son gun and held it on Albert. 'Hey, don't! Don't!'
Albert said. 'Don't!'
The burst was so close to his chest that the bullets
whocked like three slaps. Albert slid down on his
knees, his eyes wide, his mouth open. He looked
like he was still trying to say, 'Don't!'
'You don't need no mate,' the big Cuban said.
'You one-armed son-of-a-bitch.' Then in Spanish,
*Cut those lines with that fish knife.' And in
English, 'Come on, Let's go'.
Then in Spanish, Tut a gun against his back!'
and in English, 'Come on. Let's go. I'll blow your
'We'll go,' said Harry.
One of the Indian-looking Cubans was holding a
pistol against the side his bad arm was on. The
muzzle almost touched the hook.
As he swung her out, spinning the wheel with his
good arm, he looked astern to watch the clearance past
the piling, and saw Albert on his knees in the stern,
his head slipped sidewise now, in a pool of it. On
the dock was the Ford taxi, and the fat driver in his
underdrawers, his trousers around his ankles, his
hands above his head, his mouth open as wide as Al-
bert's. There was still no one coming down the street.
The pilings of the dock went past as she came out
of the basin and then he was in the channel passing
the lighthouse dock.
'Come on. Hook her up/ the big Cuban said.
*Make some time.'