ONE<br > A steak sandwich smothered in melted cheese lay half-eaten<br > on Jack Terranova s plate. He took another swig of the pun-<br > gent local beer as a fly， buffeted in the gusts of an overhead<br > fan， dove crazily for his brow. In preoccupied irritation， he<br > swatted it away. Across the street， in a similar open-air cafe+<br > a pair of men conspicuously avoided the appearance of caring<br > whether Jack Terranova existed. He knew differently， and， as<br > always， the knowledge was a source of irritation. He d first<br > noticed them yesterday morning as he strolled down the Sexta<br > from his hotel， stopping at the libraria for a copy of the<br > Miami Herald. It was the younger one who actually caught his<br > eye. American， definitely， and working to look both local and<br > preoccupied. No matter how hard he d tried， he d gotten it<br > wrong. The little things. The shoes and haircut. A confident，<br > even cocky， G-man walk. His partner， an older guy， was<br > much better. He dressed and looked vaguely Colombian， until<br > you found cause to Nuint and study him carefully. His Ivy<br > League pal was plenty cause enough. Who did they think they<br > were fooling ?<br > Without appearing to， Terranova studied them now. Picking<br > up his sandwich， he bit and chewed slowly， the HeraM folded<br > back on itself at his elbow. Football season was just getting<br > started back home. The way both Jack and the writers saw it，<br > Shula had his work cut out. He flipped over to the results<br >t<br >
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