Breaking the Line

“All the more reason to go soon, before it gets hectic,” Scott said.

“Maybe.  But we had a break-in just last week.  Lost a computer and the petty cash.”  I wasn't giving up my martyrdom without a fight.

“And what do you think your staying around will accomplish? You won't even buy a gun for protection.”  Scott refilled our glasses from the pitcher.

“I'll leave that to the police.  I'm not going to get paranoid about it.  Besides what good will a gun do?  I don't intend to sleep in the office.”

“Insurance isn't paranoia, it's prudence.”  He shook his head resignedly then brightened.  “But, if you're not going to sleep in the office then there's really no point in you staying nearby, is there?  Come to Mexico with me.”

So I left my landscaping business in the admittedly competent hands of my staff and caught a flight south with Scott.

Cabo San Lucas.  Land of sun, cerveza, and souvenirs; cruise ships and tourists.  These, at least, were my blurry first impressions.  Bloody Marys on the plane were followed by a chummy shuttle van ride to our hotel.  The driver stopped not only at a half-dozen resorts and time shares en route to our lodgings, but also at two cervecerias.  So the warm blue sea, towering cruise ships, and tourists in t-shirts and flip-flops between airport and hotel check in proved more sketchy impressions than engraved memories.

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