Meanwhile, at eleven oclock, Tyrone Freeman was preparing for his second covert meeting of the evening. Although Tyrones fortune was in the tens of millions, he rarely had large sums of cash in his possession. Most of his wealth was tied up in real estate holdings, business investments, mutual funds, and his automobile collection, and most of his financial transactions were conducted by his business manager. Tyrone had found that the fickle tides of luck at the blackjack table sometimes left him needing more cash than the meager allowance his manager provided for him. Thus, as a convenience, he made a regular habit of dealing with a local loan shark sometimes borrowing ten, twenty, or even fifty thousand dollars, to be repaid from future winnings or from his next cash disbursement, whichever came first.

Tonight, he was to meet his regular financier, Miguel, to repay a prior debt of fifty thousand, but he was a little short of the full amount following the afternoons losses. No problem, he consoled himself. Miguel knows Im good for it. In addition, he reasoned, his bodyguard, Leo, always sets up these meetings and always accompanies him for security. Donning his favorite leather jacket, which was a bit out of season for a tropical summer evening, he saw that it was time, and signaled to Leo to accompany him down the elevator and out into the Puerto Rican night.

The regular meeting place was just a short walk from his penthouse apartment at the end of Paseo Don Juan, a short frontage road that ran parallel to the waters edge. There was a low concrete wall along the ocean side of the road, where the earth dropped precipitously down a rocky twenty-foot embankment to the crashing surf below. At this time of night, the roadway and the surrounding beaches were deserted and all but a few lights in the nearby buildings were dark. Tyrone and Leo strolled up the slight incline of Paseo Don Juan together, but as they neared the regular rendezvous point, Leo fumbled with a cigarette lighter that had apparently spent its fuel.

Damn cheap-ass Bic! Leo cursed, his Philadelphia accent enhanced by the irritation in his voice. I just bought the damn thing this week. Lemme run back to the garage an use the limos lighter. Ill be right back. Youll be aiight its only Miguel. Hes cool.

Tyrone nodded his agreement, and Leo took off in a half trot back toward the Olympic Tower complex at the far end of the road. Tyrone leaned against the concrete railing, looking out at the nighttime ocean, the waves sparkling in the light of a nearly full moon. The rhythmic crashing of the surf against the rocks below was punctuated at random intervals by the melodic love-calls of the coqui tiny tree frogs beloved by this islands people as harbingers of good luck. It was a beautiful night, and Tyrone regretted that he would have to leave his island paradise behind next week to rejoin his teammates in training camp. Suddenly, an unfamiliar voice called his name from behind. Tyrone turned, and seeing a stranger standing across the street, began to speak. Wheres Miguel?

Without speaking another word, the stranger pulled a forty-five from his waist, aimed directly at Tyrones chest, and squeezed the trigger four times. The multiple impacts knocked the football star off his feet, sending him reeling backward over the stone barricade. The hit-man stepped swiftly across the street, peering over the edge of the barrier with his gun poised to fire if Tyrone still showed any sign of life. There was no sign of life at all. There was nothing but the crashing surf quickly washing the traces of blood from the nearby rocks.