Lomas had had enough. "You are going to get your brains blown out, señor." He slammed his palm on the desk. "One year ago I give you a chance to fly for me! You say, 'No, if I deal, I deal alone.’" He picked up the gun and got to his feet. "You said this to Rico Lomas, hombre! Well, you change your mind too late."

"No. I want to be your partner."

"Partner?" Lomas chortled. "Sure. Why not?"

"On Whiskey Cay and in this club. I'm bloody tired of losing, and I'd like to be the house."

"This club?" Rico laughed, shaking his head. The Englishman was crazy, after all. "Hombre, I am going to kill you and take Whiskey Cay!"

"I don't think so." The Englishman held up his hand. He counted on his fingers. "One, I've got a Bolivian freighter coming in tomorrow. I think you'd like to hijack it, but you don't know where or when."

Lomas checked the gun. He threw a cartridge into the magazine. "Oh, I think you will tell me where and when."

"Two, I've got a quarter of a metric ton of coca paste on Whiskey, and you don't know where it is."

"I will, señor, when I make your kneecaps paste."

"And three"—Newcombe smiled—"there's a letter with my solicitor here in Nassau. It's in Spanish, addressed to your grandfather. There's another to La Prensa in San Juan de Gracia. They'll be mailed if I don't phone back from Whiskey Cay by six o'clock tonight."

Lomas's heart began to pound. His eyes were throbbing now. "And what is in this letter to my grandfather?"

Newcombe walked to the one-way window and drew the curtain. He looked down at the club and then turned.

"A story. Quite a funny story, from the palm-tree telegraph."

Lomas had a premonition of great doom. "About what?"

"A race."

From the office speaker came the throb of the club's steel-drum band warming up for the day.

"Race, señor?" Suddenly Lomas wanted a shot of rum.

"Between a water-skier," murmured Newcombe, "and a shark."

Palm tree sway, pretty girl play,

Why I got to go away?

Lomas sighed. There was a time and a place for everything, el Viejo always said. Partners? Why not? For ten minutes or so. The crazy Englishman was as good as dead. He'd simply get him later.

Sun shine bright, money tight,

Gwine to miss that New York flight.

Newcombe was looking down at the bar. "We really should do something about those stupid bunny costumes, don't you think?"

Lomas told Alejandro to mix them drinks. He lifted his glass to Newcombe.

"Salute, partner. A quarter of a metric ton, you say?"

Chapter 11

Chapter 11