It was a hot summer in Laredo. True, all summers in Laredo are hot, but that one in the mid-1960s seemed exceptionally so because I was there, working day and night, as a Special Agent for U.S. Customs. The smuggling of narcotics into the U.S. was rampant, and a handful of guys like me was devoted to making this business as unprofitable as possible.

This was a tough task because most dope smugglers worked out of the U.S., traveled to Mexico to "connect" for their contraband there, and then delivered it back across the river or had it delivered to a point in the States. The policy of the Mexican government was not to permit American investigators to operate inside their republic, making it very difficult for us to know what was happening in the narcotics trade there. If Mexican rules were occasionally stretched, such stretching was for a good cause.

Just at sundown one July evening, I parked my disguised government car behind the Lincoln Bar and Restaurant in the thriving border city of Nuevo Laredo, Mexico. I hadn't eaten or slept since the previous day and was thinking in terms of a double shot and a rare steak. I entered the Lincoln and went to my favorite corner table. It was situated where I could watch other crowded tables and especially the long standup bar.

I spotted Dobe Grant lifting a glass of tequila at the far end of the bar. I sent a waiter to fetch my old friend to my table just as my own drink was delivered. We shook hands as he sat down.

"Been lookin' for you out at Turkey Track, Skeet. You busy?

"So-so," I wearily told the old rancher. "Quite a bit has been happening."

"I sure hope you been catchin' some of those dope-sellin' bastards. When you gonna get caught up enough to come out for a visit?"

"Maybe soon, Dobe. We just finished a big case this evening. I'm going home for some rest as soon as I eat."

While we were talking, a slim and neatly dressed Mexican boy entered the restaurant, looked around, then walked by my table as he headed for the bar. As he passed, a tiny slip of paper was dropped on the tablecloth. Making certain no one but Dobe was watching, I retrieved it. The message was simple: "8:00."

Dobe said nothing. He had another tequila while I finished my steak. I paid the check, and we departed, heading for my car.

"Where's your truck, Dobe?" I asked.

"Here in the Lincoln parking lot."

Well, it'll be okay there. Leave it and come with me."

The wiry, hawk-faced old man silently accepted my invitation and took a seat in my two-toned, white-sidewalled Ford. As I fiddled with the keys, he tapped the shirt pocket where I'd put the note and asked, "Where we goin' to meet your friend?"

I laughed. "Down by the railroad bridge. He'll be there before we are. He's an old informant of mine and a hell of a reliable one. As far as you're concerned, his name is Chulo."

Fingering his white moustache, Dobe said, "As far as I'm concerned, he don't even exist."

We drove over a potholed dirt street to an open area near a railroad bridge which spanned the Rio Grande. There were no streetlights and no houses. Traffic was nil. I parked by an abandoned adobe building. Within minutes, Chulo entered the car.