King Bongo

by Thomas Sanchez

  Bongo gazed around the amphitheater. Everything from New Year’s Eve was still vivid. Zapata, seated at his table with two bodyguards. Mercedes, waving to her college friends, above her a spider dropping from a glistening thread. The woman in white hissing, “White spiders are bad luck, especially tonight.”

  Bongo could see it all, but what was it he wasn’t seeing? Everyone that night, except Mercedes and the Judge, had told him to leave.

  “King Bongo, my man! King of Kings!” A hulk of a man leapt onto the stage. He was dressed in a suit and his shaved head gleamed. He fell to one knee, placing a hand over his heart like a crooner trying to put over a sappy song. The huge gash of his mouth belted out, “I drove along the Malecón; got my pay today, hoping tonight to get some play. Hah! You remember that?”

  Bongo smiled. “A Fido original.”

  “Could be a hit. What do you say we slip a rumba under it? It could take off bigger than Beny Moré.”

  “Never going to happen.”

  Fido bounded off the stage and slapped Bongo heartily on the back. “Come on, pal, why so glum?”

  “Among other things, I’m trying to find my sister and it keeps getting more complicated. I’ve got one guy in a Pineapple Field telling me to follow a cripple with a dog. I’ve got another guy in an opium-orchid nirvana telling me to go ask the White Spider Woman. What’s it add up to?”

  “Illusions, man. Cuba is an island of illusions.”

  “So let’s not talk illusions, let’s talk business.”

  “Business is the biggest illusion of all,” Fido laughed. “Bigger than love.”

  “No illusion is bigger than love.”

  “You sure are in a sour mood. Did you run over a Chihuahua in your Rocket?”

  “A Great Dane.”

  “Then you’ve got the big blues.”

  “I don’t know what I’ve got. All I know is that I’ve been so distracted that my business is going to hell. I need to sell some insurance.”

  “Can’t help you there. You’ve already insured my house and car. The only thing not insured is my balls.” Fido winked. “But you know, your small outfit couldn’t handle that job.”

  “True. Only Lloyd’s of London could insure something so colossal.”

  “Damn right.” Fido roared with laughter.

  “I’m looking for the Giant. After the bombing, he’s sure to want to up his coverage.”

  “The Giant’s not here. He’s out running around town with the King.”

  “The King?” Bongo asked good-humoredly. “I thought I was supposed to be the King.”

  “Nat ‘King’ Cole, the great American bolero singer. He’s doing a show here tonight.”

  “You can help me by putting in a good word with the Giant. He respects you. Tell him, if the Tropicana gets hit with another hurricane like the one of 1944, this whole place will end up at the bottom of the ocean between here and Miami.”

  “I already told him. You know I’m always trying to be of assistance. You’ve helped pull me through many hard times.”

  “That’s between friends. We’re Cubans, we don’t owe one another.”

  “I owe you big. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t be happily married with three kids.”

  “It’s easy to call a punch in a love match, if you’re watching the fight from outside the ring.”

  “I’m a fighter, and I didn’t see the punch coming.”

  “A man in love never does.”

  “Fighting is about the only thing the Giant listens to me about. I told him to bet on a sixth-round knockout in the Niño Valdes fight. Sure enough, in the sixth Niño hooked the big German’s chin, then smashed his liver.”

  “It was a bloodbath.”

  “The Right Guys were betting the German to go down in the third. I said no, Niño will keep it going to show his stuff, he wants the Americans to see that he’s ready to fight their best. He’s going to be the first Cuban heavyweight champion of the world, it’ll be like the good old days when Kid Chocolate was champ.”

  “Good days.”

  “I’m looking forward to those days. Cuba back on top.”

  “It’ll come. Right now I’m trying to get on top of my own life. What do you know about White Spider Women?”

  “They’re all over the place, religious women. Some days they’re protecting the spiders as gods, other days they’re smashing them like devils. Depends on what the saints tell them to do.”

  “There was one here New Year’s Eve, just before the bombing. She said she knew who I was.”

  “So? Damn near everyone in Havana knows who King Bongo is.”

  “She knew I was half black. Very few people know that. And she was very black. People that black are not allowed in here.”

  “That’s right. If they’re blacker than me they don’t get past the door, unless they’re part of the show.”

  “Then you must have known her. You must have let her in.”

  “No.”

  “Who, then?”

  “If I’m distracted and someone makes it past me, they still have to get by the Judge. He stops everyone before they go into the cabaret.”

  “So the Judge let her in.”

  “Or she paid him off.”

  “What time does the Judge come to work?”

  “Should be here soon, to get ready for tonight’s show.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “You look worried.”

  “I think I know who this White Spider Woman is. The Judge can tell me for certain.”

  “Who is she?”

  “She works at the Three Virgins.”

  “What are you doing there? It’s not the side you dress on.”

  “Part of the job.”

  “Now you’re selling insurance to pie boys and pudding men?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Be careful, a pretty man like you, they’re going to want to get you in a corner.”

  “I can handle it. What does rattle me, though, is that someone is shadowing me all the time.”

  “You’re just paranoid. These are spooky times. Read the paper—bombings, arrests, missing people, unexplained murders.”

  “Someone is tailing me.”

  “Who would want to waste their time following you?”

  “Zapata maybe? He thinks I’ll lead him to my sister.”

  Fido looked over Bongo’s shoulder. “Look who’s here.”

  Bongo turned around, half expecting to see Zapata, but it was Ming.

  Ming called out, “Bongo! I knew you’d be here.”

  Bongo whispered to Fido, “Maybe it’s Ming who’s been following me.”

  Ming stepped in front of Bongo. “Mr. Wu wants you to know that your laundry has come back.”

  “My laundry? Oh, yes, of course, the laundry.”

  “The number matches to a customer who lives in the Country Club district.”

  “Those must have been very expensive underpants.”

  “Made by Brooks Brothers in New York.”

  “What’s the customer’s name?”

  “Guy Armstrong.”

  “That doesn’t make sense. Unless there are two Guy Armstrongs. It’s a common name in the States.”

  “There’s only one Guy Armstrong in Havana. He and his wife have all their laundry done under the same laundry ID number.”

  “What’s the wife’s name?”

  “Elizabeth,” Ming answered, irritated at being quizzed. “Like the queen of England.”

  “Okay, I’m not doubting you. But the reason it doesn’t make sense is because Guy Armstrong is alive. He wasn’t the one fished out of the ocean wearing those underpants.”

  “Mr. Wu doesn’t make mistakes. He thinks the dead man and Armstrong were lovers, they got out of bed in the dark and mistakenly put on each other’s skivvies.”

  Fido laughed. “That could never happen to a straight man. I couldn’t get my little lady’s undies around my wrist, let alone my waist.”

  Ming ign
ored Fido. “One more thing, Bongo. Mr. Wu wants you to know that hidden beneath the skivvies there was a tattoo on the guy’s ass.”

  “I have a feeling,” Bongo said, “you’re going to tell me his ass was tattooed with ‘Guy Armstrong Forever.’ ”

  “No, it said, ‘I love María Teresa Vera.’ ”

  “What the hell are you talking about? Is this a joke?”

  Ming tugged on his dragon tie, cinching the silk knot tighter around his neck. “Mr. Wu doesn’t joke.”

  “The Crab didn’t tell me about any tattoo, and I paid him.”

  “You paid him for the skivvies, not for the tattoo.”

  “Who paid him for that information?”

  “Mr. Wu. He doesn’t want you to keep running around in circles like Saint Kwan Kong the headless monk.”

  “Well, I am running in circles. Who would expect a stiff to have ‘I love María Teresa Vera’ tattooed on his ass? She’s our greatest singer, but she’s ancient, born in Guanajay back in the last century.”

  Ming shrugged. “I don’t care when she was born. It’s not my music.”

  “I thought you people considered yourselves to be more Cuban than Chinese,” Bongo said. “I thought you loved Cuban music.”

  “Not me. I like American stuff, Fats Domino, Elvis, Johnnie Ray.”

  Bongo laughed. “Who are they compared to Beny Moré?”

  “You just don’t get it,” Ming snapped. “Especially Ray, he’s better than Beny. Listen to ‘Soliloquy of a Fool.’ Ray beats himself up over what a dope he is about love and life, he pukes his heart out. It could be your theme song.”

  “Thanks for the classical music lesson.”

  “There’s nothing more for me here,” Ming said with irritation. “I’ve delivered your dirty laundry.” He spun around and left.

  Bongo and Fido watched Ming walk away.

  Fido said, “That guy’s got a twelve-ton chip on each shoulder.”

  “Tough, too.”

  “I never mess with Chinese. They don’t fight fair, they’ve got all those jujitsu moves. Not like in the boxing ring, where you can only kill by following civilized rules.”

  “Listen, I’m going outside to wait for the Judge. Maybe he’ll have the answer I’m looking for.”

  “The Judge, have an answer?” Fido looked at Bongo skeptically. “You’re on your own there. They don’t call that tight-lipped onion the Judge for nothing.”

  “I’ll see what I can do to peel the onion.”

  Bongo stepped outside through the Tropicana’s swinging glass entrance doors. He tapped out a Lucky Strike from its pack, lit up, then strolled along the stone path leading to the fountain of the muses. He knew that the Judge would have to walk by the fountain on his way inside.

  A car pulled up the drive, obscured by a wall of jungle plants. The car stopped and someone got out. Bongo stamped out his cigarette and waited, expecting the Judge.

  A young man appeared on a path leading through the jungle plants. Bongo recognized him. He was the same young man whom Guy Armstrong had left the Three Virgins with late the night that Bongo had followed them to a house.

  The young man walked up to Bongo, sniffing the air. “You’ve been smoking?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Mind if I have one?”

  Bongo tapped two Luckys from the pack, handed one to the young man and popped the other between his lips.

  The young man asked, “Can I have a light?”

  As the young man leaned over Bongo’s Zippo lighter, Bongo noticed his long dark eyelashes, like a woman’s.

  “Nice lighter,” the young man said. “What’s that engraving?”

  “U.S. Navy. It was my father’s.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “About half an hour.”

  “Here by the fountain?”

  “No, first inside.”

  “Was Hurricane in there, the baseball player?”

  “No.”

  “I was supposed to meet him.”

  “The only ones inside are Fido and the guy sweeping up.”

  “No one else?”

  “A Chinese guy, but he left.”

  “Did anybody pass by the fountain since you’ve been here?”

  “You’re expecting somebody besides Hurricane?”

  “Just him.”

  The young man looked up at the eight naked marble muses posed provocatively around the fountain. Water flowed from beneath their bare feet, spilling into a circular pond. “When this is lit up by colored lights at night, the muses look like they’re dancing.”

  “I’ve seen it.”

  “I come here every chance I get. It’s best when nobody’s around and I have them to myself.”

  “A man alone with beauty.”

  “You ever been to Madrid?”

  “No.”

  “In the Prado Museum, they have Goya’s Naked Maja. You know the painting?”

  “The nude lying on a sofa?”

  “That one. She has luminous white skin and a mysterious smile that will stop your heart.”

  “I suppose.”

  “I went to Madrid just to see her. I got to the Prado early. It was still dark and I was first in line. When the doors opened, I ran through the corridors. The Maja is kept in a small room. For three minutes, before the crowd showed up, I had her to myself, it was just the two of us. You know what that was like?”

  “I have an idea you’re going to tell me.”

  “Heaven.”

  “That’s how it is with women, first the heaven, then the hell.”

  “I’m an art student at the university.”

  “When it’s open. The government is always closing it down.”

  “My classes have been suspended, so I have time to admire these beauties.”

  “Sorry you don’t have them to yourself.”

  “Do you know their history? Interesting story.”

  Bongo looked up at the muses. Some were turned inward, displaying gracefully arched backs and curved buttocks, others looked outward, shoulders thrust back and breasts tilted up, their faces ecstatic. “No, I don’t know their history.”

  “They used to be at the old Casino Nacional across town. That place was palatial, before it was torn down. The muses were in the casino’s beautiful garden. Even though they were based on Greek mythology, they came to represent Lady Luck for all the gamblers of Cuba.”

  “That’s a big job.”

  “They were sculpted by an Italian named Aldo Gamba. He fell in love with one of the models he was using, a French woman. He gave his whole heart and talent in capturing her every curve, mood and gesture. Then tragedy.”

  “She left him?”

  “How did you know?”

  “You said it was an interesting story.”

  “He shot himself.”

  “Another good man down.”

  “The shot missed. But the powder burns of the gun blast blinded him.”

  “At least he survived.”

  “Long enough to die in a Nazi concentration camp. He was a Jew.”

  Bongo gazed up at the voluptuous beauties. “I’ll never look at them the same way again.”

  “But Gamba had his revenge. In Greek mythology there were originally nine muses. When the French model left Gamba for another man, he smashed her statue to dust, destroying her chance at immortality.”

  “And then there were eight,” Bongo smiled. “Let’s have another Lucky, for Gamba.” He tapped out two more cigarettes.

  “To Gamba.” The young man grinned. He reached for a cigarette, then stiffened. “A car is coming.”

  “I hear it. So what?”

  The young man threw the cigarette down.

  A car door slammed on the other side of the jungle foliage. Footsteps sounded.

  A man appeared at the far end of the path, walking stiffly, dressed in a tuxedo.

  “The Judge,” Bongo said. “I was waiting for him.”

  “So that’s the Jud
ge.”

  The Judge walked up to Bongo and fixed him with a hard stare. “What are you doing here? Trying to sell insurance to this gullible youth?”

  “No. Did the check I gave you on New Year’s Eve clear?”

  “It would have been your balls if it hadn’t.” The Judge turned and jabbed his elbow into the young man’s side. “Don’t ever get insurance from this guy’s rinky-dink outfit. Stick with a big American company.”

  “I’ll remember that,” the young man said.

  “The only good thing about this guy is his sister.” The Judge smirked. “She is, or was, the sexiest broad in all of Havana. Black with white hair, damnedest thing you’ve ever seen. And when she danced, looked like a whirl of tar and white feathers. Fascinating.”

  Bongo brought up his fist to smash the Judge, just as the young man pulled a gun from his pocket and fired into the Judge’s face.

  The Judge pitched backward into the fountain.

  The young man aimed the gun at Bongo. “If it weren’t for your sister, I’d shoot you as a witness.” He slipped the gun back into his pocket. “When the cops come, say you got here just after he was shot. You’ll be okay.”

  The young man turned to leave.

  “Wait. Where’s my sister?”

  “I can’t tell you.” He disappeared back along the path and into the foliage.

  Fido ran up to Bongo in front of the fountain of the muses. With Fido was the lanky Hurricane Hurler. Bongo hadn’t known that the two men knew each other.

  Fido looked down at the Judge floating in the water. His face broke into a big grin. “The Judge is having his last dance with the muses.”

  Hurricane eyed Bongo accusingly. “You shot him.”

  Fido looked slyly at Bongo. “Nobody will blame you. The trash that came out of his mouth.”

  “I wish I had shot him,” Bongo said.

  “Then you saw who did it?” Hurricane asked.

  “Of course he didn’t see the murderer,” Fido said. Then he glanced at Bongo. “Did you see who did it?”

  “I was getting into my car, heard a gunshot, came back here and found the Judge at the muses’ feet.”

  “Maybe you caught a glimpse of the murderer running away?” Hurricane asked.

  “I saw nothing.”

  Fido grinned. “See no evil, hear no evil.”

  “That’s about it.” Bongo pulled out his pack of cigarettes. “You fellas care for a Lucky?”