The house band was playing a rather dirgey tango as Tito walked into the hotel bar. A handful of couples were dancing, most of them American tourists gamefully attempting to tango rather than pulling it off, while most of the tables were occupied by local business men and their Friday night girls.
He made for the bar, cutting a swathe through the lazy clouds of cigarette smoke, feeling his heart quicken to the beat of the music, memories of dancing with Connie swirling around his mind, distracting him from his purpose.
He took a seat at the bar and nodded at the barman, who recognised him and moments later placed a mojito in front of him before gliding away to serve drinks for an impatient looking waitress. He stirred the drink lazily and waited; Sanderson was late, as ever.
He turned on the stool and placed his back against the bar, scanning the room for DIPA, sadly they were easy to spot. Satisfied that there were no faces he recognised, and no suspect new ones, he turned his attention back to his cocktail.