by Matt Lincoln
He affected an offended air. “I dance salsa.” He winced. “But not half as well as those folks in the middle.”
I looked back down to see the crowd open in the middle to allow three dance pairs to show their skills. Their feet and hips moved in a blur as they swung their arms in flowing arcs and angles.
“That’s him,” Nuñez said. She pointed to a pair of men spinning across the floor. “The tall one with the white shirt.”
The haircut caught my eye first. González had longer hair on top with one of those popular undercuts, but when a light flashed across his neck, I spied a dark spot below his ear. The birthmark. Nuñez sure had sharp eyes. I would’ve liked to see her out on a firing range. With her control and hawk vision, I imagined she’d take out anything that crossed her path.
“That was easy,” I murmured, not that Holm, Nuñez, or the server headed in our direction would’ve been able to hear me over the pulsing melody. I leaned over to Holm and raised my voice for him. “I guess we won’t be going to Calle de Baile tonight.”
“Sí, such a, um, disaster,” the server said as she set two bowls on our table. “Tortillas and fresh salsa to go with drinks.”
“Gracias,” I said, and then I cocked my head. “What disaster?”
Her perfectly shaped and shaded brows rose. “Oh! You don’t know? You said you are not going. I thought you mean you don’t know.”
“No. We meant to but changed our plans,” I told her.
“I see.” She bit her lip. “There was a fire.” She waved a hand. “Calle de Baile is gone.”
Nuñez’s eyes widened, and her jaw dropped. I met Holm’s eye. This was why we’d found González on our first stop. We’d debated which club to try first and almost went to the other one, but Philippe and Nuñez had a fast chat in Spanish, which resulted in our visit to Los Lobos Locos.
“¿C-cuando?” Nuñez sputtered.
“Esta mañana.” The server took the empty chair and leaned it. “It has been all over the news. How did you not know?”
“We flew in this morning,” I said. “My friends and I did some exploring, got a look at some cars, things like that. We didn’t catch the news.”
“Damn.” Holm slouched in his chair. “I wanted to check it out. We heard these were two of the hottest spots in Havana.”
Downstairs, the band shifted into a meringue. González stayed out on the floor and took a woman in a black cocktail dress through the steps in an electrifying performance. I shook my head. There were many, many things I did well. My dance skill was watching and appreciating people who had the talent.
“You are welcome here,” our server laughed. “We have the best dancers in Havana!”
“I can see that.” I crossed my arms on the table and heaved a dramatic sigh. “You also have some incredible cars.”
The server’s mouth twitched. “The classics,” she said in a flat voice. “Most of those try to fall apart. They blow smoke and eat oil.”
“Not those.” I grinned and leaned closer to her, but not close enough to creep her out. “We saw some nice ones out there today. There was this car…” I sat back and affected a dreamy smile. “It purred. A fifty-five Bel-Air. My gramps had a fifty-six. Turquoise and ivory, she rode like a dream.”
That much was true. Gramps kept that car in perfect condition, but he did that for Gran. After she passed away, he sold it to a collector.
“Maybe you will see one like it here,” the server said in a gentle tone that made me realize that yeah, that would be great. “Do you all like cars?”
Holm nodded, and it was true. We both had cars we loved. Mine was a 1970 Ford Mustang Mach 1. Holm had a 2015 Mitsubishi Lancer Evolution that he’d found to honor the memory of the Evo he had in the nineties, but he still appreciated the classics.
“We dabble,” Holm said with his trademark goofy grin. It was the disarming kind of smile that made unsuspecting people feel comfortable even if they’d just met. “That lug over there has a couple of babies he loves, but I bet he’d ditch either of them to find his gran’s old car.”
“I don’t know about that,” I told him. “All I know is that I’d love to get my hands on something in mint condition. You know, all original parts, nothing funny.”
It was subtle, but the hook bit. The server leaned forward a hair, and her glance cut toward the dance floor, where they were back into a salsa, but slower than earlier.
“Yeah, man, that’s a pipe dream,” Holm said. “Those are hard to find unless you wanna shell out big bucks.”
I shrugged. “Hell, man, I could bankroll it, but the cars on the market are way overpriced.”
“Your loss, man.” Holm took a long sip at his drink. “If you wait forever, you’ll never find the perfect car.”
I shrugged and laughed. “If it’s meant to happen, it will.”
Our server stood and brushed her hip against my shoulder as she moved around the seat.
“Be sure to try the dance floor. I’m sure someone will teach you to dance.” She winked.
I grinned up at her. “Maybe with some liquid courage. Those dancers put on quite the show.”
She nodded and then returned to the first floor. Across from me, Nuñez stared beyond the balcony rail but not at the dancers or the band. She brushed her hair from her face and behind her ear. A single tear ran from the corner of her eye and down her cheek. It left a thin, dark line in its wake, and I handed her a napkin.
“Did you go to Calle de Baile a lot?” I asked her.
Nuñez shook her head. “No. I was too young.” She sniffed and took a deep breath. “My father sang there almost every week. I went one time with friends so I could see it. It felt strange. I didn’t go back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Some things don’t live up to how we imagine them, especially if they were important to people we love.”
Holm tapped the table with his forefinger and then nodded once toward the bottom of the stairs, which landed near the bar. González had left the dance and had a drink cup. Next to him, our chatty server stood on her toes to speak to him. He bent his head down and said something back. I moved my gaze back out toward the stage before anyone noticed me looking in the suave dancer’s direction.
Holm had the better angle to watch without being noticed. We listened to the music for another minute or two until he gestured with his hand flat on the table. González was on his way upstairs.
Showtime.
CHAPTER 12
Javier González liked cologne. Nice cologne. I recognized it from a particularly annoying salesperson who doused it on me in an overseas mall. It was during one of those cases when all hell broke loose, and I’d needed clean clothes. The spicy deluge stuck in my nose for hours that day.
González sauntered to our table, took the empty seat meant for the still-absent Philippe, spun it around, and sat on it backward. He smiled with perfect, blinding teeth and winked at Nuñez.
“How do you like Los Lobos Locos?” he asked as he crossed his arms over the back of the chair.
“Gotta love the howling wolf theme,” I said. “There are some crazy good dancers here.”
González chuckled. “We do our best.” He looked around the mostly empty balcony. Another small group had taken a table but at the other end. “I hear you enjoyed the cars today.”
Holm put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, and leaned toward González. I leaned back with a smile to answer the one plastered on González’s face.
“It’s the best,” Holm said. “It’s like all of Havana is a giant car show.” He shook his head. “Some of those old beaters, though. Whoo. What I wouldn’t give to restore them.”
“Nah.” I shook my head. “It’s better to buy something special and keep it up. I wouldn’t waste my time with a beater to fix it up. No, it’s gotta be like the day it rolled off the assembly line.”
“There are many beautiful classics on the American market,” González suggested.
“Yeah, sure. But most of
them have too many miles on the engines, and the ones with low miles have replacement engines. The ones that are all original and not run into the ground cost an arm and a leg.”
Okay, that was an exaggeration, but it had the effect I wanted. González brightened and had us all lean in closer as if he was about to tell us a secret, which I hoped he would.
“What if I told you there’s a way to find that special car you’re looking for?” He spoke in a low voice, barely audible above the driving music.
Holm affected a remarkable blend of confusion and surprise, and Nuñez feigned annoyance. Boys and their toys.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I have friends who know where to look.” González grinned. “Pristine models from the forties and fifties. Some are all original, and some are given so much love that you’d never know they were half dead when we found them. I can get you a catalog.”
“Wait, I’m confused,” Holm said. “I thought we couldn’t buy cars in Cuba.”
“Technically, no.” He stood and turned his chair around to get in closer. “There are ways to work around the, ah, restrictions.”
González’s nonchalant shrug radiated opportunity and adventure. If I’d really been an unwitting playboy, I might’ve fallen for it. My alter ego, however, was all in. Holm’s boyish grin showed that Ted Sutton was also about to bite.
“Won’t that be expensive?” I asked. “It has to be cheaper to buy off a dealer back home.”
Movement in my peripheral vision caught González’s attention. Philippe had finally deigned to join us on the balcony. Rather than break up our little conversation, he walked over to another table as if he had no clue who we were. That didn’t hurt my feelings, but Nuñez glanced over for a brief look. González was only interested in speaking with us boys, as far as I could tell.
“It doesn’t cost as much as you think,” González told me. “Meet me tomorrow. See if I can’t find your special car.”
I pretended to think about it for a moment and then met Holm’s gaze. “What do you think?”
He rubbed his chin and studied González and then gave a slow nod.
“I want to see that catalog,” he admitted. “No promises, though.”
González raised his palms in a good-natured motion. “Understood. Here.” He pulled out a card and wrote on the back. “Meet me in this café at half-past eight tomorrow morning. Come hungry.”
With another glance toward Philippe, González excused himself and returned to the dance floor. I started to wave Philippe over, but he gave a curt shake of the head. Nuñez frowned but stayed put.
“What’s the deal with those two?” Holm asked her.
“I don’t know.” She looked in that direction for a second and then back at us. “Philippe knows a lot of people in the city. Maybe they’ve run into each other before.”
I considered the man through the mindset of a smuggler. If I didn’t know Philippe, I might be suspicious too. He hadn’t changed from the dress shirt and pressed linen slacks that he’d worn to meet us at the house. He’d dropped the boyish flair and adopted a studious air while watching over the dance floor.
“González probably pegged him for military or police.” I stood and offered a hand to Nunez. “Let’s go dance before we make him suspicious of us, as well. We’ve had our drinks and should be relaxed enough to enjoy ourselves.”
“At least you don’t have to do much more than sway,” Holm told me. “I have got to try some of that salsa.”
Nuñez laughed and took my hand. Her smile caught me off guard. It wasn’t the first smile I’d seen from her, but this one was all for me, and it radiated genuine anticipation.
“I’ll teach you,” she promised me. “Anyone can dance with a little practice.”
“You haven’t seen my attempts,” I said. “But hey, why not? I won’t be the only guy to embarrass himself on the floor.”
She arched an eyebrow and led us to the stairs. By then, the dance crowd reached the back wall. A few stranded men lined said wall, but everyone else moved with the beat to one degree or another. Holm, ever the grandstander, wove through the throng to the center of the room and watched González and the partner we’d first seen him with. They flew across the floor with fervent, synchronized steps.
I backed away from the floor and shook my head at Nuñez. No way was I getting in front of those people to dance. My many talents did not include moving to a floor-shaking beat. Holm, however, turned and his hand out to Nuñez. She rolled her eyes at me.
“Next time,” she shouted over the commotion. “I will give you lessons.”
With that, she allowed Holm to sweep her out onto the floor. It took a minute, but my partner fell into the tempo with her. She spun and shook her hips as her hair fanned out. The sequined hem of her dress flared and sparkled in the light, and her calf muscles… Wow. Her strong calf muscles and confident strides made clear that she was no stranger to the dance floor. They also made me wish I’d gone out there with her after all.
Holm was almost graceful. He kept his dance steps simpler and, in true Holm style, made Nuñez the star of their duo. The crowd shifted their attention to our liaison, and I didn’t blame them one bit.
On the other side of the open area, González’s partner spun away to another, and González headed toward Nuñez. She and Holm paused to speak with him, and Holm backed away with a grin. He rejoined me at the edge of the circle as Nuñez whirled away with her new partner.
“I could barely keep up,” Holm said between breaths. “That was amazing.” I must have had a sour look because he went on. “Let her try to teach you to dance salsa. It won’t work, but you’ll get close.”
I snorted. “Yeah, close enough to stomp all over her toes.”
Holm punched me in the shoulder and laughed. Laughter was not in my belly, however, as I watched the pair tear up the floor. Every chance he got, González sent his hands all over her back and rear like she was his to possess, which was more than unnecessary for the dance. I clenched my teeth. Even though I felt drawn to Nuñez, I knew I didn’t have dibs on her, and she hadn’t shown the slightest interest in me. The irritation was that González was a criminal, and Nuñez wasn’t there to be manhandled by one.
I wasn’t jealous. At least, that’s what I liked to think.
CHAPTER 13
Yoani’s heart galloped when Javier González grabbed a chair at the table she shared with Marston and Holm. The man’s swagger put the Americans’ casual cool to shame. González reminded her of the charismatic ex-boyfriend who once asked to marry her. Fortunately, she’d discovered his darker side before she was trapped by matrimony. Given what she knew about González, he posed a similar potential. She told her heart to settle.
The smuggler’s smooth voice was difficult for her to hear over the surging music. He wasn’t addressing her, though, and she was fine with that. She listened as best as she could and heard about the possibility of Marston, also known as Liam King that night, purchasing a classic car.
Yoani’s heart galloped again. She hadn’t expected to get this far into a murder case on the first day. From what Sanchez had told her, she thought it could take weeks for the American team to conduct their investigation.
A few minutes into the Americans’ conversation with González, Yoani spotted Philippe enter the balcony from the rickety staircase. She began to reach for a chair from the next table, but as he walked behind González, Philippe shook his head and held a finger to his lips. He moved past her peripheral vision. González shot a look in that direction, and his shoulders stiffened. Odd.
The conversation ended within two minutes of Philippe’s arrival on the balcony. Before she knew it, she was on the dance floor with Holm. Marston’s refusal bit at her, but she let it go as the taller agent swept her into the area cleared by the crowd.
“Sorry about Marston,” Holm said in her ear as they headed out. “This is about the only thing you won’t catch him doing.”
“Not a prob
lem.” She shook her shoulders and then grabbed his hands. “Try to keep up.”
Despite her facade, she wasn’t as confident as she let on. She hadn’t danced in years, let alone in front of people.
“I’ll do my best.”
Holm flashed a bright smile, too bright for her taste. His enthusiasm made up for it as the band launched into a staccato tempo.
Yoani closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash over her, to fill her to her fingers and toes. She opened her eyes and met Holm’s. They began with basic steps and moved into intricate movements. Holm’s skills weren’t to her level, but his steady hand allowed her to flow into the rhythms she’d known since childhood, the days she lived for dance.
Song after song flew by until Holm paused after one, and the heady scent of intense cologne. Yoani blinked and looked around. Javier González appeared next to them and held out a hand.
“May I take a turn with this stunning woman?” he asked Holm.
The tall blond flashed another smile, but it wasn’t as wide or genuine as earlier.
“That is up to her,” Holm said above the music. He looked her in the eye. “Would you like to dance with him?”
She did not. However, she recognized the importance of making a good impression on a man who provided a way in for the investigators. It was only a dance, maybe two. She forced a smile and nodded. Holm moved in as though to kiss her on the cheek.
“Hold two fingers up if you want me to come back for you,” he said into her ear. “You do not have to dance with him if you don’t want to.”
“Thank you,” she said.
When Holm left, she held out her hand to González. He accepted with a firm grip and pulled her in close.
“Let’s put on a show,” he murmured in Spanish as the band played the opening notes to the next song.
Yoani swallowed and moved forward with him. She tried to let the music flow through her, but her arms felt mechanical as she wove patterns through the air. A deep ache seeped into the soles of her feet and made it difficult to keep up with González’s lead. His hand also got between her and the music. Each time a step brought them in close, he left his hand on her small of her back, and sometimes her butt, a breath too long. She locked her stage smile into place rather than do something that would jeopardize the undercover mission. Her boss owed her for this. Her boss and whoever else thought it would be a great idea to send a liaison out with investigators.