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enough for him to fall down, for which Kate was profoundly grateful.
    "The Beach Boys," she said. "Well, there was Mike Love, and the Wilson brothers-"
    "Which one's still dead?"
    " 'Still dead!1 "
    The moon face looked disapproving, "What's the matter, I don't speak English good enough for you? Which Beach Boy's still dead?"
    Kate offered him a conciliatory smile. "I'm sorry. I don't know which one's still dead."
    The moon-faced man buffed out an impatient sigh.
    "Don't anyone in this bar know nothing about the legends of our own time? Jesus!" He looked back at Kate and said with exaggerated patience, "D for Dennis. D for dead. Simple. Get it?"
    "Got it," Kate said solemnly.
    "D for Dennis. D for dead." The moon face crumpled and a tear ran down his cheek. "Goddammit."
    It was like that all the way across the bar, and the journey took time and persistence and some strong elbow work. When she finally got through she could see why.
    She stood stiff and still, barely breathing.
    Someone had dribbled a thin line of white powder on the bar, a line that extended the entire twenty-foot length of the scarred wood. About one fisherman per inch was snorting it up through straws, thin glass tubes and rolled-up hundred-dollar bills with all the finesse of a bunch of enthusiastic hogs working their way through a cornucopian trough.
    Kate was not exactly a virgin when it came to understanding the effects of rash and reckless youth combined with too much money, but this blatant display was something even beyond her ken. As she stood there, stunned, an amused voice drawled, "Like a toot, little lady?"
    She turned to see a man with a grin like a hungry shark standing next to her, and she remained so astounded that he mistook her silence for interest. An expansive sweep of one arm took in the bar. "Go ahead, the party's on me." He looked her over with a predatory eye. What he saw must have pleased him, for he gave the bulging bag in front of him a possesive pat, grinned that shark's grin again and said, "Plenty more where this came from.
    Maybe we can work out a little something in trade?"
    A deep voice said, "I don't think so.,, Jack Morgan was tall, six feet two inches, and he was broad, well over two hundred pounds, but what gave the shark pause was the expression on his almost ugly face. It might have been the broad, unsmiling mouth, or the high-bridged nose already broken more than once, or the cold, clear, steady blue of his eyes, narrowed slightly against the cigarette smoke that swirled and eddied across the room like the Aleutian fog offshore.
    He stood where he was, waiting, like a rock indifferent to the roughest surf, and he looked at the shark, calm, watchful and without a trace of apprehension.
    The shark was clearly taken aback by all this sangfroid but he was game. "Why don't we let the little lady speak for herself'?"
    "Because she's already spoken for," Jack said, just as smoothly. He looked at Kate and quirked an eyebrow, daring her to react. Little pleased as she was by his high-handedness, still less did she want to start a fight.
    Already noise was dying down around them as fishermen became aware of the confrontation and downed bottles and straws to watch avidly to see what happened next.
    She caught a glimpse of Ned Nordhoff toward the back of the crowd and that decided her. She gave Jack a silent nod and stepped to his side. He rested a casual but unmistakably possessive hand on her shoulder, gave the shark an amiable smile and raised his voice.
    "Barkeep!"
    The bartender left off rewashing a perfectly clean glass and bustled down. "What'll you have?"
    Jack jerked his head. "A room."
    The bartender gave Kate a speculative look and Jack a lascivious grin. When no answering grin was forthcoming his own faded and he said nervously, "That'll be a hundred bucks. Cash. Up front."
    "All right." Unperturbed, Jack produced a money clip and peeled off two fifties and handed them over. "When's checkout time?"
    "Checkout