To have Newcombe compare his operation with Spanish Galleon Cay incensed Lomas more and more. "Own Whiskey Cay?" he continued. "I fly mules into Miami that own more than you."

"I own that island nonetheless."

"You don't own your airplane!" His head throbbed, and he raised his voice. "I know you, el Inglés. You drop your little packages on Whiskey Cay, a kilo on Masthead Point, another kilo near Prince George Town, a half a kilo on Spyglass Hill. Is peanuts. You own Whiskey Cay? Is bull!"

"I do, you know," said Newcombe mildly. "I've bought its senator here in Nassau, its island commissioner, its police, its BWI narcotics squad. Customs officer, local judge... all tied neatly like a package under the tree."

"Then why do you drop dope there?" Lomas said, scoffing. "Why do you not land it on the strip?"

"Bait." Hoagie shrugged. "Purely bait."

"Bait?"

"As one chums the water for sharks."

Lomas looked up quickly. Had Newcombe heard of the shark? If so, Lomas intended to prove his threat to the campesinos was real and cut out some coquero's tongue tomorrow.

His head ached. He sighed. He had let Newcombe's ten-peso operation go on too long. El Viejo would never have tolerated another narcotraficante for a month, and Newcombe had been dealing for a year. Alejandro was moving restlessly, doubtful of his boss's resolve. Lomas felt that he should draw the gun and kill el Inglés now, but he was curious.

"’Chum' the water? I do not understand."

"I make a drop, perhaps, at Masthead Point. At dusk, but it is seen. My narcs scream up in their bloody jeeps to impress the local citizenry: guns, searchlights, choppers. They search for half the night. If they find it before some jungle bunny does, then it is theirs. But in the meanwhile..."

"Yes?" Despite his impatience, Lomas was interested. "In the meanwhile, what?"

Newcombe ground out his cigarette. "No. I'm boring you."

"I will tell you when you're boring me!" Lomas took the gun from behind the picture, slapped it onto the desk in front of him, and glared at the Englishman. "Go ahead!"

Newcombe glanced at the weapon. He seemed hurt. "The gun is hardly necessary, you know. I thought that we were friends."

"Estúpido!" shouted Lomas. The man was insane! "Does a friend try to blast you on Kingston Street? Does he shoot your airplane down?"

"No," admitted Newcombe. "Precisely why I'm here."

"Ay! You will not be here long, señor. Now tell me 'in the meanwhile.' While the narcs are in the bush?"

Newcombe shrugged. "I rendezvous with Bolivian freighters, in speedboats. Or in fishing boats, offshore. While the narcs are busy at Masthead Point, I off-load coca paste at Spyglass Cove or Bowsprit Point. Next week, the other way around. Es muy simple, señor."

Why would anyone bother with paste when pure cocaine was lighter, easier to handle, and brought ten times the price on the street?