“No, Sylvester,” the redhead said. “Another time. They’ve got you chartered.” He started to leave, but the little Cuban grasped his arm firmly.

“Wait, Mike. Let them answer. They will want you, I know.”

The three men on the boat exchanged questioning glances, then Ed, the man who had spoken first, said in his hearty voice, “Sure, Sylvester. The more the merrier.”

“Gracias!” Sylvester’s round, perspiring face beamed. “You will not be sorry. Mike good fisherman… good drinker…”

“Well, there’s plenty of liquor,” Ed shouted.

Shayne still held back, reluctant to intrude on a private party, but Sylvester tugged at him, looking up into the lean, hard-jawed face with almost the pride of a mother. “Is all right, Mike. They want you. I want you. Everybody want you.” He lowered his voice. “They charter my boat for three weeks now-steady. They have such a good time on the Santa Clara. And wait till I show you what they done. My best friends-next to you, Mike.”

When he had pulled Shayne to the boat and watched him step across, he stooped, loosened the rope from the mooring post and tossed it aboard. “Mike, meet Ed and Vince and Slim Collins.”

Shayne shook hands all around. “This is mighty good of you.”

“Any friend of Sylvester’s is a friend of ours,” Ed said expansively. His chunky face was burned and peeling, as were his shoulders. The Miami sun was no kinder to his blond skin than it was to Henny Henlein’s, Shayne noted, and wondered why thoughts of the frightened mobster should intrude just then. Ed’s head was burned too. He was bald except for a circle of grayish-black fuzz around the back of his head which gave the impression of a misplaced angel’s halo.

Vince, the younger man in the loud Hawaiian shirt, put a highball glass into Shayne’s hand. He was swarthy-faced and thick-bodied, with hair as black as a Cuban’s and black restless eyes which never seemed to stop moving. Lifting his glass, he said, “Here’s bait in your box.” Shayne took a deep swallow, repressing a shudder as it went down. He looked over at the low, built-in table in the cockpit’s stern. On it was an ice bucket, a bottle of water and a bottle of rum, labeled Demerara.