stag night continued.

        "Bite me!" Boca squeaked. "Chinga!"
        He spoke to the caller while looking around the smoke-filled room, from the nautically blinged wall (fishnet, cork, brass and glass) to the far one near Cap's table, with its cheesecake painting of a buxom mermaid, and said, "No, Senor. Sam the Rickshaw Man? He ainta here. You too. Adios."
        Boca was a gossip, a busybody, who coveted information. Being the man-in-the-know was a power-trip. It eased his rat-brain mind. When the poop was worthy he phoned it in to the re-write man at the Daily Gleaner, and earned a bob or quid.
        "Boca!" Cap shouted above the Wurlitzer din. "Who waz dat?"
        "Some crazy fucker looking for another crazy fucker."
        Cap chuckled. Rat Mouth was such a reliable news source!
        Look at those rodent teeth gnawing on that swizzle stick. Chee-chee-chee.
        He began to truly worry about Johnny Luck.


                                                                              *


        Midway through the half-hour black and white movie "Rules of the Road" Pirate Jenny reached the limit of her tether.
        "I need to leave," she told Kit, zonked in his comfortable chair.
        "Where to, honeychile?"
        "Dunno. I'm sick with worry."
        "Well--"
        "Hey look, I've had a swell time. Tell Speedo that I'll be at Johnny Luck's cabana all day tomorrow."
         "What're you gonna do now?"
         "Call the island taxi."
         "I can drive you anywhere you wanna go."
         "No. No, you can't."
         "All right. All right."
         Kit was lovingly stoned. "Gimmee a hug."
         They hugged.