She couldn't stand it. She liked him too much. As always, she was forthright. If something bothered her, she simply had to know.

"What do you really want to do, Hoagie? Buy an airplane? Build an airline?"

"I have an airplane. I have a perfectly good 1941 Stearman open-cockpit two-seater biplane sitting in Calypso's hangar on Whiskey Cay. She's called the Yellow Peril." He glanced at her. "She's stressed for aerobatics, and her rear seat is simply waiting for the proper ballast."

She grinned. "And the proper ballast is what? 38-28-38? With flaming red hair, or brunette?"

His lazy eyes slid sidewise. They crinkled beautifully when he smiled. He played with his cigarettes. "Your own measurements would do quite well. And your hair would be quite lovely, peeking from an old leather helmet, which I would supply. You'd look rather smashing in goggles."

She felt herself blushing. She gazed at her drink, swirling it. "And you'd do what to this poor girl? Loops, rolls... what is it? Immelmanns?"

"One could do that, I suppose. Or..."

"Or what?"

"One might take off and head south, quite straight and level. To Cat Island and Great Exuma, then Crooked Island, Great Inagua. Then across the Windward passage, avoiding Cuba like the plague."

She found herself hanging on his words. She saw white-sand beaches, emerald coves, palm trees heaving in the breeze.

His voice dropped. "And finally one might alight at Montego Bay, Jamaica, where I have a little cottage that looks down on the old harbor."

She sighed. "I suppose one might, if one had the freedom." She studied his face. "Hoagie, what do you really do?"

His warm eyes dropped. "I fly freight, sky divers, tourists—"

"I know, I've read your airplane." She took a deep breath. "But, Hoagie, do you fly dope?"

"Dopes," he said softly, watching someone approaching, "like this one here." He did not rise, but he smiled, and the smile came through badly. "Rico! Amigo mío. How have you been?"

A flashily dressed young man looked down on them. He was overscented with after-shave. He spoke with a Latin accent. "Wing Commander Newcombe! Lone Eagle of Whiskey Cay! I welcome you, amigo."

"You should, old chap," said Hoagie, "after last time."

"And the lady is?"

"A very dear friend, Rico."

To Ellen the name rang a bell. Carla had mentioned him. She dug the blue chip from her purse. "You gave this to my daughter-in-law last night. So we're back."

He grinned, and the grin was as frosty as her glass. "Don't let Señor Newcombe get it. His luck, except in women, is very, very bad."

Hoagie's eyes flashed, and he watched him as he crossed the room. "That man," he murmured softly, "is a blot on the human race."

"Why do you bother to speak to him?"