“You're mistaken,” Pedralez said coldly. He snapped his fingers. The men lounging at the surrounding tables came to alert. “Who are you?”

“I represent an organization far bigger than yours.”

“You're a policeman? FBI?”

“No. I'm with the National Underwater and Marine Agency. I'm an ocean scientist, and I'm investigating an explosion near your plant. In return for information I'd like to make these pistols a gift.”

The avuncular smile had vanished, and Enrico's lips were curled in a humorless and ferocious grin. “Do you take me for a fool? I own this restaurant. These men, the waiters, the cook, they all work for me. You could disappear without a trace. They would swear you were never here. What do I care for your pistolas?” he said with contempt. “I have dozens more.”

Austin kept his gaze leveled on Enrico's face. “Tell me, Mr. Pedralez, as a fellow collector, what is your fascination with these old weapons?”

The Mexican seemed amused at the question. The heat went out of the fierce glitter in his eyes, but the temperature went down only a few degrees.

“They represent power and the means of power. Yet at the same time they are as beautiful as a woman's body.”

“Well said.”

“And you?”

“Aside from their fine workmanship, they remind me that lives and fate can be altered by chance. A trigger squeezed prematurely. A gun raised too quickly. A single shot missing a vital organ by an inch or two. They represent the luck of the draw in its most lethal terms.”

The Mexican seemed intrigued by the answer. “You must consider yourself very lucky to place yourself in my hands, Mr. Austin.”

“Not at all. I took the chance that you would be willing to chat.”

“You made your gamble. I applaud your audacity. Unfortunately this is not your day. You lose,” he said coldly. “I don't care who you are or who you represent. You have drawn the death card.” He snapped his fingers again, and the men rose from the tables and began to move in. Austin felt like a fox outfoxed by the hunters.

With an ear-splitting roar of its unmuffled exhaust system, the battered yellow cab squealed to a stop in front of the restaurant. The car, an ancient Checker, was still bouncing on worn shock absorbers when the cab driver got out. Except for the soiled seer sucker sports jacket over a Hussong's T-shirt, the driver behind the reflecting silver lenses looked suspiciously like Joe Zavala.

Joe stood on the sidewalk and called out in heavily accented English. “Anybody here call a cab?”

One of Enrico's men went over and growled at Joe in Spanish.

“I'm looking for an American,” Zavala said in English at the top of his voice, looking past the thug's shoulder. “Sergeant Alvin York.”

The man put his palm on Zavala's chest to emphasize his point.

“Okay, okay! Damned gringos.” He stalked back to his cab and lurched off, trailing a purple cloud of exhaust fumes.