Douglas came up out of the cabin now, alone, working on a wry, questioning smile, a look of pained amusement. “Well—Mr. Hook. What can I do for you?”

Hook pretended to be pleasantly bewildered. “Oh, didn’t Bo tell you? He invited me to come along with you today.”

“Yeah, I heard that, all right. But I also heard that Rich Ferguson canceled the invitation. And he seemed to think you understood. That you agreed.”

“Well I guess I got to thinking about it later and it didn’t seem like the right thing to do—I mean, just to ignore Parnelli that way. So here I am.”

“So here you are.”

Hook glanced down at his raincoat, which he was wearing over slacks, a white shirt and a sweater. “Not exactly the right outfit, I guess. But it’s the best I could do.”

“The problem isn’t your attire.”

“Oh? What is the problem, then?”

Douglas was still trying to look amused. “Well, let’s just say it’s a social thing, Mr. Hook. And I don’t think you’d fit in too well.”

“Maybe Bo forgot to tell you. I checked with him and Ferguson about your card game that night. They back you up, and I believe them. So I don’t see there’s any problem between us anymore.”

It was like going through a ritual. Hook was lying and they both knew he was lying, yet somehow just the words themselves, their mystic power, counted as truth. To deny them, Douglas in a sense would be denying the credibility of his own words, his own alibi.

“Miss Madera’s also aboard,” he said.

Hook smiled. “There are two of you to protect her.”

Douglas said nothing for a time. Then finally he nodded, gave Hook an ironic “Welcome aboard,” and went back inside.

Hook climbed aboard and followed him down the few steps into the cabin, which contained the galley and table and a pair of built-in settees that looked as if they folded out into double bunks. All the appointments were brushed aluminum and teak, highly lacquered, warm, beautiful. Liz Madera, in her uniform of black sweatshirt and chinos, was standing at the galley range, watching over frypans of bacon and eggs. Hook said good morning to her but she barely glanced at him. Beyond her, through the hatch leading to the front cabin, which was shaped to the bow of the boat, Parnelli was crouched over a spear gun, working on it with a screwdriver. By his look of black Sicilian resentment Hook got the feeling he had caused the man to be chewed out by his employer, who had slid back into the booth table now, behind a steaming cup of coffee.

“Come on,” he said. “Sit down. You’re just in time for breakfast.”

Hook sat across from him. “Just coffee’ll be fine. I’ve already eaten.”

“Hear that, Liz? Just coffee for our guest.”

“Ever been out on the ocean before?” Douglas asked.

“On a Navy destroyer. Never a boat like this, though.”