“Four! Four! Four! Look at that bastard go!”

It was all over in moments. Four completed its traversal of the pool, lightly bumped its hooked snout against the far wall with almost contemptuous satisfaction, and swung around again on a return journey to the starting point, as if it had been ordered to swim laps. The other turtles were still moving about amiably in vague circles at mid-pool.

“Numbah Four,” called the master of ceremonies. “Pays off at five to one for de lucky winnahs, yessah yessah!”

The hotel boys had their nets out, scooping up the heavy turtles for the next race. Denise looked across the way. The leggy young widow from Connecticut was jubilantly waving a handful of gaudy Jamaican ten-dollar bills in the face of the tall man with the tiny bald spot. She was flushed and radiant; but he looked down at her solemnly from his great height without much sign of excitement, as though the dramatic victory of Number Four had afforded him neither profit nor joy nor any surprise at all.

The short, stocky, balding Chevrolet dealer from Long Island, whose features and coloration looked to be pure Naples but whose name was like something out of Brideshead Revisited—Lionel Gregson? Anthony Jenkins?—something like that—materialized at Denise’s side and said, “It doesn’t matter which turtle you bet, really. The trick is to bet the boys who throw them.”

His voice, too, had a hoarse Mediterranean fullness. Denise loved the idea that he had given himself such a fancy name.

“Do you really think so?”

“I know so. I been watching them three days, now. You see the boy in the middle? Hegbert, he’s called. Smart as a whip, and damn strong. He reacts faster when the gun goes off. And he don’t just throw his turtle quicker, he throws it harder. Look, can I get you a daiquiri? I don’t like being the only one drinking.“ He grinned. Two gold teeth showed. ”Jeffrey Thompkins, Oyster Bay. I had the privilege of talking with you a couple minutes two days ago on the beach.”