He was a heavy-set man with a shaved head that disguised his receding hairline. He was wearing a plain white t-shirt and baggy, faded blue jeans. In the dim light of the hostel courtyard, he sat in a rocking chair with a modest pour of a young Flor de Caña rum on the coffee table in front of him, drawing on what Estelí, Nicaragua is best known for. The cigar in his...
