As the brassy sun signals noon each day. Central America is a place that O. Henry would still recognize. A fly-buzz quiet settles over the cobblestone streets of Tegucigalpa. Honduras; the weary bell of the city's crumbling, weather-stained cathedral gives out a few clunks, and toothless crones in black shawls shuffle inside. In Managua, Nicaragua, scrawny men, their shirttails out, flop gratefully in shady places in the plazas. In El Salvador, leaving some ornate mansion, a member of one of the 14 families that run the country glides by limousine to his club for an afternoon of bridge high...

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