about this. Who wants to have anything to do with bombs? Don't you see . . .'
Manuel interrupted him. 'Then go, my friend. Go out onto the harbor and get picked up by the cops. You either work with me, do what I say or you are at liberty to go.'
Fuentes sat still for a long moment. He realized he had no alternative but to accept Manuel's conditions.
'Then I work with you,' he said finally.
Manuel leaned forward and slapped Fuentes on his shoulder. 'Well said. We drink to it.' His cold little eyes stared fixedly at Fuentes, 'And remember, my friend, when I drink with a man who tells me he will work with me, it is a binding contract. Is that understood?'
The two men stared at each other, then Fuentes forced a smile. 'It is understood,' he said.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
With the aid of six detectives borrowed from the Miami police force, the eight detectives of Paradise City were combing Seacomb, searching for Fuentes. They also carried a photograph of Pedro, taken as he lay unconscious in the hospital bed. No one knew him. No one had ever seen him, nor had they seen Fuentes, nor knew him.
Manuel Torres' word had gone out. The Cuban workers followed Manuel's instructions. One day, he told them, they too could be in cop trouble. The wall of silence was frustrating to the hot, tired detectives visiting each walk-up, knocking on doors, showing photographs and asking, 'Have you seen these men?'
Lepski, with Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby, was working the waterfront. The hot lead to Fuentes' whereabouts was that his gun permit had been vouched for by Lu Salinsbury, a rich yacht owner who had asked for a permit so Fuentes could guard Salinsbury's big, opulent yacht. Salinsbury had left for the Bahamas, but records showed Fuentes hadn't turned in the gun. Lepski decided some of the night watchmen, guarding the other yachts, might know where Fuentes could be found.
As the two detectives walked along the waterfront, Lepski chewed on a dry cheeseburger and was grumbling. The time was 22.30, and he kept thinking of the chicken dinner he had left on Harry Atkins' bar the previous evening, when the shooting began.
'Chicken in white wine sauce and mushrooms!' he moaned as he chewed. 'Imagine!'
'Harry will keep it in the freezer for you,' Jacoby said comfortingly. 'If there's enough for three invite me to dinner.'
Lepski snorted. 'You think too much about food, Max.'
'It's not a bad occupation. How about those two?'
The two detectives slowed their pace. Two men sat on a bench, drinking beer from cans. They both wore revolvers on their hips and were obviously hired guards, guarding two big yachts moored side by side.
Lepski introduced himself, flashing his shield. One of them, elderly and bulky, squinted at the photograph of Fuentes, then handed it to his younger companion.
'Sure, that's Fuentes,' the younger one said. 'He used to work for Mr. Salinsbury. That's right, isn't it, Jack?'
'Yeah. A Cuban.' The bulky man looked up at Lepski. 'Is he in trouble?'
'He could give us information,' Lepski said. 'Any idea where we can find him?'
'He doesn't work around here any more. Haven't seen him in weeks.'
The younger man said, 'You talk to Manuel Torres. He and Fuentes are buddies. Torres owns a fishing vessel at the far end of the harbor. Berth three. If anyone knows where Fuentes is, he will.'
'Manuel Torres?' Lepski asked. 'Who's he?'
'Just another goddam Cuban. I've no time for Cubans, but Torres seems important. He owns his vessel and runs a junk stall in the market.'
'Important?' Lepski probed.
'To Cubans. He has lots of friends who visit his vessel.'
The younger man shrugged. 'For a Cuban, I guess he's important.'
Lepski thanked the two guards, then moved along the waterfront with Jacoby at his side. 'We'll take a look at Torres,' Lepski said.
It was a long trudge, past the moored luxury yachts to the basin where the fishing vessels were moored. Both men were sweating in the humid
Manuel interrupted him. 'Then go, my friend. Go out onto the harbor and get picked up by the cops. You either work with me, do what I say or you are at liberty to go.'
Fuentes sat still for a long moment. He realized he had no alternative but to accept Manuel's conditions.
'Then I work with you,' he said finally.
Manuel leaned forward and slapped Fuentes on his shoulder. 'Well said. We drink to it.' His cold little eyes stared fixedly at Fuentes, 'And remember, my friend, when I drink with a man who tells me he will work with me, it is a binding contract. Is that understood?'
The two men stared at each other, then Fuentes forced a smile. 'It is understood,' he said.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
With the aid of six detectives borrowed from the Miami police force, the eight detectives of Paradise City were combing Seacomb, searching for Fuentes. They also carried a photograph of Pedro, taken as he lay unconscious in the hospital bed. No one knew him. No one had ever seen him, nor had they seen Fuentes, nor knew him.
Manuel Torres' word had gone out. The Cuban workers followed Manuel's instructions. One day, he told them, they too could be in cop trouble. The wall of silence was frustrating to the hot, tired detectives visiting each walk-up, knocking on doors, showing photographs and asking, 'Have you seen these men?'
Lepski, with Detective 2nd Grade Max Jacoby, was working the waterfront. The hot lead to Fuentes' whereabouts was that his gun permit had been vouched for by Lu Salinsbury, a rich yacht owner who had asked for a permit so Fuentes could guard Salinsbury's big, opulent yacht. Salinsbury had left for the Bahamas, but records showed Fuentes hadn't turned in the gun. Lepski decided some of the night watchmen, guarding the other yachts, might know where Fuentes could be found.
As the two detectives walked along the waterfront, Lepski chewed on a dry cheeseburger and was grumbling. The time was 22.30, and he kept thinking of the chicken dinner he had left on Harry Atkins' bar the previous evening, when the shooting began.
'Chicken in white wine sauce and mushrooms!' he moaned as he chewed. 'Imagine!'
'Harry will keep it in the freezer for you,' Jacoby said comfortingly. 'If there's enough for three invite me to dinner.'
Lepski snorted. 'You think too much about food, Max.'
'It's not a bad occupation. How about those two?'
The two detectives slowed their pace. Two men sat on a bench, drinking beer from cans. They both wore revolvers on their hips and were obviously hired guards, guarding two big yachts moored side by side.
Lepski introduced himself, flashing his shield. One of them, elderly and bulky, squinted at the photograph of Fuentes, then handed it to his younger companion.
'Sure, that's Fuentes,' the younger one said. 'He used to work for Mr. Salinsbury. That's right, isn't it, Jack?'
'Yeah. A Cuban.' The bulky man looked up at Lepski. 'Is he in trouble?'
'He could give us information,' Lepski said. 'Any idea where we can find him?'
'He doesn't work around here any more. Haven't seen him in weeks.'
The younger man said, 'You talk to Manuel Torres. He and Fuentes are buddies. Torres owns a fishing vessel at the far end of the harbor. Berth three. If anyone knows where Fuentes is, he will.'
'Manuel Torres?' Lepski asked. 'Who's he?'
'Just another goddam Cuban. I've no time for Cubans, but Torres seems important. He owns his vessel and runs a junk stall in the market.'
'Important?' Lepski probed.
'To Cubans. He has lots of friends who visit his vessel.'
The younger man shrugged. 'For a Cuban, I guess he's important.'
Lepski thanked the two guards, then moved along the waterfront with Jacoby at his side. 'We'll take a look at Torres,' Lepski said.
It was a long trudge, past the moored luxury yachts to the basin where the fishing vessels were moored. Both men were sweating in the humid
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