Which was far more like it. Jack waited for him to go on, but Pierre’s attention had been diverted. Two tall black women in the shortest of white dresses were emerging from the ladies’ room. Melville grinned and beckoned to them.
“Ah, our lovely playmates, at long last.”
It only took a glance to figure what they were. Jack felt something curl up wearily inside him as the girls approached the table. Not that he wasn’t used to hookers. Since crossing the border, much of his experience along those lines had come with a price tag. It was the way things were with gringos here. But . . .
He found himself pausing mentally. But what?
It was one of those questions that grinded at the core of your being sometimes. Kept you awake on your pillow some nights, without really knowing why.
He thought it better to ignore it. Simply pretend that questions like that did not exist.
Jack forced a smile.
One of the girls sat down next to him, leaned on his shoulder wordlessly, and started ruffling his hair. The other dropped into Pierre’s lap with a high-pitched giggle. So they were going to spend the evening with a pair of whores who were already pretty drunk.
So fine, then. They were very attractive whores, and looked like a whole barrel load of fun. To hell with “buts” anyway, Jack decided. Let’s take all the damned “buts” in the world and drop them down a great big hole.
He leaned back in his chair and looked from one girl to the other. They were both the same height and build, and their narrow, painted faces were remarkably alike.
“I’m Lola,” the one at his shoulder informed him.
Jack nodded.
“Is that so? Hi, Lola.”
“And she,” the girl went on, pointing with a long, mauve nail, “is Nona.”
Jack mulled it over.
“Are you two sisters?”
At which, Lola smirked.
“We can be, if you like.”
That small voice started saying “but” again, inside Jack’s head.
Except he shut it out.
* * *
“Okay, man, so what’s the deal?”
They were headed back into the Old Town, following the same route Jack had used that afternoon, though everything looked rather different in the dark, the amber streetlight being partly swallowed up by long, deep shadows. Lola and Nona were following along behind them, high heels setting up a rhythm on the cobbles.
“What’s always the deal, Jackie boy?” Pierre replied. “The Yankee dollar. It’s just as important here as anywhere else.”
“But I thought they’d dumped all that?”
“Theoretically, sure—but you know what theory gets you. They’ve had hard currency shops for a while now. And the black market here has always operated on a dollar basis. But that isn’t the half of it. You aren’t gonna believe this one.”
The man paused to catch his breath.
“Until quite recently, it was a serious offense for a Cuban citizen to be found with American dollars in his pocket. It could actually net someone two or three years in jail.”
Jack whistled.
“Then a couple of years back, Fidel decides that the black market is bleeding his lousy economy dry. The best solution, he concludes, is to channel back the contraband dollars by making them legal. So they’ve got a dual economy these days . . . dollars and pesos are both legal tender. A hard and a soft currency, sitting side by side. You’re an intelligent fellow, Jackie. You can figure out what the result of that would be.”
“The hard destroys the soft. Pesos have become worthless?”
“Precisely! These poor sons-of-bitches”—Pierre waved generally at the city around him—“have pockets full of Cuban money, earned with the sweat of their brows, and it’s like toilet paper—they can’t buy a damned thing with the stuff. The state-run food stores are pretty much empty. Rations have been cut. If you want a decent meal, you have to go to the free-trade markets, and they only accept dollars. The same in any good restaurant, cafe, or club. Hard currency only.”
Jack’s eyes widened with astonishment. “You’re telling me these people can’t walk into a decent bar in their own country and buy themselves a drink, and we can?”
A sly, triumphant grin had started up between Pierre’s whiskers.
“Oh, they can go into a bad bar. They can stand in line outside some beat-up old cantina for one bottle of warm, flat beer. But we can sip daiquiris at the Floridita any time we like. Eat at the best restaurants. Dance at the best nightclubs. We’re like kings here, Jack. The new conquistadors.”
Jack felt stunned. The full implications of what he was hearing were only just beginning to sink in. “Everyone here must be hustling like crazy for hard currency.”
“I knew you’d figure it out. A bellhop is better paid in Havana than a college professor because he gets hard currency tips. And if you can’t do it the legal way, there are plenty of others. I suppose you’ve already met the guys around the square?”
“Persistent, aren’t they?”
“Everybody is. Take Lola and Nona.” He jerked his thumb back. “Give them thirty bucks and they’ll do anything you want. And I mean anything. Life is good, no?”
Jack still found it difficult to take the concept in. There was a tightness growing at the center of his chest, simply at the thought of people being abased this way. And he’d seen a lot since he had come to Latin America. But it was like these guys were third-class citizens in their own country. And that didn’t seem an awful lot to crow about.
“Goddamn it,” Jack managed at last. “There are times when I don’t like you a great deal, Pierre. And maybe this is one of those times.”
“Aw, c’mon!” Pierre’s voice was vibrant with laughter. “I didn’t create this situation. I’m merely taking advantage of it.”
They were walking down one of the narrow alleys. It looked tighter, more oppressive than it had this afternoon. But perhaps that was more to do with his mood.
Jack gazed at the passing locals in a whole new light. They looked like a proud race. Offering them sympathy would be like offering the two girls pesos, a currency they had no use for. The only thing they wanted was to get on with their lives, and he thought that people should respect that.
“Okay then,” he asked Pierre, something new occurring to him. “If you’re using this to take advantage of the situation, where exactly are your dollars coming from?”
Pierre lowered his voice again. “Where does anyone get real money these days?”
“You’re dealing?”
“Not just that, Jack. I’m importing.”
“Are you nuts? They shoot traffickers here.”
Which got him a low guffaw. “But who’s going to suspect an Internationalista? I don’t even use middlemen—just pick up my shipment twice a month, then drive down to the beach resorts and sell it to the Canucks and the European kids. I’ll even hit a roadblock sometimes. If I were a local, then the cops might search my car. But all they see is some gringo turista, and they wave me on.”
The Frenchman’s lifted both arms to the sky.
“Like waving on a king!”
The girls behind them giggled at his antics, and a few passersby stared.
They must hate us, Jack thought, watching the quiet people as they frowned and turned away. Deep down, they must really hate our guts. God, if it were me, I would.
“It’s going to go sour on you one of these fine days,” he told the Frenchman quietly. “You must realize that. You’re seriously nuts.”
“So what’s new?” A big hand clapped him on the back. “I’m crazy as a fox—and very happy. Screw you.”
* * *
Later, in the jam-packed Bodeguita del Medio—the tables and walls smothered with the signatures of all the customers who had passed through—Lola leaned across t
o Nona and the two began conversing in hushed tones, glancing across at Jack and smirking. Their Spanish was so peculiarly accented, when they talked among themselves, that he could barely understand a word that they were saying.
So he looked to Pierre for an explanation.
“Lola’s telling how you asked if they were sisters,” the Frenchman beamed. “They reckon you’re kinky for that kind of thing.”
Jack thought he heard another laugh directly behind him, exactly like the one he’d heard when twilight had been falling. But there were dozens of women in here.
It could have been anyone.
* * *
Later still.
Back in Jack’s hotel room. All four of them blasted from a whole evening of cocktails. Jack sitting down hard on the corner of his bed.
A sliding noise of fabric across skin, a clattering of fallen shoes, and then a body moving toward him. He wasn’t sure which of the girls it was, couldn’t lift his head enough to make out her face, didn’t care. It occurred to him that he was simply going through the motions. How long had it been this way? How much of his life, since age nineteen, had followed the same patterns?
Somewhere in the background, Pierre was saying things in French. And now Jack was beneath Lola/Nona and she was fumbling with his belt, and both the girls were making too much noise for a hotel room, it occurred to him, screeching and squealing, but it didn’t really matter, because he’d opened the windows when they’d first come in and the combined racket from the disco on the hotel roof and the cabaret across the street was just incredible, no one would hear anything above it.
Such loud music, so much noise, his head was spinning, his thoughts blurring, their shapes altering like a kaleidoscope. And after a few minutes, the girls switched over, laughing.
A while after that, Jack heard a familiar metallic click. He sat up sharply and pushed Nona/Lola off of him.
Lola/Nona was at the foot of his bed, crouched over his music case. She’d opened it, was in the act of reaching down to pick up his cornet.
And he lurched at her so savagely that the girl wailed with fright.
“Who said you could touch that?!”
He was out of control. His voice sounded insane, even to his own ears. The woman’s eyes became huge and her palms went to her mouth.
“Keep your damned hands off my things!”
Her fright transformed to anger. Her face screwed up and she began swearing at him volubly.
Her companion had sprung off the bed and was yanking her dress back on, shooting him swift, worried glances and muttering, “Loco! Loco!”
Jack peered around, swaying. Pierre was watching him from the far corner of the room with an amused grin on his face.
“Nice going, Jackie,” the Frenchman sputtered, his voice full of irony. “Really good way to end the evening.”
Pierre turned his attention to the outraged girls.
“We’ve found out something new about Jack Gilliard this evening, ladies. You can touch his body, but you cannot touch those things that pertain to his soul. Is that it, Jack? Is that what you’re looking for, these days? A lady who understands your deepest self, your inner being?”
Jack’s head whirled. He began wondering if that was true.
Pierre began to laugh out loud. And that sound, too, merged with the blaring music in the darkened, airless night.
And, not for the first time, Jack got the persistent feeling that somebody else was watching him.
CHAPTER
FIVE
Throughout Uncle Sandro’s birthday party, Manuel Cruz’s manner had been quiet and distant. It was unlike him. He was normally the life and soul of gatherings such as this one, and his wife, Rosita, kept on glancing at him worriedly.
He stood up and made a toast, to dampen her concerns as much as for any other reason. But he found he couldn’t keep up even that small show of good humor for long. Ever since that call from Canada this morning, a brooding unease had taken hold of him.
Poor Francis Jackson, dead by his own hand. And only a year back, the Dutchman, Jan Meenders, whom he’d also liked. Two guests that he’d looked after. And two suicides afterward. It seemed like an incredible coincidence. An awful one too, any way you looked at it.
He couldn’t understand it, nor think what to do. Maybe there was nothing to do. It might only be a trick of fate. But it was disturbing him badly. And perhaps his brother-in-law might have some ideas on this strange subject.
He glanced across the table at Carlos Esposito, who had come directly from the precinct house and was still wearing his uniform and police captain’s badge. They’d never got on particularly well—he had always been of the opinion that his sister could do better than this crude, brash fellow. But Manuel had to admit: there were times having a cop for a relative was useful.
Manuel had been waiting for the opportunity to speak in private. It came, finally, when the burly man took out a cigar and made to light it.
Rosita flapped her hands angrily at him.
“Not in here! Not around the children! Out into the garden, you!”
“Ay!” Carlos grumbled. “The pair of you are getting more like Norteamericanos every year.”
He pushed his chair back and then lumbered out. And Manuel followed, on the pretext of keeping him company.
It was only a small square of green at the back of the house, bordered with rusting chicken wire, but Manuel felt a sense of calm out here. A little orange tree stood in the rear corner of his backyard, and clumps of aloe vera formed prickly silhouettes in the darkness.
Around him, in the neighboring yards of San Francisco de Paula, dogs yapped, music wafted from a radio, cicadas chirred. They were on the prow of a hill. The lights of Havana glittered in the distance.
Manuel watched as Carlos bit the end off his cigar, spat it and then sent a billow of smoke up into the night air.
The captain noticed he was not alone. Turned around, his face pale in the moonlight. When he saw who had come out with him, he grinned and clamped a hand to his heart mockingly.
“Christ, Manolito, you shouldn’t sneak up on me like that. Lucky for you I’m not wearing my gun.”
Manuel returned his smile with a complete lack of pleasure. He hated the way Carlos used his diminutive, making it sound denigrating rather than familiar. And the way that the man always made joke threats . . .
“Come,” Carlos beckoned. “Over here. Stand next to me, like a good brother should.”
He was rather drunk, Manuel could see. Nothing new in that. Normally, he’d have found some excuse to walk away. But this time, bothered as he was, he did as he was asked.
Carlos clamped an arm around his shoulder, the smell of drink and stale tobacco overwhelming Manuel.
“You’ve been so quiet this evening, Manolito. Are you sick? I wouldn’t be surprised, sitting in that damned office all day, pushing pens around a desk and getting fat, eh?”
He broke into coarse laughter. Manuel just kept quiet.
Carlos swayed a little, and then frowned at him concernedly.
“I haven’t offended you, have I? It’s just friendly advice. So, what do you need to get off your chest? There’s something troubling you, isn’t there?”
Manuel told him all about Francis Jackson. And as he’d expected, Carlos looked bewildered by the time that he had finished.
“So? Yanquis bump themselves off all the time. Their existences are pointless, their lives too stressful.”
“But it happened a year back, the exact same thing. I was entertaining another foreign visitor, a Dutch industrialist. He seemed fine. And then when he went home, he killed himself. He slashed his wrists.”
“And how did this Jackson die?”
Manuel felt awkward.
“I’m not sure.”
Carlos gave Manuel a hard look for a second
and then let out a surprised bark of a laugh.
“I always thought you were a realist, Manolo. Not given to fantasies. So what are you suggesting? These two men loved Cuba so much that they could not bear the agony of leaving? These two gringos who are not even remotely connected or related went back home to their big houses and giant TV sets and found it all so awful that they ended their own lives?”
By and large, Manuel had been expecting little else. He frowned and turned his gaze toward Havana once again.
Carlos’s grip around his shoulder slackened just a touch. The man was now staring at Manuel with a thoughtfulness he never usually showed.
“What is this?” he asked. “What the hell is eating you? Why should this bother you so much?”
Manuel realized he wasn’t even sure himself. He could only lower his head, staring dumbly at the ground.
“An instinct you have, yes?” the big cop asked him. “A feeling in that flabby gut of yours?”
Manuel shrugged. “Maybe.”
“Not maybe—yes. I know you better than you think.” He breathed out heavily and straightened up, pulling the shorter man with him. “Where d’you think I got this captain’s badge, a candy store?” he went on, his voice sobering a little. “I’m actually a damned good cop. I know what makes most people tick. You, you’re smart. And more importantly, you’re sensible, always a good head on your shoulders. So when your instincts start to bother you this badly . . . ”
Carlos seemed to puzzle over it in the way that people who are pretty drunk do, taking far too long about it.
“Is there anything that you can do about this?” Manuel asked.
“I can’t see what, quite honestly. But something might turn up. Crazier things have happened. I’ll look into it and let you know.”
He thumped Manuel’s shoulder, punctuating his words with a rasping chuckle.
CHAPTER
SIX
The girls were gone, and so was Pierre. Music was still blaring through the open windowpanes but, drunk and entirely oblivious, Jack was lying curled up at the center of his rumpled bed, murmuring as he dreamed.
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