—Heinrich Heine HE’S CAPTAIN PONCE now, as thin and colorless as ever, with a light straw mustache, sharp cheekbones, and nerves spun from some lightweight tungsten alloy. His tightly drawn face crinkles slightly around his eyes and mouth, the only sign of age. “May we join you?” asks the other green shadow, whose name is Lieutenant Lasio, according to his polished bars and machine-sewed name tag. Unlike Ponce, he’s got a round boyish face with playful eyes, straight dark hair, and a thick black mustache. “Sure,” I say, folding up the paper, my mind regretfully releasing the fading image of Detective Martha Consuela. Lasio sits, uses the paper as an icebreaker. “Lot going on these days, huh?” “I guess.” “You following the election campaign?” “I’m staying away from it,” I say. “How about you?” “It’s bad,” says Captain Ponce, his trademark clipped speech slicing the air like a razor. “Very bad for the country. If that socialist teacher Gatillo wins, all the foreign investors will pull out.”