Playing for Keeps by Joan Lowery Nixon

were aboard got to their feet, making their way to the stairway at the front of the boat.
    I took a deep breath. The Ricky Diago I had first met had disappeared. I was sure now that he had never returned to the ship after giving the excuse of looking for his jacket. And here was a substitute, claiming both the name and the uncle. Maybe I was the only one who would recognize that this Ricky was not the one who had checked in. What should I do?
    Ricky’s brown eyes pleaded with me as he whispered, “Please, Rose? Will you help me?”
    “Rosie? Aren’t you coming?” Neil called.
    I nodded to Ricky. “I won’t tell anyone . . . yet,” I said. “But you’re going to have to tell me the truth.” I pulled my I.D. card from my shirt pocket, ready to show it to the uniformed attendant at the entrance to deck one. Surprised, I saw that Ricky was holding an I.D. card too.
    With so little time left to spend on the beach, not many people were waiting to take the tender to shore. Among those were a few who were not dressed for the beach and who seemed to be simply looking over the passengers as they returned to the ship.
    At the back was Anthony Bailey, the casino owner I remembered meeting the day before. His dark glasses concealed his eyes, and he showed no recognition of me as I walked toward him. That didn’t surprise me. He’d been standing behind my chair as he talked to Mrs. Duncastle.
    Beside him a ship’s officer stood close to a man dressed in a khaki military uniform, complete with thick brass buttons on the jacket and a squared-off cap with a bill—the same kind of uniform I’d seen on Fidel Castro in pictures. The man’s large gold ring, with a raised initial C, flashed in the bright light as he handed the officer a sheet of paper. The officer scanned it before studying the passengers.
    Behind them stood Mr. Diago, almost hidden by the others. He seemed to be more intent on the conversation between the ship’s officer and the man in the uniform than on the arriving passengers.
    I nudged Ricky and said, “There’s your uncle.”
    But Ricky ducked his head, his wide hat brim covering his face. “Say nothing,” he whispered. He suddenly took my hand and stepped from the gangplank onto the deck of the ship.
    As we held out our I.D. cards so the attendant could see them, Mr. Diago burst into a loud coughing fit. Off balance, he lurched against the man in the uniform, and for a few moments, as Ricky and I passed them, the man and the officer seemed concerned only with keeping Mr. Diago from falling.
    As Ricky tugged me around a bend and onto an open elevator, I asked, “What’s the matter with you, Ricky? Your uncle needed help. Why didn’t you stop and help him?”
    “He didn’t need help,” Ricky told her. “
I
did. I do.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Please keep your voice down,” Ricky begged. “I will tell you when I can. I promise to explain.”
    “Hey! Hold the door open!” Julieta shouted. She and Neil squeezed through the closing doors and into the elevator.
    “Oh, sorry,” I said. I caught Neil’s puzzled glance at my right hand, which Ricky was still gripping, and pulled it away. “We were talking and thought you were right behind us.”
    Neil looked pointedly at Ricky. “We stopped to make sure your uncle was all right.”
    “I knew he was,” Ricky said. “He—he often has coughing fits. That is, they look worse than they are.”
    His excuse sounded lame to me, and probably to the others, because neither Neil nor Julieta answered. I was glad when we reached deck six and the doors opened. “My deck,” Julieta said. “Anybody else getting out?”
    When no one answered, she looked hopeful and asked, “Let’s meet on eleven in an hour. Okay?”
    “Okay,” Neil said, but he looked at me.
    I shrugged. “Fine with me,” I answered.
    As we reached deck seven, Ricky stepped out of the elevator. I said quietly to Neil, “I’ll see you in just a little while. I’ve