“We’re looking for some sailors,” he said, speaking to me in Spanish. “They stole a boat from the harbor at Caimanera. A boat like this one.”

I threw my hands up and shook my head. “There are no American sailors on this boat.”

“Mind if we come aboard and take a look for ourselves?”

Minding very much, I told the American officer I didn’t mind at all. There seemed to be little point in arguing. A sailor manning a fifty-caliber machine gun on the foredeck of the American boat had the best way of winning an argument I could think of. So I threw them a line, put out some fenders, and let them tie up alongside La Guajaba. The officer came aboard with one of his NCOs. There wasn’t much you could say about either of them except that their shoes were black and they looked the way all men look when you take away most of their hair and their capacity for independent action. They were carrying sidearms, a couple of flashlights, and a vague smell of mint and tobacco, as if they’d just disposed of their gum and their cigarettes.

“Anyone else on board?”

“I have a lady friend in the forward cabin,” I said. “She’s asleep. On her own. The last American sailor we saw was Popeye.”

The officer smiled a wry smile and bounced a little on the balls of his feet. “Mind if we take a look for ourselves?”

“I don’t mind at all. But just let me see if my lady friend is dressed to receive visitors.”

He nodded, and I went forward and below. The damp-smelling cabin had a closet, a little cabinet, and a double berth containing Melba with a blanket drawn up to her neck. Underneath she was still wearing the bikini, and I promised myself to drop anchor when the Amis were gone and help her take it off. There’s nothing like sea air to give you an appetite.

“What’s going on?” she asked fearfully. “What do they want?”

“Some American sailors stole a boat from Caimanera,” I explained. “They’re looking for them. I don’t think there’s anything really to worry about.”

She rolled her eyes. “Caimanera. Yes, I can imagine what they were doing there, the pigs. Just about every hotel in Caimanera is a brothel. The casas even have patriotic American names, like the Roosevelt Hotel. The bastards.”