"What the hell are you sayin'?" asked Spencer in disbelief. "You figure they sunk the ship? Valencia and the waitress and the three babes? Ah, come on."
"It's what you think that will determine what you do, Spencer. I suggest you change your attitude; play along with them for a few days till the picture becomes a little clearer to you. We'll talk about it again then."
Pembroke rose and started out of the bar. A policeman entered and walked directly to Spencer's table. Loitering at the juke box, Pembroke overheard the conversation.
"You Spencer?"
"That's right," said the fat man sullenly.
"What don't you like about me? The truth, buddy."
"Ah, hell! Nothin' wrong with you at all, and nothin'll make me say there is," said Spencer.
"You're the guy, all right. Too bad, Mac," said the cop.
Pembroke heard the shots as he strolled casually out into the brightness of the hotel lobby. While he waited for the elevator, he saw them carrying the body into the street. How many others, he wondered, had gone out on their backs during their first day in Puerto Pacifico?