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through the bathroom into her bedroom, moving quietly. Her bed had been slept in, turned back where she had gotten out.
    He went down the short hall to the small kitchen. Sarah was not there. He began to wonder about her. Surely the quarrel could not have been so bad that she had dressed and left. He measured coffee into the top of the percolator and put it over a low gas flame. He mixed frozen juice and drank a large glass. The apartment seemed uncannily quiet. He poured another glass, drank half of it, and walked up the hallway to the living room.
    Stopping in the doorway, he saw the necktie, recognized the small pattern. He stood there, glass in hand,and looked at the tie. It was tightly knotted. And above the knot, resting on the arm of the chair, was the still, unspeakable face of Sarah, a face the shiny hue of fresh eggplant.

The Big Blue
    I walked down the length of the curved concrete pier at Acapulco, passing the charter boats getting ready to take off across the sparkling blue morning water after the sail and the marlin.
    Pedro Martinez, skipper of the shabby-looking Orizaba, was standing on the pier coiling a line. I have gone out many times with Pedro during the season for the past five years. Other craft are prettier, but Pedro’s equipment is good, and he knows where the fish can be found. Pedro did not look happy. Not at all.
    Lew Wolta sat in one of the two stern fishing chairs half under the canopy. He looked up at me, waved the half-empty bottle of beer in his big hand, and said, “What the hell kept you, Thompson?”
    I had met Wolta the afternoon before. He and his friend, Jimmy Gerran, had stepped up to Pedro to sew him up for the next day at the same time I did. We had joined forces. I knew that Wolta had wanted the Orizaba because he had seen the four flags flying and the hard, lean, black bodies of the two sails on the tiny deck forward of the cabin.
    When we had gone across the street to seal the bargain over a beer, I had begun to regret my quick decision. Wolta was a tall, hard, heavy-shouldered man in his late thirties with a huge voice, white teeth gleaming in a constant grin, and washed-out eyes that never smiled at all. He kept up a running chatter, most of which seemed designed to inflict hurt on the younger, frailer Jimmy Gerran, a quiet lad with a humble manner.
    Over the beer, Wolta said, “Yeah, I ran into Jimmy up in Taxco, and it was pretty obvious that he needed somebody to get him out of his daze. Hell, I’ve never been in this gook country before, but I’ve got a nose for fun. Leave Jimmy alone and he’d spend all his time walking around the streets.”
    At that he had slapped Gerran roughly on the shoulder.“Tomorrow we hook a sail, boy, and it’ll make a man out of you.”
    Pedro stepped down onto the fantail, and I handed him my lunch and equipment. Pedro said, in quick, slurred Spanish, “This man talks to me, Señor Thompson, as if I were his gardener.”
    “What did he say?” Wolta asked suspiciously.
    “He said that he thinks we’ll have a good day.”
    “That’s fine!” Wolta said, his eyes still holding a glint of mistrust. “How’d you learn this language?”
    “I live here,” I said shortly. “Where’s Gerran?”
    “I sent Jimmy after cigarettes. Hope he can find his way back to the boat. Here he comes now.”
    Jimmy gave me a shy smile and said good morning as he climbed down into the boat. Pedro’s two hands were aboard—his engineer and his sailor. The sailor went forward and got the anchor line. The marine engine chuckled deeply as Pedro moved ahead away from the dock. We were about fifth or sixth away from the dock.
    Wolta examined the heavy boat rods curiously. He fingered the gimbal set into the front of the chair. He said, “You set the rod butt in this thing, eh? Universal joint.”
    Jimmy said, “I’ve never done this before. What happens, Mr. Thompson?”
    “You sit and hold the rod. Your bait, a fish about eight inches long with the