We find Don Fidel’s casa on the north edge of the colonial district. The house takes up half the block, a martial-looking structure of imposing mud brick walls and slit windows. Next to me Nick is explaining that it was probably built in the mid-1700s, when Indian attacks were commonplace in this region. At the gated front door, he clangs a massive silver knocker shaped like a coat of arms, rolling his icy blue eyes. Apparently families in Mexico are always falsifying their ancestry, faking connections to the conquistadores and titles granted by the Spanish throne, but to me it looks like this family might be old enough to have a genuine claim.

The heavy wooden door opens just enough for a single almond eye to peek out. Nick fumbles the letter from the mayor out of his backpack and slides it through the crack. There’s a pause, then the door creaks wider in welcome and we’re facing a teenage maid — identifiable because she’s dressed in one of those outfits with the lacy apron and hat and everything, just like the maids in the telenovelas I watched back in Tijuana. He grins and launches into his “rico suave act” as he calls it, flirting in a blur of Spanish, making her giggle as she leads us into the house.

Through a short arched hallway is a courtyard swimming in greenery and blossoms, like a private indoor arboretum. We press through walls of palm fronds. Orchids dangle from suspended planters and brush our faces. Water is trickling in a fountain somewhere. Eventually I realize that small kids are spying on us, hiding in all the bushes and flowers.

At the far end of the courtyard a stooped figure emerges from the shadows of a balcony overhang. I almost burst out laughing — it’s the Mexican Yoda! The wrinkly little man is about half our height, with dark skin made even darker by innumerable liver spots. He’s still wearing his pajamas, covered by a silk robe. Beneath the wattles of his neck is a…omigod, it’s a cravat! I’ve never met anyone wearing a cravat before.

The maid presents the letter to him. He scans it theatrically, turning his wispy-fringed head as if the page contains entire sentences instead of a single word. Then he hands the letter back abruptly, exclaiming in English, “The gringos! Good to meet you! I’m Don Fidel!” He shakes hands with enough strength and enthusiasm to make Nick wince. The old man turns to me for an air-kiss on both cheeks, requiring me to bend over as if I’m touching my toes. “I’ve gotten several phone calls, you know. Friends reporting that we had gringos in town. Gringos!”

For the first time since I’ve known Nick, he looks as if he doesn’t know what to say next. He stares down at the comical oldster, mouth hanging open a little. Finally he says, “It’s an honor to make your acquaintance, senor.”

“Of course it is,” Don Fidel laughs, trying to slap Nick on the back but barely reaching his butt. “Hey everybody! Come meet the Americans!”

We’re introduced to a dizzying array of relatives, none of whose names I remember five minutes later. His sons, his daughters, and their spouses. A wave of granddaughters curtsy, one after another. His grandsons demonstrate their fledgling English. A few teenagers stop long enough to say hi and slink off to more interesting things, the way teenagers everywhere do.

After his family melts back into the courtyard jungle, Don Fidel ushers us into a dark but comfortable study. Or it would be comfortable, if not for the eerie portraits of previous family patriarchs staring down at us. He digs out an unlabeled bottle and two glasses from a massive teak bar. “I get this from a farmer out in Batomilas,” he announces, pouring a finger of opaque liquid into each glass and handing one to Nick. “Let’s put some hair on our balls!”

They clink classes and down the shots. Nick almost chokes. “Mescal,” he gasps to me.

The old man cackles uproariously. “Good and strong, no? Not like tequila!” Then he pours a glass of Spanish-dark wine for me. “Here, senorita. A fine wine for a fine woman, I always say!”

“How about a beer chaser?” Nick suggests weakly. He’s even paler than usual. I wonder if the mescal is going to stay where he put it.

“Beer? Piss is more like it! Have another shot!” Don Fidel pours more foul liquid into his shotglass. When Nick declines, he grins like a fiend.

“So the acting mayor suggested that we see you — ” Nick starts to say, trying to get the conversation back on track.

The old man cuts him off with a liver-spotted hand. “I know why you’re here, my friends. You want an introduction to Senor Reyes. He founded that maquiladora in Tijuana. Some 30, 35 years ago, if I remember correctly.” He considers his shotglass for a moment, then pours it down his throat. “As it turns out, Senor Reyes is…how do you say? Indispuesto.”

“Indisposed,” Nick translates. “But indisposed — how?”

“He’s in prison awaiting trial. Down the coast in Culiacan.” His eyes turn shifty. “Because of some, uh, tax matters.”

There’s more to the story, obviously. A lot more. But Nick doesn’t pursue it. Instead he wanders over to a massive bookshelf made of old rough-hewn oak and begins running a fingertip down the spines. “I’m told the tax records for the maquiladora were impounded in the municipal jail. Can I get access to them?”

“Not here you can’t. They were moved to Aldama because of a change in venue.”

“Aldama?” Nick is turning more white than usual. “Leon de las Aldama, in Guanajuato state?”

Don Fidel nods. “Last I heard they were being stored in Aldama’s jail.”

“You’re acting like this is bad news,” I say to Nick.

“It is bad news. Aldama is a couple days southeast of here, up on the altiplano. It’s a real shithole because of all the coal mining.”

“You’ve obviously visited Aldama before, my young friend.” Chuckling, Don Fidel turns to me. “Aldama has none of the charms of Chirbampo. Hopefully you won’t be staying there for very long.”

I’m imagining myself in a polluted town, the coal soot blocking out the sun and invading my hotel room, turning documents gray as I feed them into the digital scanner. I blink at Nick in confusion. “Are we leaving right away?”

“Nah. I still need to interview Senor Reyes and do a bunch of fieldwork stuff here.” He’s looking at a framed Mexican flag with PARTIDO REVOLUCIONARIO INSTITUCIONAL underneath the emblem of an eagle, perched on a prickly pear tree, devouring a serpent. The PRI is the political party that dominated Mexico for 70 years before the recent advent of real democracy. “I take it you’re PRI, huh?”

“Yes,” Don Fidel mutters. “A lifelong party member.”

I know I’m supposed to keep my mouth shut during political conversations, but I can’t resist observing, “You don’t sound too happy about it.”

He begins pacing the wooden floor, his slippers shuffling along. “I’m old enough to remember when people still starved to death, when only a few children went to school. Thanks to the PRI, we can feed ourselves and our children get free educations — my grandchildren are even learning English in their school! But…” He stops pacing to wring his liver-spotted hands, frowning deeply. “The corruption worries me. It’s not like it used to be. Little bribes for this and that. Now it’s big bribes. Times have changed.”

“Are you referring to the narcotraficantes?” Nick asks from a dark corner. “Buying political influence, police protection, that kind of thing?”

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” The old man starts pacing again, several shuffles toward the teak bar, several shuffles back. “But drugs, they are an evil, no?”

I sip from my wineglass, studying Nick over its rim. His gaze reminds me of a can opener, and Don Fidel is the can. Suddenly he changes directions — just like he would in the truck, when he sees a gap in the traffic — and launches into an explanation of his research. The reason why he’s studying the Korea Textile maquiladora in the first place. All the interviews he did with ex-workers, or just locals who lived near the factory. Tracing the backward linkages to Chirbampo and Senor Reyes, the maquiladora founder, as well as the families whose relatives went to Tijuana to work there. Would Don Fidel be kind enough to arrange an introduction to Senor Reyes, if only in the name of scholarship?

The diminutive figure swells up like he’s going to burst, then emits a very deep sigh. “Very well, my gringo friends. But only after the election next week.”

“The mayoral election?” Nick asks, trying to mask his disappointment. I know he wants an immediate introduction. He was born in a hurry.

“Yes, the mayoral election. Next week.” Don Fidel is noticing Nick’s impatience too. His leathery face creases into a grin, then outright laughter. “In the meantime, enjoy all Chirbampo has to offer the tourist!” He jabs a crooked finger at me — not us or even Nick, just me — and winks playfully.

Chirbampo doesn’t have much to offer the tourist, of course. We’ve already strolled this pueblo from one canyon wall to the other. There isn’t anything worth seeing twice except for the ancient history — the town plaza and its gothic cathedral, rusting derricks and mining machinery, the graveyard with headstones dating back to the 1600s. Don Fidel is probably winking at me because his thoughts mirror my own. Between now and the mayoral election I’m going to spend a LOT of time in bed with Nick, because what else is there to do around here?