@page { margin-bottom: 5.000000pt; margin-top: 5.000000pt; } 6 By the time I finally wheeled the Jaguar through the sordid shanty-suburb on the outskirts of Tijuana, heading south on Mexican Route 2 for the slightly over one-hundred-kilometer trip to Ensenada, it was well past noon, and it was hot. I was tempted to take the toll road, which would have saved several miles and which had not been completed the last time I had been in Mexico. But I stuck to the old, winding highway bordering the ocean, as I wanted to once again familiarize myself with it. This was the road I would be using during the next weeks and months. The faint offshore breeze from the craggy range of hills failed to dissipate the torrid summer heat, and I drove with the top folded back despite the blistering sun. The" sound of the tires on the hot, asphalt pavement combined with the wind whistling by made conversation impossible, and this was the way I wanted it. I was thinking about Angel Cortillo.
