"I know you do, Jaime."
"I'm not always the playboy, Mateo. I know what my chief means to the little nations of the Caribbean. I know what Don Anibal means to every country south of Miami. I love Don Anibal. I love you because you love my chief and my people and Don Anibal. Claro?"
"Thanks, Jaime. Then you'll tell your men I'm O.K.?"
"On the contrary, my friend. I must tell them much more than that."
"Thanks. I'll try not to make any trouble. No international incidents."
"If you don't have to shoot." Lobo became gay again. "Ay, Señor Ortiz Tinoco," he sighed, "you might want to shoot, but you are without a shooter to shoot with. My men are too good for you. They stole your gun."
"They are very good men, my general."
"They have a good chief. But look, friend, in this drawer. I have a treasure for you." He emptied the contents of a canvas bag on the desk. "Ay, Señor Ortiz Tinoco, when I relieved Jefe Villanueva of his super-production, I also took his gun. Such a wonderful little Swiss automatic, built to be carried in a lady's purse or a horse's—ear. And such a dainty Spanish leather shoulder holster. You would be a fool not to accept this outfit in return for your gigantic cannon."
Hall took off his jacket. "It's a deal," he said. "Help me get the holster on."
"Where are you going when you get the picture—if you get it, Mateo?"