Tropic of Darkness

by Tony Richards

  The bleak, shaky feeling had grown twice as bad. His flight from the hotel hadn’t exactly helped in that regard. Everything looked threatening and stark.

  Maybe he had jumped to the wrong conclusion, been too hasty, run too soon? No, came the answer. Because he couldn’t take even the slightest chance of being caught by the police. They’d certainly confine him, and would take his pills away. And if that happened, sleep would definitely come to claim him before too much longer.

  He could hear faint, calling voices and the low whine of machinery off in the direction of the jetties. Jack hung back until he was quite sure there was no one else around, then stood up and walked forward, examining the fence more closely.

  It didn’t look electrified, and there were no alarm wires he could see. He stripped his jacket off, tucked it underneath his belt, and began climbing. He felt as exposed as a spider on its web, up here. At the top, he wadded his jacket over the razor wire, and the cloth protected him when he swung himself across it.

  He was slinking away between stacked metal containers moments later.

  The outlines of ships came into view before much longer. Hulking, rusty tubs, the foul stench of their bilges filling the air even at this distance. They were dark and silent. Might be here for days or weeks, for all he knew. He needed a vessel that was getting ready to set sail.

  And found her in another minute. A small, battered freighter, paint but a dim memory on most of her hull. The Maria del Norte, out of Veracruz. Lights were trained down from her rigging. There was a crane working and longshoremen bustling about at the prow end. They were loading canisters into the holds up front. There appeared to be no one at the stern.

  Jack hung back a short while longer. Then he rushed for the gangplank, keeping low. It shuddered and thumped as he ascended it, but the roar of the crane drowned out that.

  The deck back here was empty. And an open doorway yawned. He ducked inside. There was barely any light, but he could make out a stairwell in front of him, sinking into the depths of the vessel.

  At the very bottom he found an abandoned hold. The walls oozed with dampness. Every step he took disturbed the slimy water on the floor. It stank so appallingly his stomach churned. But a large pile of tarpaulins was dumped over in the corner. And that was ideal.

  He pulled up the top one and sat down beneath it. Not the most pleasant way to travel, but he was well past caring by this time.

  So Jack settled back and waited.

  * * *

  Something started happening to Jack, after a while.

  Maybe it was the inactivity, or perhaps the dimness. But his conscious thoughts started to grow muddled, slip away, despite the pills.

  Jesus Christ! He yanked himself back from the edges of oblivion.

  It had almost been like some unnoticed force was pulling him into the realms of sleep. It left him badly startled.

  Jack massaged his cheekbones and then popped another pill into his mouth. It would probably be morning by the time the ship was ready to move.

  And the only thing that he could do was try and hang on for that long.

  * * *

  His mind should have been wholly on his work. This new vaccine that they were putting through its final trials was a genuine breakthrough.

  But in the little clinic on the edge of Mariel, Doctor Aldo Torres found he could not concentrate as well as he’d have hoped. His thoughts kept returning to the tall Norteamericano Luis Guerrera had brought to him yesterday.

  He’d like to have believed the man had followed his advice and got immediately out of Cuba. But Torres always trusted his instincts in such matters, and he had a queasy feeling now.

  Something was out of kilter. Something was very badly wrong. He wasn’t quite sure what, but his skin seemed to itch from it. He had senses other than the normal ones, and they kept tugging at him.

  His words to the Yanqui kept on running through his head. About real worlds and dream worlds, and how potentially dangerous their meeting might be.

  The last shot was administered, the final sleepy infant carried home to bed. Torres went through to the office at the rear and phoned his senior nurse on her home number. And found out that Luis had been trying to reach him, although she’d no idea what for.

  Torres put the handset down, just as one of the local doctors poked his head around the door.

  “We’re going out to eat now. Would you like to join us?” The fellow’s smile disappeared when he saw Torres’s expression. “Is something wrong?”

  “Unfortunately so,” he answered, pulling off his coat. “I must get back, and straightaway.”

  * * *

  Jack peered at the luminous dial of his wristwatch. It was twenty after one in the morning. A whole three minutes since he had last looked.

  He was stiff all over by this time. There was a knifelike pain between his shoulder blades. His legs felt cramped and dead. And the pills only served to make things worse, leaving him wanting to get up and move around when he could not.

  There’d been footsteps from one of the decks above him, and then intermittent hammering for the past half hour or so. He no longer seemed to be alone in this part of the ship.

  And the time was now one-twenty-two.

  He dug his nails into his wrist. It had a slight effect, but the moment that he stopped he felt his mind becoming dull again.

  He couldn’t see how that was possible with such a quantity of amphetamine working through his system. Had come to the conclusion something else was going on here. Something far more powerful than drugs.

  Jack bit his lip, and then tried playing some mental quizzes, just to keep his brain in motion.

  He didn’t have much in the way of formal education. But as a teenager—alone after a grueling day of work—he’d plowed through every battered paperback he could get a hold of. So he actually knew an awful lot of bits and pieces. And then there were the things that he’d learned simply from experience. So he set his mind to it.

  The capital of Bolivia? La Paz. The capital of Brazil? Brasília, not Rio like most people think. The capital of Paraguay?

  He kept on going till he ran fresh out of national capitals. Then, he started on the state ones up north of the border.

  New York? Albany. Iowa? Des Moines. North Dakota? Bismarck.

  There, finished for the third straight time. Perhaps if he tried ordering them alphabetically? Or how about a music quiz?

  Goddamn it—he remembered he had left his cornet in a locker at the Felix. A deep and unaffected sadness overtook him at the thought of leaving it behind. It had been with him in his travels since he’d been a kid. Had put food in his mouth, and even attracted the interest of women. It was as much a part of him as an arm or a leg.

  But getting out of here was the only thing that really counted. He had to keep on telling himself that.

  Jack glanced at his watch again. Five after three.

  * * *

  Three-thirty.

  His aches and pains had diminished, but he didn’t take that as a good sign. Christ, it wasn’t simply damp, it was so damned cold down here.

  A quarter to four. His mind slowed down still further.

  Five to four. His head began tipping to the side.

  Jack noticed what was happening and jerked back upright, his eyes snapping open. His heart was pounding like a jackhammer. But his head . . .

  It seemed to be ringing with the faint echoes of music.

  Another dream—a new one with a tune in it—was down there in the inner darkness. He had no idea what form it might take. But it was waiting for him.

  Four o’ clock.

  Not so long till dawn. But—it occurred to him—there’d be no dawn down here.

  Imagine it, then. Imagine the sun rising. For God’s sake, you can do that, can’t you?

  But he couldn�
��t seem to conjure up even that simple image. His resistance was fading fast, dwindling with every second that went by.

  He stared glassily at the hands of his watch. The sickly green of their luminescence felt like it was etched onto his retinas.

  Four-oh-one. Only make it through to four-oh-one.

  Except he wasn’t listening anymore. He’d gone completely limp. His mind seemed to be tipping over and then falling in slow motion.

  He felt that he was sinking, deep beneath the surface of some lake.

  His eyelids fluttered shut.

  * * *

  He could hear again before he could see.

  There was music coming from around him. Yes, a band, as he’d suspected. And playing a Cole Porter tune: “I’ve Got You Under My Skin.”

  Out beyond the music, there were voices chattering, glasses clinking and the high tinkle of laughter.

  Gradually, his new surroundings drifted into focus.

  Jack was still on board a ship, but nothing like the one he’d stowed away on. This was a luxury yacht, burnished brass and gleaming teak everywhere he looked, rows of pennants flapping from the rigging. And it was anchored in the center of Havana Bay.

  It was still dark. Headlights drifted in a steady procession along the shoreline. They were large and round, looked out-of-date. And, more peculiarly still, Havana itself was ablaze with multicolored lighting. He’d seen nothing of that kind when he’d walked around before.

  Here on deck, Chinese lanterns were strung up from every mast. There were candelabras on the tables. Sparklers fizzled in the top of a huge cake.

  There was a tightly packed crowd in front of him, but Jack did not seem to be part of it. Rather, he was removed, in a place from which he could study them.

  The people here were almost all white. And wealthy-looking, in fine evening garments, all the women draped in jewels. There was a crowded dance floor full of glittering motion.

  He began to see, from the style of their clothing, that he was back in the Fifties once again.

  But he didn’t seem to be Mario Mantegna this time. So who the hell was he?

  Jack looked around, and found himself in the front of three ranks of musicians. He was on a bandstand, which explained his slightly elevated vantage point. And he was dressed in a white tuxedo and a dark red cummerbund, his precious cornet in his lap.

  But he didn’t understand. What was he doing up here? He wanted to step down, and found he couldn’t move.

  Until his cue came along. At which point, he raised the cornet to his lips and went into a solo, better than he’d ever played in his whole life.

  He ran his gaze over the crowd as he performed. Waiting for her to drift into sight. He knew that she would, sooner or later.

  He was into the last few bars when he spotted, among the people who were dancing, an all-too-familiar figure. A large man, handsome and tough looking—and when Jack had seen him before, it had been in the first of these weird dreams, looking in a mirror.

  Jack felt astonished, though his fingers kept on moving and he didn’t miss a note.

  If he’s down there, the thought came, then what am I doing up here?

  His solo completed, he lowered his horn. Continued to watch as Mario Mantegna danced, gliding across the deck. The man’s partner was hidden from view.

  But—smoothly and gracefully—the mafioso turned.

  Isadora DeFlores was clutched to his chest.

  * * *

  She stared up at him. Jack flinched back.

  The tune dwindled to an end.

  The bandleader announced, “We’re taking a short break now, ladies and gentlemen. But we’ll be back, and soon!”

  There was patchy applause from the crowd. The rest of the musicians began gathering up their score sheets.

  Still, Jack didn’t move. He watched as the woman put her mouth to the gangster’s ear and told him something. Nothing good, by the look of it. Mantegna let go of her angrily and turned round on his heel, marching away into the throng.

  Smirking, she advanced on Jack, almost seeming to float in her long gown. Entirely against his will, he got up off his stool and stepped across to meet her.

  She produced a cigarette from her purse and stood there amusedly, waiting for him to light it. Blew out a thin stream of smoke, then peered into his eyes.

  “I’d always heard you play the cornet like an angel. I can only hope that you’re not quite so angelic in, well, other ways.”

  “How about your boyfriend?” Jack could hear himself replying. “He looks like the jealous type to me.”

  She waved a hand dismissively. “I answer to no one.”

  “Good for you.”

  She moved up closer, reaching for his shoulder.

  “Oh no, Mr. Gilliard. I hate being good.”

  Her face closed in. She nuzzled at his cheek, and then his neck. And she wasn’t cold, like last time. She felt deliciously warm. He simply couldn’t help himself.

  “Where should we go?” he heard himself asking.

  “Well, the owner of this vessel is a very naughty man. I’d hardly got on board when he slipped me the key to his private cabin.”

  She lifted it from her purse.

  “I can’t imagine why.” She grinned.

  And then she took his hand.

  * * *

  Deep carpet underfoot. And red velvet drapes at the portholes. The huge bed, below a mirrored ceiling, was in the shape of a giant scallop shell, as if Venus might be bunking down there.

  Isadora led Jack to it and then was on top of him. Their mouths pressed together. Nimble fingers started to undo his shirt.

  And however hard Jack fought to stop it, his resistance didn’t work. The sheer heat of the woman was completely overwhelming him.

  The heat of her, he told himself. Yes, concentrate on that. Her body is not warm. That simply cannot be. She’s dead.

  One of her hands slipped inside his shirt, and her palm felt hot enough to burn.

  No. Cold—it’s cold!

  It seemed to begin working, just a fraction. Her touch against him became a tiny degree cooler.

  She was pulling off his tie by this time, her tongue at work like some live creature inside his mouth.

  Except her lips grew cooler too. And the woman seemed to notice there was something going wrong. She slowed to a halt and lifted herself, peering at him.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me, Jackie?”

  And that finally did it. Jackie. The exact same thing Pierre Melville used to call him. He started to shove the woman off him, yelling, “No!”

  And then woke up.

  To the echo of his own loud shout, resounding through the hold.

  * * *

  He had actually cried out in his sleep. God! Jack went completely still under the damp tarpaulin.

  The noise of hammering from above had stopped. And when he listened, he could hear boots clanking down the stairs. He yanked the canvas off his face, looked around for an escape route.

  A burly seaman, grease smeared on his face, came lumbering through the one hatch with a flashlight. Jack got slowly to his feet, not taking his eyes from the man. He had a hammer in his other hand. And three of his compatriots were coming in behind him.

  They gaped at him in astonishment, taking in his blond hair and blue eyes.

  “A gringo?”

  “You!” said the first one. “What d’you think you’re doing here?”

  His gaze slid down to something at Jack’s feet. The bottle of amphetamines had dropped out of his pocket.

  “You a junkie? Christus!”

  The man raised his hammer and stepped forward.

  “I hate junkies! You think you’re going to stay here, stinking up my ship? No. I’m going to mess you up!”

  Jack droppe
d to a crouch, his knife coming smoothly out of his back pocket. Expected the man to step away. Come to a halt, at least. But he was wrong.

  The sailor didn’t hesitate. He lunged out, with incredible speed, and lashed at Jack’s hand. He connected, and the pain was like a tent spike being driven through his bones. The blade went clattering away along the floor. Jack clutched at his knuckles.

  One of the others hissed, “Try to cut us, huh? Son of a whore!”

  They were spreading out, ugly smiles on their faces. But it was his turn to counter. He plunged in, attacking with his feet and his remaining fist, his old instincts returning.

  He managed to punch one guy in the mouth; kicked another on the knee so hard that he heard something crack.

  But then the flat side of the hammer slammed against his neck. The hold began turning sideways.

  Someone hit him squarely on the chin, and he didn’t seem to have legs anymore. So he fell over, coming down hard on the drenched, rusted steel floor.

  He could make out boots surrounding him.

  Then they started kicking . . . kicking . . .

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Manuel had real difficulty getting off to sleep that night, and woke as soon as dawn’s light began creeping up his windowpane. He must have only been out for three hours at the most. He clutched at his brow and moaned. It would probably have been better not to sleep at all.

  “Hola.” Luis nodded as he went into the hallway.

  The young man had showered and was wrapped in a clean towel. And—damn the young their energy and their resilience—the boy was fresh-faced, his eyes as bright as two new coins.

  A noise from downstairs announced that Doctor Hague had risen, too.

  Ten minutes later, the smell of brewing coffee was emerging from the kitchen, eggs were sizzling in a pan. The Canadian was standing over them, his crutches tucked under one arm. In the hallway, Manuel watched as Luis dialed the clinic.

  The student spoke hurriedly on the line. He looked surprised by the answer he got, then turned to Manuel, beaming with relief.

  “Doctor Torres is there,” he reported. “And he’s expecting us.”