling Gus in my best police interview style.