“You must be sucking on the bribery bottle to get a car like this.”
“I’m not in the government.”
“How’d you get it, then?”
“Insurance.”
“You’re a repo goon?”
“I sell insurance.”
“Insurance guys don’t make any dough.”
“I sold car insurance to a bartender at the Jockey Club in Oriental Park. He bet the ponies, but his touts were no good. He couldn’t keep up the payments on the car, so I got it.”
“That right?” The guard leaned over to admire the padded red dashboard and the radio’s sparkling chrome dials. His rifle clanked on the driver’s door. “You ever take her out on the new autoway and open her up real good?”
“Sure. Watch your rifle. She scratches easy.”
“If I owned this beauty, I’d drive around Havana with the top down and wait for the girls to jump in, like fish into a boat.”
“I’d rather have that,” Bongo pointed up the driveway to the white Cadillac Eldorado.
“Fat chance.”
“Who owns it?”
“An American.”
“What’s he do?”
“You know Americans, they don’t have to do anything. Those guys have it made, going from one club to another. Life’s a big party, tennis, dancing, swimming, eating.”
“What about the Cadillac American? What’s he doing here now?”
“Mr. Armstrong? Same thing every Tuesday and Thursday. Tennis. Arrives at four and plays for an hour.”
“Then what?”
“Home to the little lady, I guess.”
Bongo glanced at his wristwatch: 4:10. He started the Rocket. “Got to go.” He backed up, almost knocking the guard over.
“Hey,” the guard shouted, “maybe you could come back and give me a ride sometime!”
Bongo kept driving, retracing his route. Crossing over the Twenty-third Street Bridge again, he glanced down, remembering when the world below had blurred in the fury of a hurricane and everything flooded, leaving dead bodies in the trees and his father washed far out to sea.
When Bongo reached the Malecón, he merged into the traffic streaming along the ocean’s edge. He sped past Torreon de San Lazaro, the seventeenth-century stone watchtower overlooking a cove where invaders had once landed from an armada of ships, storming ashore to plunder the fabled Pearl of the Antilles.
He then passed the monumental General Maceo, cast in bronze on a rearing horse. It had taken twenty-four bullets from the Spanish in the war for independence to kill this military titan. Now he was an inspiration, eternally prepared to ride into battle. The monument blurred as Bongo turned off the Malecón toward the towering concrete drabness of the Hotel Deauville, then drove up Galiano Avenue, a posh promenade of elegant apartment buildings, shops, restaurants and theaters, all showcased by flamboyant tropical foliage.
Bongo didn’t want to leave the Rocket on the street where someone might recognize it. At Concordia Street he abruptly turned into an auto garage of perforated mortar-block walls resembling a giant wasp nest. He parked, took from the trunk the paper package that the Crab had given him, and exited onto the busy sidewalk. He looked both ways, to make certain no one was tailing him, then walked quickly until he reached a narrow, two-story building with its interior exposed through a glass facade. Above the doorway was a sleek aluminum sign: CALIFORNIA. The word shimmered, conjuring a world of exoticism. Bongo entered.
Inside, glass globes suspended from the ceiling rained brilliant light onto display cases populated by plastic molds of women’s feet. The feet, cut off at the ankles, were provocatively fitted with high-heeled shoes, their varied upper strappings exhibiting an artistry of binding and thinly disguised functionality.
Despite the air-conditioned atmosphere, Bongo felt hot and uncomfortable. Elegantly dressed saleswomen around him stood motionless, their eyes gazing vacantly. This wasn’t a place for a guy to be, even if he did love the mystery of feminine ways.
“May we be of assistance?”
The question floated in the chilly air. Bongo looked around to find its source, but the women, stationed strategically throughout the vast monotoned space, didn’t break from their robotic conspiracy of non-emotional display.
Bongo didn’t want to say Mrs. Armstrong’s name. “I’m here to meet someone.”
A woman’s voice answered. “Of course, as we don’t cater to gentlemen.”
“She’s American.”
“Ah, why didn’t you say so?” One of the women broke from her inanimate rank of haughty commerce. “Madam is upstairs. Follow me.”
The woman turned and walked as if in a trance, up a staircase that appeared to have no visible supporting structure, just slick wooden steps ascending into midair and ending on a broad mezzanine. Mrs. Armstrong was seated on a low-slung suede sofa. A pretty shopgirl knelt at her feet.
“You’re just in time.” Mrs. Armstrong waved to Bongo. “Come here and help me choose.”
Bongo ran a finger under the collar of his shirt. Even in the chilled air he was getting hotter. “I don’t know anything about shoes.”
Mrs. Armstrong raised a slender white finger with its pointed pearl-colored nail, and motioned for him to come closer.
There was no place for him to sit, except next to her on the plush sofa.
She smoothed her hand across the suede seat. “Come and sit here. You’re just like a man, nervous to be surrounded by so many women.”
Bongo sat down, breathing in her intoxicating perfume. The closeness of her body created an urgent velocity. He felt a centrifugal force pulling him toward her. He placed his hands on the leather seat, trying to get a grip.
Mrs. Armstrong stretched out a leg in front of her. She was wearing high-cut linen shorts; the length of her leg, from the lower thigh to the tip of her toes, was exhibited in flawless white-skin glory. “How do you like it?”
Bongo admired the outstretched piece of anatomy. He cleared his throat and admitted the obvious. “Perfection.”
“Really?” Mrs. Armstrong turned her foot, getting a different angle on the leather strapping of a sandal that was wrapped in an open pattern from her toes to her ankle.
Bongo thought her foot looked like a glorious white fish held in netted bondage.
“I’ll take these,” Mrs. Armstrong announced, “in all three colors.” She turned to Bongo. “What do you think? Shall we try on evening shoes?”
“Evening shoes?”
Mrs. Armstrong turned back to the shopgirl. “I want to try on all of your Italians.”
“Of course, madam.”
When the shopgirl was out of sight, Mrs. Armstrong’s expression changed from one of high-spirited informality to business. “What have you to report?”
“Well, you were right. He’s playing tennis now, at the Pan Americas Club.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw his car there.”
“Did you see Guy?”
“No, but the car—.”
“What kind of investigator are you? You saw the car, but not him? How do you know he isn’t following you?”
“The guard at the club told me he was there.”
“Don’t take a guard’s word for anything. They make more money in bribes for telling lies than they do from their regular salary.”
“If you know so much, why did you hire me?”
“Look. I don’t need to verify that my husband is playing tennis at Pan Americas Club, golf at Biltmore Country Club, or skeet shooting at Luyano Hunters Club. These things I know. I want to find out whom I’m losing him to. Give me my money’s worth.”
“Do you know a bar on the waterfront called the Three Virgins?”
“Cute name. Never heard of it.”
“Not such a cute place. It’s a rough trade bar on the docks, frequented by sailors, laborers, occasional thrill-seeking tourists. It’s not one of your country clubs. He’s a regular there.”
“Here comes
the shopgirl. Let’s stop talking about this?”
The girl knelt at Mrs. Armstrong’s feet and began opening shoe boxes.
“Oh, my,” Mrs. Armstrong sighed, “look at all these Perugias and Ferragamos. Amazing, so modern. I didn’t see these styles in New York or Paris.”
“I’m not surprised,” Bongo said. “Havana’s more sophisticated than most people think. Did you know more Cadillacs are sold here than in any other city in the world?”
“More than Beverly Hills, more than Monte Carlo? I don’t believe it. How do you know?”
“Insurance. It’s my job. I see all the statistics.”
“Well, Mr. Statistic”—Mrs. Armstrong stretched a leg out again, a white, shapely offering—“why don’t you kneel down there among all those shoes and find me the magic glass slipper?”
Bongo nodded toward the shopgirl. “It’s better we leave you in the hands of an expert.”
Mrs. Armstrong moved her face close to Bongo’s. Her blond hair was held back beneath a silk Hermès scarf. Her perfectly proportioned ears were exposed, their lobes pierced by diamond clusters cut in the shape of dazzling flowers. Her blue eyes sparkled, her pink lipstick gloss shone, her seductive voice spilled with creamy danger. “Don’t you want to be my Prince Charming?”
“You don’t need a magic slipper.” Bongo looked into her eyes. “You already are a princess.”
“Oh, listen to him.” Mrs. Armstrong smiled at the shopgirl. “He doesn’t know that even a princess can use another pair of Ferragamos.” She pointed to a pair of black-and-gold velvet pumps. “I’ll try those first.”
“Excellent choice, madam.” The shopgirl raised her prize catch from its sea of satiny tissue paper and held it up, its needle-tipped heel resting in one upturned palm, its open-toed front balanced on her other palm.
“What’s it called?” Mrs. Armstrong pursed her lips with delight. “Mr. Ferragamo always gives his creations such naughty names.”
“The Velvet Gold-Caged Pump. We are the first store in all of the Americas to have it.”
“Slip it on. I need it.”
The shopgirl placed a hand behind Mrs. Armstrong’s heel and negotiated the black-and-gold concoction onto the offered foot.
Mrs. Armstrong pivoted on the sofa seat, arched her back and raised her leg higher, taking the final fit of the shoe.
The shopgirl was enraptured by the white foot strapped into gold and black velvet.
Mrs. Armstrong smiled into the girl’s eyes. “The princess has her slipper. Hurry, put the other one on before I turn into a pumpkin.”
The girl nodded conspiratorially, slipping the other shoe into place.
Mrs. Armstrong stretched out both legs to admire the shoes that caught her feet in their perfect net. Her silk panties were exposed beneath her linen shorts.
The shopgirl blushed at the flash of silk.
Bongo was intrigued. He looked back and forth between both women. He noticed that beneath Mrs. Armstrong’s lacy blouse, her nipples were hard and pricked at the thin material. It was unusual that a woman like her wasn’t wearing a brassiere.
“Oh, my, I’m late,” Mrs. Armstrong exclaimed, looking at her diamond-faced wristwatch. “My husband will be home before I am. I must run.” She winked at the shopgirl. “Ring up the Ferragamos.”
The girl slipped the velvet shoes off Mrs. Armstrong’s feet, cradled them back into their cardboard nest, and hurried off.
Mrs. Armstrong swung quickly around to Bongo. “Give me the package.”
“Package? What are you talking about?”
“Don’t be coy. If it’s not for me, who’s it for?”
Bongo glanced at the brown paper package that he was holding. “It’s not for you. It’s personal.”
“So, you have another girlfriend?”
“My girlfriend was killed in the Tropicana.”
“Ah, I get it. It’s one of your precious orchids. It’s one of those Dear Mirandas.”
“Vanda dearei.”
“Oh, yes. You said there was only one in Havana.”
“Lost in the Tropicana blast. I had it in my hands for a brief moment.”
“That’s like briefly having a girl in your arms.”
“I had the right girl in my arms that night at the Tropicana. Her name was Mercedes.”
“Mercedes and Vanda, your two lost loves. Your two eternal flames.”
“No flames left. Everything’s up in smoke.”
“Sounds heavenly.”
“You really don’t give a damn about anyone but yourself.” Bongo nailed her with a hard look. “I’ll give you back your lousy money. Go find out who your husband’s cheating with on your own.”
Mrs. Armstrong stared silently with icy blue eyes.
Bongo’s fingers started tapping on the stretched leather seat. It was a fast, hot-blooded rhythm, a volcano steaming.
Mrs. Armstrong placed her hand over his, as she had that day in his office, stopping the rhythm. “When you get nervous you start drumming.”
“I’m not nervous.” Bongo glared.
“Listen, Drummer Boy. Keep the money I gave you. I’ll hire another investigator.”
“Such an American. If you don’t get what you want from someone, you buy it from somebody else. Just like you buy elections and countries.”
“I don’t care about politics.”
“What do you care about? Besides shoes?”
“Love.”
“What do you Americans know about love?”
“We understand the economics of love. To really sell a torch song, you’ve got to be willing to light yourself on fire.”
“So you’ve been burned. Your husband is cheating on you. Now you have your money’s worth.”
“And if you stay on the job, you’ll get your money’s worth.”
In a flat voice, Bongo sarcastically quoted the Peggy Lee song he had heard on the radio. “I hear you speak my name, softly in my ear you breathe a flame.”
“Don’t get cute.”
Bongo continued more sarcastically, “Why quarrel without bliss when two lips want to kiss.”
“I see I’m influencing your taste in music. What about Johnnie Ray? Have you heard him?”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“You will. It’s not his hit song, ‘Cry,’ that I want you to hear. It’s ‘Gee, but I’m Lonesome.’ ”
“Sounds complicated.”
“The most profound thoughts are corny.”
“Not in the Latin world. Love is about life or death, like war.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
The shopgirl reappeared with Mrs. Armstrong’s purchases, wrapped like gifts in red paper with blue bows. “We’ve put the items on your charge account. Thank you, madam.”
Mrs. Armstrong took the packages and turned back to Bongo. “Answer me something personal. What do you think of them?”
“Them?”
“The Ferragamos.”
“You really want to know?”
“The honest truth?”
Bongo held his tongue. He knew better than to come between a woman and her taste in fashion.
“Come on, answer. This isn’t a complicated crossword puzzle.”
“You could walk on razor blades with those shoes, and you wouldn’t bleed.”
“My, how romantic.”
Mrs. Armstrong shifted her attention to the shopgirl. “Honey, what’s your opinion?”
The shopgirl didn’t want to get in the middle. She smiled and kept her mouth shut.
“You Cuban girls are so tongue-tied when there’s a man around,” Mrs. Armstrong scolded. “Let me warn you about Havana men like this Romeo here. If you give them the chance, they will cut your heart out and throw flowers in the hole.”
The shopgirl was stunned.
Mrs. Armstrong continued sweetly, “Honey, the next time I come in here, can you get them to turn the air-conditioning down? The cold makes my nipples so hard it takes hours to thaw them
out.”
The shopgirl blushed deeper than when she had seen Mrs. Armstrong’s panties.
Bongo glanced at Mrs. Armstrong’s blouse, her hard nipples stabbing like ice picks at the thin lace.
Mrs. Armstrong got up. “Got to run.”
Bongo watched her walk away. She seemed to float down the floating staircase, a vanishing vision of charming venom.
The shopgirl began gathering up the scattered pairs of shoes that Mrs. Armstrong had tried on and discarded.
Bongo said, “Tell me about the shoes the lady bought.”
“Which pair, sir? The lady bought several.”
“The gold-and-black Italian jobs.”
“The Ferragamos?”
“Yes. Do they come in other colors?”
“Besides the Velvet Gold-Caged Pump, there’s also the Velvet Silver-Caged Pump.”
“I’ll take the silver.”
“What size, sir?”
“Same size.”
“I’ll have them wrapped and waiting downstairs.”
The girl walked off with a load of stacked boxes in her arms and descended the staircase. Bongo admired her shape from behind and the way her hips swung. She looked like she could definitely dance.
He gazed around. New female customers had arrived while he was talking with Mrs. Armstrong. They had the same smug pout of entitlement on their lipstick-glossed lips that Mrs. Armstrong had. Bongo wanted out.
He headed down the staircase and the shopgirl met him with a fancy wrapped package.
“How much?” Bongo asked.
“Twenty pesos, sir.”
Bongo let out a whistle. “Twenty pesos? That’s my rent.”
The shopgirl smiled. “Mine too.”
Bongo opened his wallet and pulled out a twenty. “Here, thanks.” He started for the door.
“Sir, you forgot your shoes!”
He turned around. “And I forgot to ask your name.”
“Mercedes,” she brightened. “Like the car.”
“Mercedes—that name has a special place in my heart. Well, my dear Mercedes, those are not my shoes, they’re yours. You deserve them, after what you were put through.”
King Bongo Page 17