“Oh, ye of little faith. I keep a boat here.” He grinned and nodded toward a slip, where a boat rocked gently, her sides white and gleaming.
On the bow, in bold black script, was her name: Varlebena.
“She’s rather small, isn’t she?” I wondered why Varlebena sounded familiar.
“She’s big enough, Quinn. She’s an eighteen-foot day cruiser, a Drago 570.” He stroked the sleek, black outboard motor. “This Yamaha has two-fifty horses, a thirty-inch shaft, and she’ll do thirty knots. And that’s not pushing it.”
“Ah? Well, no need to push on my account.”
He grinned at me.
“Hola, señor!” A dark-skinned youth who couldn’t have been more than fifteen greeted Mark.
“Hola, Manuel. Is everything in readiness?”
“Sì. Your little sweetheart is stocked and ready to go.” Manuel’s teeth flashed white in
