“If a traffic cop costs twenty pesos,” I said to Dalzell when we were stopped, “how expensive is a captain of the customs police?”

     I thought Sanchez must know somebody like that if he was smuggling rifles off a ship.

     “Manny? Manny and I have an ongoing relationship. That gets a little more complicated, when you have favors going both ways.”

     “But everybody's got a price.”

     “With no exceptions.” He sounded enthusiastic. “Filipinos are great at establishing the exact value of goods and services. They do it every day of their lives.”

     “What would it cost to bring in some guns?”

     “Guns are touchy,” he said. “Like what? What are we talking about, a couple of pistols? Some freelancers do that—Filipinos, I mean. You can just about cover your air fare to the States with a nice pistol. The customs inspector finds that, though, it's worth a hundred to him.”

     “A hundred pesos.”

     “Dollars. I told you, guns are touchy.”

     “Say about sixty assault rifles.”

     “No way,” he said. He gave me a sidelong glance. “You trying to bring in some guns?”

     “It was hypothetical.”

     He watched the light.

     “That's some hypothesis.” I didn't say anything, and he said, “So why do you ask?”

     “Collins was over here trying to locate an individual. I don't know how much you were told.”

     “I knew that.”

     “I had an idea the individual might have brought in some guns.”

     The light changed, and we lurched out into the intersection.

     “Assault rifles,” he said. “And this guy is what, your average Filipino cheat-and-chisel artist?”

     “Looks like it.”