He'd sipped his coffee. "Whatever the hell is that?"

"You're laughing." Her lips were stubbornly set.

"No, I'm not." He studied her. Incredible. She was sharp enough to deal blackjack in a place that probably shot you if you lost, and she still believed in voodoo. "It just drives me bloody up the wall that you believe that crap."

"Whatever I did last night, it worked."

"So does St. Joseph's aspirin."

Her gold-flecked eyes turned ice-cold. "Tu es idiot."

"What?"

"You're supposed to be a genius"—she glared—"and you don't know..." She groped for the words. "You don't know squattley-doo!"

"Diddly-squat," he said with a sigh.

She sat for a while, thinking, her fine brow creased in lines. "Is Michael diving today?"

He nodded. "Every single day he dives. Until our funds run out."

"Does he have to?"

"Well, woman, do you have to deal blackjack at the Loma Bella Club?"

"Yes. But I think Mike is in danger from Papa Jacques."

"I think you're in danger from Rico Lomas."

She removed the tray she'd put on his chest and set it on the bedside table. He stared at her. It was time for both of them to leave for work.

Instead she crawled back in beside him.

"Jake?"

He could feel the warmth of her heating up his blood. God, he was going to be late....

Her voice was low and throaty and very clear. "Don't make him dive today."

"Hey, woman! What is this?"

"I have a bad feeling. He could get the bends. Or... what? Embolism? Papa Jacques est très fort, a very powerful man."

"Bullshit! And Mike won't stand for not diving. He likes to, and we have to tag the conch."

"But you're the boss now, aren't you?"

"Yeah, but—"

Suddenly she was nibbling at his ear, the bad one, her soft breath sending shivers from his toes to the tip of his hair. "Please, Jake? He will not dive?"

Oh, Christ... all right, he'd dive himself.

So he had dived, telling Mike that he wanted to see for himself how the tags were sticking to the shells. And now here he was at ten fathoms, and the ear was hurting bad.

He noticed suddenly that there was a direction to the march of the conch below. He glanced at his wrist compass. All the conch were moving south. He counted them: twelve. He made a note in grease pencil on the plastic writing pad strapped to his left forearm.

He was uncomfortable. He himself was moving north, against the current through Masthead Cut, so that he would have an easier swim returning to the barge. Suddenly, far in the distance, he saw a pale shape materializing through the crystal water, as if from some primal dream.

It was a great white shark.