By Neel Anil Panicker
Alfred smeared the sand off his eyes and looked upwards as the mid-summer July sun shone hard on his bald as an eagle plate.
Turning around, his groggy eyes swept past the sandy stretch, past the spartan rows of thatched dwellings, a lone leafless palm tree wedeged in between, beyond the solitary battered windowless vintage-era car that stood, its apology of a bonnet looking into the sea, its waves sprouting salty froth into the jagged rocks that fronted the mile long desolate beach.
It was then that he remembered where he was- San Jose’ el Huate, Chiapas, Mexico.
A slow smile creased his thick as a ‘Subway double decker chicken sandwich’ lip.
Not bad, he mused.
Not bad at all for a fifty-year-old master international swindler who’s just broken through the high security state prison at Sacramento, over a thouand miles away in distant California.
Al stood up and wiped the dirt off his legs; the earth, fifty feet under, housing his only wordly possession__a much used pure leather Samsonite bag that contained ten million American dollars.
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