ONE
A steak sandwich smothered in melted cheese lay half-eaten
on Jack Terranova s plate. He took another swig of the pun-
gent local beer as a fly， buffeted in the gusts of an overhead
fan， dove crazily for his brow. In preoccupied irritation， he
swatted it away. Across the street， in a similar open-air cafe+
a pair of men conspicuously avoided the appearance of caring
whether Jack Terranova existed. He knew differently， and， as
always， the knowledge was a source of irritation. He d first
noticed them yesterday morning as he strolled down the Sexta
from his hotel， stopping at the libraria for a copy of the
Miami Herald. It was the younger one who actually caught his
eye. American， definitely， and working to look both local and
preoccupied. No matter how hard he d tried， he d gotten it
wrong. The little things. The shoes and haircut. A confident，
even cocky， G-man walk. His partner， an older guy， was
much better. He dressed and looked vaguely Colombian， until
you found cause to Nuint and study him carefully. His Ivy
League pal was plenty cause enough. Who did they think they
were fooling ?
Without appearing to， Terranova studied them now. Picking
up his sandwich， he bit and chewed slowly， the HeraM folded
back on itself at his elbow. Football season was just getting
started back home. The way both Jack and the writers saw it，
Shula had his work cut out. He flipped over to the results
t
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