After leaving the mall, Rico dropped in at El Shamrock to quench the thirst brought on by his chat with Martina. He stopped just short of matching his drink total of two days before.

"This is my last one, Jefe," Rico drained the remaining rum in his glass. "I need to make a reservation for lunch tomorrow."

"Who's the lucky lady?" Beto asked.

"She's older, of course."

The bartender chuckled. "Of course."

"And she works at a museum."

"Also not surprising."

Rico grinned. "I think I come here too much."

"Not at all," Beto shook his head dismissively. "Your presence and wallet are always welcomed in my humble establishment."

Sorry inertia, guess it's plata (cash) that makes this old world spin after all.

A smile brightened Rico's face as he slid off the stool. "And here I thought it was my engaging personality and occasionally interesting stories that made you like me."

"No, no," Beto wrinkled his brow. "Your personality and stories are good, te lo juro (I swear)," he held a hand over his heart. "But I can't pay the bills with them, no?"

"That's fair," Rico conceded.

He paid for his drink and added a generous tip. Before walking away, Ricardo had a question for the old barkeep:

"Do you still have your contacts on the inside, Jefe?" He asked in a sombre tone.

Just in case Tina fancies tempting me with conjugal visits.

"I don't think wearing silver bracelets would be your best look, Señor Torres. But for you, I can make a call or two."

Ricardo nodded. "Gracias."

"A la orden (at your service)."

* * *

Once back at the apartment, Rico opened the fridge and poured himself a glass of water from a plastic jug. He took a few sips from the cup while heading towards the couch. His beverage swapped places with the laptop on the side table. The screen lit up as soon as he lifted it. Within seconds, the typing on the keyboard came to an abrupt end. The website for El Campero loaded in the browser.

Damn. Everything's booked already. But Héctor can probably find me a table for two if I give him a ring right now.

Moments later, Ricardo had his compadre, Héctor, on the line. They shot the breeze for a few minutes—as one would expect—then the issue at hand was broached.

"I need to ask for a favour," Rico said.

"I'm listening."

"I need you to tell two of your customers—I'll leave the choice with you—"

"Thoughtful of you," Héctor interjected with a chuckle.

"It is your restaurant, after all," he smiled.

"True, true. So you need me to tell two of my loyal customers—who come around on a regular—to hit the road because an old compadre of mine who drops by now and then wants to have lunch at my place tomorrow. That sound about right?"

"Yes, that sounds like my order. Though, I'd say I drop by more than now and then. And, I would've blamed the issue on your website booking more seats than were available. Plus, you could just ask them to get their order to go. The weather's threatening to be nice tomorrow; perfect for lunch at the park."

Héctor laughed. "Alright, you cocky bastard, I'll get you a table."

"Muchas gracias."

"Don't mention it."

* * *

Rico admired the beauty of the illustrious Museo Botero as he strolled through the inner courtyard with a hand in his pocket.

Smooth, white columns supported rounded arches all around the enclosed space. Four cobbled paths converged to form a cross; an elegant, flowing fountain sat in the centre. At each corner of the courtyard stood trees casting shadows over neatly trimmed hedges of light green, which encircled burning-pink flowers. The air tasted of spring, and the sky above was a sea of blue with marbled bleach-white clouds.

I should have brought my sketchbook...

"Now, this is a pleasant surprise," said a voice behind Rico.

He turned around and returned the smile of the comely older woman with long, ebony hair. He walked over and kissed her hand and cheek.

"Señora Mónica," he said, "I'm pleasantly surprised to see you here today."

"At where else would I be, Señorito Torres?" she put her hands on her hips.

"Maybe it was just my imagination, but I could have sworn Doña Gloria told me you were out of town."

"Ah," Mónica rolled her eyes. "That old bat can't remember if the sky's up or down anymore."

Rico chuckled. "I was just lamenting failing to bring my sketchbook, given how much beauty surrounds me here," his dark eyes met her brown ones.

A rush of red flooded her face. "That is a shame; you'll just have to come back tomorrow."

"Perhaps," he stepped closer. "But I was thinking I'd make it up to you in another way."

"What did you have in mind?" she asked with bated breath.

"May I buy you lunch? There's a nice little place down the block."

"Oh. Lunch. Yes. Food would be wonderful—uh, give me a minute to freshen up—meet me out front?"

"Of course."

Mónica rushed off, leaving the sound of clicking heels echoing throughout the courtyard in her wake. Rico strode towards the front door, resisting a smirk threatening to make his triumph visible.

In the foyer, he paused at the bronze sculpture of a hand, which could have easily belonged to a giant reaching up through the tiled floor, desperate to escape his concrete tomb. Although he'd be at pains to explain why that piece never failed to capture Rico's imagination.

Today, it feels like Botero's hand itself inspired him to sculpt this... he wanted to convey that everything that hangs or stands in here is the work of that hand. That's why it's here—in the entrance—so everyone has to see it. But then again, if I return tomorrow, it will say something altogether different...how easy would it be to hide a corpse in there?

"Ready?" Mónica's voice pulled him out of his musing.

He smiled and offered her his arm. "Shall we?"

They walked outside and down the street, past the old colonial-inspired church with its ringing bells marking the hour. A few metres later, they entered a charming building with red clay tiles and a blanched exterior. As promised, Héctor delivered on reserving a table for his friend in the buzzing and bustling restaurant; he promptly seated them.

The floor was a patchwork of stones of every size and shape. Similarly, the tables looked freshly carved; the tops boasted a rough bark-like finish. Along the walls hung paintings of the everyday life of a rural Colombian village.

At the feature table, the conversation flowed as freely as the wine Rico ordered. Mónica, as usual, wanted to know everything about Ricardo's artistic endeavours. It didn't take long for the gallery and issue of the director to rear its frustrating head. Not even the Argentine vintage in his glass could cool the flames of the young man's contempt.

"If Pepe keeps giving you a hard time about your paintings, let me know; I'll talk some sense into him," Mónica smiled and sipped her wine.

"Pepe?" Rico raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, Porfirio and I go way back. I knew him when he was still figuring out how to balance paintbrushes on an easel."

"Noted."

Ricardo paused, measuring how best to make his confession. But before he could speak, the waitress returned their food and set it down in front of them. Mónica ordered the roasted and stuffed bell pepper on a bed of rice with a side of seasonal greens. Rico got the fried red snapper from San Andrés with plantains and an avocado salad. Both thanked the server before she left.

"This looks lovely," Mónica beamed. "A toast before we dig in?"

Rico raised his glass.

"To art and beauty."

"To art and beauty," he echoed before taking a sip.

Just as Mónica reached for her knife and fork, Rico spoke up.

"Señora Gómez," he began, "I must admit that my intentions today haven't exactly been pure."

"Are they ever?" she smirked.

Rico laughed. "Touché. Still, I must press you a bit."

"Press away."

"The sculpture you examined the other day—"

"How do you know about that?" she interjected; the colour drained from her face.

Ricardo exhaled. "For your sake, I'll let that detail remain a mystery." He looked her in the eye. "I only need you to answer a single question. Can you do that for me, Mónica?"

"I... think... I hope so."

"Is it real?"

"The... body?" she half-whispered.

"No. The sculpture. Is it an authentic Botero?"

"Oh," she sighed, sounding somewhat relieved. "Well, it certainly looks the part. But..." Mónica hesitated.

"But what?"

"But I'm not confident it's authentic. Botero always etches his initials somewhere on every sculpture he makes. That one lacked the etching."

"Are you sure?"

She nodded. "I am. Whoever made that sculpture should be commended; they're obviously talented. But my professional opinion is that it's nothing more than a knockoff. It would fool most, but I wouldn't be where I am today if I didn't know my way around Botero's work."

Rico grinned.

I knew it. Not even a killer could deface a masterpiece.

"What?" Mónica asked.

"It's nothing—it's just that I could kiss you right now."

"Not here," she winked.