Old Billy Joe Jenkins thought it was time to retire. He'd been a merchant seaman for forty-six years and his retirement, added to his social security check, would afford him a decent monthly income. Enough for a man to live on, anyway. A shipmate once had mentioned Mexico as a likely retirement area so Billy Joe decided to check it out.

It was raining and cold that January day when he took a cab to the airport. He thought of the many times he'd weathered those storms at sea. How, when he was Chief Cook on the "S. S. Molly Lykes," he'd had to serve cold cuts because the pitch and roll of the ship would not allow him to cook a proper meal. He smiled to himself. That was all now behind him. Not that he was lazy, far from it; but Billy Joe wanted to do something different. Thought it might be fun to prepare a meal on solid ground where he didn't have to worry about his pots and pans sliding off the stove.

The trip south was pleasant. Only a few hours in the air, the plane began its decent. At the airport in Guadalajara, Billy Joe felt the warm sunshine on his back. He looked up into a cloudless sky and heard the birds chirping in the distance. He feIt a wave of sympathy for those poor souls back in Houston, having to tolerate a driving wind, a relentless downpour and thirty-four degree temperature. This, he thought, must truly be paradise.

He took a cab from the airport to Chapala where he'd heard there was a large colony of retired Americans. After checking into the Hotel Nido, he decided to familiarize himself with his new surroundings.

He wandered through the cobblestone streets observing the natives at work, the children selling trinkets on the sidewalks, and he marveled at the flowers and lush tropical greenery that seemed to grow from every nook and cranny. After an hour or so of walking he began to tire and was heading back to the hotel when he spied a crudely fashioned sign that read "Miguel's Texas Style Cafe." To a native born Texan like Billy Joe, the sign meant chicken fried steaks or barbecued brisket.

As he entered through the door beneath the sign he observed a neatly arranged, though small, restaurant: a counter with eight stools, three booths on the opposite wall and four tables in between. A youngish, rather swarthy man stood behind the counter. Billy Joe chose a stool at the counter and sat down.

"What can I do for you?" the counterman asked. Billy Joe smiled gratefully, "You speak English!" "Yeah, I lived in El Paso most of my life." "Are you Miguel?" "Ain't that what the sign says outside?" "Sorry. Thought you might be one of the hired help."

"Place like this can't afford no hired help." He punched the "no sale" key on the cash register and the drawer sprang open. "Look at this," he said, "can't be more than twenty pesos in here. No self-respecting crook would even think of robbing this place. Now what can I get for you?" Billy Joe ordered a ham sandwich and a cup of coffee. He watched, with interest, while Miguel clumsily assembled the sandwich and placed it on the counter. Miguel then put an empty mug on the counter and nervously filled it with coffee, spilling a little over the side of the mug.

Billy Joe took a bite out of the sandwich and looked about at the restaurant. "Nice place you have here." "You like it? It's for sale - cheap." "How cheap?" "Make an offer." Amused, Billy Joe said, "Look, I didn't mean I wanted to buy it. I just wondered what it would take to buy a place like this here in Mexico." "There's enough stock to last for two or three days. The rent's paid up to the first of the month. I'm sick of this place and this business. I want to go back to the States. If you were to hand me five hundred American dollars, I'd walk out of here and never come back." "Are you serious? You'd just walk away from it for five hundred?" "You're damn right I'm serious. Ah I want is plane fare back to the States and a few dollars over to play on." "What about the pape hed under the counter and brought out a three-ring notebook. He opened it to a clean sheet and began to write: I Miguel Lopez Gonzales am selling the business know as Miguel's Texas Style Cafe to..."What's your name?" "Billy Joe Jenkins."

"...To Billy Joe Jenkins for the sum of five hundred dollars American." He affixed his signature to the bottom, scooped up the money and said, "Goodbye, my friend - and good luck." With Miguel gone, Billy Joe put on an apron, then placed his hands on his hips, and surveyed his new domain. "Just what I always wanted," he said. "A place of my own. It's unbelievable."

At that moment a man walked through the door. Billy Joe's mouth curled up in a wide grin. "You're my first customer, sir. I just bought this place. Whatever you want is on the house!" "I usually come in about this time every day for one of Miguel"s fresh fruit salads."

Billy Joe stroked his chin. "Fresh fruit...now where would he keep his fresh fruit?" "He usually keeps that stuff in the walk-in cooler," the customer said.

Billy Joe walked down the length of the counter to the back of the store and opened the cooler door. A puff of fog emerged from inside the cooler, temporarily impairing his vision. When the fog cleared he could make out a figure of a man in the back of the cooler, bound hand and foot, a strip of duct tape over his mouth.

Surprised, confused and not a little perturbed, Billy Joe rushed to the man and ripped the duct tape from his mouth. "Who the hell are you?" he shouted.

The Mexican looked up and said: "Senor, I am Miguel. I own this place!"