He felt naked and defenseless. Thanks to his own efforts, Rico Lomas was on the island somewhere for the first time, using the festival crowds as cover from possible informants from the U.S. Drug Enforcement Agency. Hoagie assumed that Alejandro was here, too, and God knew how many other traficante thugs. A very dicey business but drawing to the end.

"Señor?" The voice startled him. He was unarmed, certain that he would be frisked by someone before Lomas showed up.

He swung around. Alejandro was staring at him coldly. "Buenos dias," offered Hoagie. "Y Señor Lomas. Dónde está su patrón?"

"No! We speak English," muttered the coquero. "That Spanish of Castile, it is for womans. Make me sick."

"As you wish, old chap."

"Good. Where is your factory?"

Hoagie smiled. "Where's Lomas?"

Alejandro shrugged. "He does not come."

He was lying. Lomas would never trust a goon like Alejandro to evaluate a site. Somewhere, in the crowds on the street, or in some Cigarette boat offshore, the boss was waiting for a signal from his hooligan to move.

But he had better play it straight. "I have a quarter of a ton of paste in there. I shan't deal with gorillas. Deal is off."

"Okay. Is off." Alejandro smiled broadly. "He says, 'If he does not show you where it is, you kill him.' For me, es mejor: better. He say, 'One English traficante in Bahamas is too much.""

Hoagie raised his eyebrows. "Did he mention a couple of letters—cartas—at my lawyer's? About a shark that panicked him at Spanish Galleon Cay?"

Alejandro nodded slowly. "He says, 'Tell him if his lawyer send a letter to el Viejo, you will find him and kill the lawyer.’" His grin grew wider. "’Also you will kill Newcombe's friend, Ellen Brody, and the child. Also, you must kill Brody and his wife the artist, sí? Also, if they have a cat or dog or parakeet, then you will kill them too.’" He lit a cigarette. "Comprendes?"

"And you'd love all that?"

Alejandro shrugged. "Is my job.”

"Some bloody job."

Alejandro's eyes were suddenly blazing. "I tell you about ‘jobs', el Inglés. Last year I am nineteen years old. I am a 'treader' on the llanos. You know what 'treader' is?"

"No," said Hoagie. "No, I don't."

All at once the coquero was speaking in Spanish, angrily and swiftly, so that Hoagie could hardly follow him.

"Without 'treaders', el Inglés, you have no dope. El Patrón pays off the comandante of the Leopard anti-drug squad in town. A pit is dug. In the pit is plastic lining. They put in there a hundred pounds of coca leaves. It costs, how much, those leaves, from the campesinos what grow them?"

Alejandro was testing him. "Fifty dollars"— Hoagie shrugged—"more or less. On the llanos."