SLAM [antikvár]

PROLOGUE The crazy American sat all alone drinking wine at a table in the dockside bar. The cantina was otherwise empty. It wasn't yet siesta time, and most of the bars were still closed. The proprietor had opened up early because of the exceptionally hot weather but also because he knew that his customer would be coming around as usual. The cantina wasn't located in a good section of the city. It wasn't*a place where it was advisable for an American to be found alone, not if he valued his life. Yet this man walked the streets of the Barcelona waterfront without fear and in recent weeks had become a regular patron. On the street outside, automobile horns blared and the shouts and laughter of passersby drifted into the bar, muted by the gathering heat of early afternoon. The American reached out and poured himself a final glass of the dark red house wine, emptying the bottle. Soon the glass, too, was drained. As he slapped it down on the tabletop, three hard-looking men swaggered into the cantina.