HARRY MORGAN-WINTER 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 head off.' '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.'