They were getting into the Gulf Stream now with little whirlpools showing everywhere and yellow gulfweed floating in patches. There were bursts of flying-fish in the air, with boilings in the water as a bigger fish pursued them.

“You want to try for a barracuda, Mike?” Sylvester called. “I’ll put the mullet strips on for you.”

“I’ll take the wheel, Sylvester,” Vince offered.

Vince set down his drink and walked over. Shayne looked back. Through the screen which covered the wheelhouse window he could see Vince in his flamboyant shirt bent over the compass and some charts, his hand resting with easy familiarity on the wheel. For a motel mogul from landlocked Arizona, this man seemed inordinately good on a boat. He seemed inordinately sober too, despite all the high-voltage rum being passed around.

In contrast to his steadiness, Sylvester lurched from the cabin, weaving unsteadily and grinning foolishly. He made his way precariously to the bait box aft, took out the prepared mullet strips, baited three hooks and gave them to Shayne. The redhead let them troll back in the boat’s wake.

“Use the fishing chair if you want,” Ed drawled. “We’re too lazy to do any fishing that takes energy. Better strap yourself in against the big ones.”

Shayne shook his head. “With light six-thread I’m not looking for anything big enough to pull me overboard.”

“We aren’t looking for anything, period. After a while, if we anchor, we might put out some hand lines-and hope the fish won’t latch onto ’em.” He laughed. “Mostly we just like to get out here and drink on the water.”

This was about as screwy a fishing party as Shayne had ever chummed up with.