“That’s all right, Sylvester. Is the Santa Clara chartered?”

The little party-boat skipper nodded sadly.

Shayne dropped his big hand to Sylvester’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about it. I should have called. Another time, amigo.”

“But come to the boat a minute,” Sylvester pleaded. “Meet my friends-”

“Not now. You go ahead. Catch the tide.”

“Sylvester!” a hearty voice shouted from the deck. “What’s holding us up?”

A man, clad only in white trousers and a white fisherman’s hat, had appeared from within the cabin. He held a highball glass in one hand and a thick cigar in the other. Though his body ran to fat there was the suggestion of muscle underneath.

“Uno momento, please, Senor Ed,” Sylvester called back. “My old friend, Mike, is here.”

Se nor Ed was joined by another man carrying a highball. “So say hello to your friend and let’s get going,” he said proprietarily. He was younger than the first man and wore dark glasses and a lavishly colored Hawaiian sport shirt. He took a swallow of the highball. “Red snapper run on the tide, don’t they?”

In the middle of one of the world’s best game-fish areas, these men were going out hand-lining for meat fish! It seemed slightly ridiculous.

“Everything set, Vince?” a third voice called from within the awning-covered cockpit.

“Everything but Sylvester,” the man in the Hawaiian shirt said dryly. “He’s reviving an old friendship.”

“What the hell, Sylvester!” The third man poked his head into view, raising himself from one of the built-in benches along the rail. “Get the lead out! Cast off and let’s go!”

Sylvester looked across at them, tugging at the shapeless skipper’s cap which rode jauntily on the side of his head. “Se nores,” he pleaded, “you have been so good to me. One thing more I ask. My friend, Mike, he is old, good friend. Can he go too?”