When George walked into the office, he brought the smell of cold sea air and peppermints. How could he be the culprit? Impossible. No one villainous ever smelled like candy. All the serious bad guys stank of whiskey, tobacco, or sweat, but peppermints? No. It just didn't seem likely, not when he looked like someone's grandfather. He appeared more inclined to bounce a baby on his knee than to stab someone in the back. I couldn't believe it. And judging from his casual pose, Miguel didn't seem to either. He only leaned against the edge of his office desk. "Hello, George."

The short bookkeeper looked as if he'd seen better days. His porkpie hat was dented on one side and dusty, and his usually meticulous suit looked rumpled as if he'd slept in it. George hastily doffed his hat, then shuffled his scuffed boots from side to side as if he was uncertain how to proceed. Worry deepened the wrinkles in his round face and aged him even more. He ducked his head, and his fringe of graying hair flapped forward. "Thank you for seeing me, sir. I had to wait for the right moment to sneak in. The police are everywhere. I was afraid I couldn't reach you in time."

"Why?"

The old man opened his mouth but no sound came out at first. His larynx bobbed over his collar as he pulled out a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and vigorously mopped his forehead, then the back of his neck. "Because of the money."

"My money. It is missing, George. A lot of it. What do you know?"

"Only that it's gone. It's been gone for awhile. I don't know where. I've looked for it. Can't find it. I swear, sir. It's true." He held his hat in front of him, his fingers turning the rim around and around again.

Miguel only folded his arms across his chest. He looked stern. "Then why did you run?"

"I have been framed. Framed, I tell you. The police would not believe me. I did not think you would either. Especially if you knew all about me."

"Ah. Your record. Embezzlement at Lloyd's Bank. Transported to Australia. We met there. Queensland, remember?"

George's shoulders slumped forward. He seemed defeated, his voice broken and reedy. "Then ... then you already knew."

"Of course. I know everything about my employees. Your past. Your present. Your son Gerald ... part of the Sydney Ducks gang. His gambling debts. Is that where you channeled my money?"

"No, sir. I did not. I could not. I have worked for you since you first took helm of this company. Before you even became the Don. I have seen you grow into the man you are. And I have given you twelve years of good honest hard work. That should count for something. Surely it must. And only one debit. An old one. One mistake. A long time ago. And everything else lands on the credit side. It must balance out somehow in the black. Doesn't it, sir?" George licked his lips.

Miguel looked implacable. "Twenty-four hours, George. No more. Return the money by then or I will come after you. It is not the police you should worry about. It is me."

"But I don't ..."

"Do you understand?"

"I ..."

"Do you?" The Don had spoken.

George flinched. "Yes, sir. I understand." With the look of a doomed man, he shuffled out of the office.

As soon as the door closed behind him, I popped up, rubbing my knees. "That was nice of you."

Miguel looked blank. "Nice?"

"Sure, yeah. Nice. You could have reported him to the police. Or sicced Major Wolfe after him, but you didn't. You let him go. You believe him. You're a good man, Miguel."

He sighed. "Sometimes I forget ... how young you are. You don't understand. No, I do not trust him. He may have done it. I let him go because I want to see what he does next. Xi will follow him."

"But George is telling the truth."

"Is he?"

"Yes. I know he is," I said with absolute certainly. I walked up to Miguel, thumped my finger against his chest. "You can bet your bottom dollar on it. Heck. You could even bet the shirt off your back. It's a sure thing."

"How? What facts do you have? Or are you relying on your woman's intuition?"

I ignored his sardonic look, and barely - just barely - kept from thumping him again. "No, it's not that. It's my doctor's intuition, and it never fails me. All day long I size people up. I know when someone's faking it; exaggerating or underplaying it. I'm telling you. George isn't lying. He really didn't do it. Anyway, if he did do it, he'd be long gone by now. Probably on some boat to Brazil. Cuba. The Continent. Wherever. Why should he risk everything to come back and talk with you? Wouldn't that be incredibly stupid?"

"Or incredibly clever." Miguel walked to his desk and opened a drawer. He took out a Colt pistol, checked the chambers, then rolled it shut again. It clicked and whirred with the same deadly efficiency as its owner.

My heart stilled. "What's that for?"

One brow arched as if to say "What do you think?" But the rest of his face remained a careful mask. "Come. It's time."

"Me? Are you actually inviting me along this time?"

He made a little puff of sound. "No, niņa. An invitation is for a dance, a dinner. Maybe a party. This is none of those things."

I followed him to the door. He opened it, gestured for me to go first. I stepped over the threshold into the darkened hallway. "What do you mean?"

"Would you stay in here if I told you to stay?"

"Of course not. Don't be ridiculous."

"Exactemente. You would not listen," said Miguel grimly. "This is for your own protection."

So he was taking me into custody? Fine. He could think that. He was free to think whatever he wanted. But maybe - just maybe - I would be the one protecting him instead.

###

Along the wharf, all the shadows had lengthened so that the sky and boats and buildings had flattened into layers of black on black, blending into the inky bay. The whole place was dark and deserted. It seemed as if God had swept down, scooped up, and disposed of all signs of life, no matter how lowly they were. By now the drunks were sleeping it off. The cutpurses were counting up their evening's take, and the wharfside whores were all finally abed.

The tide was low so the old fish guts and trash smelled riper than usual. But the smell didn't bother me as much as the unnatural quiet did. It was too quiet. Dead quiet except for the rats skittering over the docks and the water splashing against the pilings. Grunting low, the sailors lifted the heavy wooden boxes and loaded them one by one across the plank and on to the ship. We watched them from behind a pile of crates by the warehouse. Next to me, Miguel murmured, "You should not be here. I must be mad."

I laid a finger over his lips. "So? Send me back."

His mouth pressed tightly together. "Would you go?"

"No. Are you kidding? And miss everything? I already told you I wouldn't."

"Taurina," he muttered.

I couldn't restrain myself any longer. I poked him again. Harder this time. Right fourth intercostal space. He grunted. I said, "What does that mean?"

"Stubborn. Foolish. Like a bull."

Me? Bullish? The nerve. The absolute nerve. I could hardly believe that he'd just said it. "Stubborn, hmmm? Well, you should know. I'm just a beginner compared to you. You're the expert. Mister Stubborn. You wrote the book on it, Don Taurino. Huh! Talk about the kettle calling the pot black."

"What?"

"It's a saying. It means ... Oh, never mind. Someone's coming."

It was the slow irregular thuuump-thump of an injured man and a brisk step of his companion. I heard the click of a watch being closed, and then I saw the silhouettes of a tall skeletal man and a shorter portly one. Gradually the black shadows took shape, deepened, then turned into Hamilton and Buckner as they emerged from the fog. Hamilton's ankle was wrapped up and he was leaning heavily on his cane. But the pain from his gout didn't affect his overly jolly expression. His partner Buckner pocketed his watch. Maybe he'd timed their walk here. And thirty feet behind them stood four massive bodyguards, whose necks were thicker than their heads. Their arms looked like tree trunks, their fingers like boughs.

Miguel pushed me gently to one side so that I remained half-hidden behind the crates. I moved deeper into the shadows. He quietly stepped into the middle of the dock. His hands hung by his side; fingers loose, relaxed, ready for anything. "Gentlemen."

"Don Cabrillo." Smiling genially, Hamilton held out his hand. It hung like a plump starfish momentarily tossed into the air.

Miguel did not take it. He only inclined his head, his eyes still on the guards. "My payment?"

Buckner snapped his fingers, and one of the guards stepped forward with a satchel. He handed it to Miguel, who lifted it up and down as if testing its weight.

"Where's the rest?" he said quietly.

"Well, well, well, it's the price we agreed upon. All of it. But it's not exactly gold, Don Cabrillo. Not at'all," Hamilton said.

"Then what is it ... exactly?"

Hamilton replied, "Greenbacks. We didn't think ..."

"I would mind? Or I would notice? Which is it? I am no fool." Miguel tossed the bag on the ground so that it landed precisely between them. Thump. Ssssss. It slid a little across the damp pier. "I don't want this. Paper dollars? Near worthless. The price is doubled."

"Outrageous," Buckner fumed, his bony fists clenched until his knuckles turned white. He stamped his foot once, twice. "Completely outrageous. And ungentlemanly. We had your word, sir. Your word!"

"As I had yours. Apparently you have changed your minds. So I change mine. No deal," said Miguel coolly as if they were discussing something inconsequential like the weather. He turned. Then he started to walk away from the men. When he passed me, his hand moved an infinitesimal fraction as if he was urging me to follow him. Got it. I slipped behind the crates, my back pressed against the warehouse wall.

"Wait!" called out Buckner.

Miguel walked another foot before he paused. He looked over his shoulder. "Yes?"

Hamilton said, "Now just hang on a minute. Don't be so all-fired hasty. You're rushing away like a damn Yankee. All business this, that, and the other thing."

"It does not take long to reach the right decision," Miguel replied.

"No, you're right," admitted Buckner. "You are absolutely right. That's true if you're the one making the decision. Only we're not. This isn't our decision to make. We need to talk it over with ..."

"Horace! Mind your manners," interrupted Hamilton as if he were racing to beat Buckner to the punch-line of a joke. One fat hand tugged on the lapel of his coat. His face still beamed with universal, inappropriate bonhomie, but when he chuckled, it sounded about as pleasant as fingernails across a slate board. Listening to it made me shudder.

"I see. You have a boss. Then there has been a mistake. I don't speak with middlemen. I never do," said Miguel softly. "Take me to him."

Buckner made vague pop-popping sounds deep in his throat like an agitated frog. The bodyguards advanced slowly menacingly until Hamilton held up his hand. Then the men froze, outflanking Miguel, who seemed strangely unaffected by the whole maneuver. He acted as if this were a Sunday stroll, and the bodyguards - mere passerby's enjoying the same park. He looked almost ... bored.

"You must be joking. It's unthinkable. Impossible," said Hamilton at length. "A grave impossibility. Why, sir, you might as well ask for the moon itself. No one sees our superior. No one."

The dock fell silent again except for the sounds of the sailors moving the crates and the creaking boats. Somewhere in the distance, a buoy clanged its lonely song in regular clear intervals like a reminder that time and tide waited for no one. No one at all.

The wind sighed, pushing threads of fog around the men, around Miguel's legs. His disinterested eyes flicked over Hamilton, then Buckner who could barely contain his agitation. At last Miguel shrugged. "Fine. The ship is only partially loaded. It will not take long to empty the hold again. Find another ship at your leisure. Send back the wagons again. You may not want your gold laying around the docks. Someone else might ... appropriate it."

Turning to the ship, Miguel lifted a hand. In an instant, the sailors paused. The ones on the gangplank didn't even exchange a look before they started to walk back to the dock. Without another word, they dropped the box. And a hundred pounds of solid avarice fell heavily to the ground. Clink. Clank. A second box dropped on top of that one. Then another.

"No. No! Stop!" Squawking like a chicken, Buckner ran to the crates. He grabbed one, heaved, grunted, but he couldn't budge it. He called for the bodyguards.

Hamilton watched his partner's antics. His smile never wavered for a second as he leaned on his cane. "Well," he said as several more boxes were unloaded. "Well, well, well. Your reputation is well-deserved, Don Cabrillo. You drive a hard bargain. A very hard bargain indeed. We are in a devil of a predicament, being here, as you can see, with the job only half-started. Like being caught with your pants down, shall we say. Yes, just like that. I'm afraid, I'm very much afraid we shall have to do as you ask."

"Good." Miguel raised his hand. The sailors stopped.

"With one small modification. One that you - as a sensible man - will surely agree to. As you so wisely pointed out, we cannot leave such a valuable cargo unattended. Anything could happen. So I propose that you guard it. Buckner will stay here with you while I get the authorization from our superior. And if anything untoward happens, why then - you may discuss it with my partner here. Isn't that right, Horace?"

Buckner's mouth pinched, but he managed to nod.

"And I have all your gold," reminded Miguel.

"Just so, Don Cabrillo. Just so. I am sure we can reach a mutually satisfactory arrangement. My superior is a reasonable person. Quite reasonable indeed." Hamilton gestured to the bodyguards. "You don't mind if some of the boys stay with Buckner? Horace gets a trifle lonely from time to time."

Miguel's lips thinned. For a long moment, he stood there, silent and still as the night around us. "Be my guest," he said finally, gesturing towards the ship. "Gentlemen, this way."

###

Cripes. This