CHAPTER 9IN A MURKY CAFE on the Tampico waterfront Ramsey was dimly aware of moving shadows and shrill music and shrill voices in an alien tongue, of dark men laughing and dark women laughing, of guitars and drums and the soft feel of warm flesh beneath silk as he danced to the music. It seemed that he was swimming in a sea of white teeth, liquid dark eyes, red lips and glossy black hair, heavy breasts and wide hips and pungent perfume, and there was always the glass and the bottle and the hot taste of tequila. And somewhere in the moving sea Nevil Simpson sat alone against a moisture-beaded wall, watching him sadly. He wished that Simpson would not look so sad, and then there was the tequila again and plump soft arms around his neck, slow whispered words against his ear and warm breath on
