"Sky diver," he said with a shrug. "Every time his macho needs a polishing, it's two hundred more in the boss's till." He nodded toward the gaming room. "Shall we see if you can make him pay for dinner, then? I'll teach you all the twenty-one I know."

He paid the bill in cash, and they wandered to the casino.

***

Rico Lomas spoke in the fast llanos Spanish that even Mexicans had trouble following. He sat at a table near the bar with el Conejo Grande and Alejandro, his boat driver.

Alejandro was a dark-eyed, ambitious, young campesino from San Juan de Gracia, hardly yet a man, who had killed three Leopards—Special Anti-narcotics Unit agents from the capital when they'd discovered his mother's little coca crop drying in the llanos sun.

Rico could see Newcombe and the woman at the twenty-one table, capably in the hands of Louisa, his fastest dealer. They were within earshot. It pleased him to be plotting Newcombe's death within hearing distance of the man; it would please his grandfather, el Viejo, too, if the old man knew.

He drew a map of Whiskey Cay on a napkin with a pen of solid gold. Carefully he sketched in the airstrip and a tiny, man-made, dredged indentation named Salt Hole, where the island traders had tied up on ancient days to take on salt.

"You will tie to the stone quay here," he said. "As he turns the plane thus, on his final leg, his eyes will be on the airstrip, for it is very small and tricky to get in. At full power, Alejandro, you will round the point... like this...."

He drew the traffic pattern that he knew Newcombe would fly. "He is not like some of our flying mules, he was a carrier pilot in the RAF, and his final approach will be very short." Casually he added, “I know this. I have flown with him and jumped from his little plane."

"Sí, señor," said Alejandro, eyes shining in admiration. "I remember. Ay!"

Rico shrugged modestly. El Conejo Grande said nothing. He was pulling at his white mustache, scowling at the napkin, apparently already overwhelmed by the complexity of the plan.

"Es difícil?" Rico exploded, exasperated. "It's too complicated for you, Conejo?"

"Of course not," el Conejo answered with a growl. His eyes flashed ominously. "Señor, I have told you before, my name is Carlos."

"Well, if you screw it up this time, your name is not Carlos but mud!"

The big man had no idea what he was talking about. Rico sighed and continued his briefing. He could hear his victims laughing while they lost their money to his dealer. This amused him.

When he was through, he dismissed el Conejo, to have a few words with Alejandro: a contingency plan, they called it in the military. Just in case el Conejo failed again....

***