King Bongo

by Thomas Sanchez

  The men lit up and smoked in silence. They contemplated the Judge’s floating body.

  From behind the fountain a cluster of nearly naked women stepped tentatively out from the mass of jungle plants. They wore feathered headdresses, and gold glitter sparkled on their bare breasts. They moved like a flock of exotic birds, cooing among themselves, then their voices took on a fevered pitch as they grew bolder, prancing around the fountain.

  Bongo sensed a competition between these proud black Tropicana showgirls and the marble-white muses.

  More people ran up, pushing in for a closer look as they shouted questions, eager for details.

  Bongo surveyed the growing crowd, hoping to spot the Giant. After all, this killing proved that the Tropicana needed more insurance. He didn’t see the Giant, but he heard a car pull up on the other side of the plantings.

  Within moments Pedro and Paulo came running up the path and pushed their way to the fountain. They were thrilled to have such a large audience, and to see the fleshy charms of the Tropicana showgirls exposed in broad daylight.

  Pedro shouted with bullish authority, “This area is under control of Captain Zapata of the Special Police. You will all be asked to remain and give your names and a statement.”

  Paulo chimed in, “We will also need your addresses.” He was hatching a scheme to visit the showgirls’ homes for further investigation.

  Zapata strolled up the path, wearing his usual linen suit and Panama hat, the image of the crowd reflected in the black lenses of his sunglasses. When he stopped, the black lenses reflected the white muses of the fountain. He ran his finger slowly along his pencil-thin mustache as he looked down at the Judge floating in a pond of blood.

  The crowd waited for Zapata to speak. When he did it was in his customary whisper. “Did anyone witness this?”

  A person in the crowd meekly asked, “Sir, will you repeat that? We can barely hear you.”

  Zapata turned and faced the crowd. “Did anyone see the killing?”

  No one answered.

  Zapata asked again, “Anyone?”

  No one broke the silence.

  “In that case,” Zapata said, “give your statements to my men. I want to know how each of you came to be here.”

  An agitated showgirl shifted her weight from one high-heeled shoe to another. “What about us? We’ve got a show to put on.”

  Zapata looked sternly at her. “So do I. Do as I’ve ordered.”

  Pedro and Paulo whipped out their notebooks, ready to get all the vital information from the girls.

  Zapata slowly turned his head, surveying the crowd. His sunglasses reflected the image of Bongo. “What are you doing here?”

  Bongo walked up to Zapata. “I came to sell insurance to the Giant.”

  “Can he verify that alibi?”

  “The Giant’s not here. I was headed home.”

  “I’ll talk to you later, at the station.”

  “The station?”

  Zapata sneered, “You think we should meet instead at Chez Morito for steaks?”

  “That’s a stuffy Vedado restaurant. How about Charley Sing’s in Chinatown? Great chop suey.”

  “Always the smart guy.”

  “I just know my restaurants.”

  “You’re a suspect.”

  “Since when haven’t I been, in your book?”

  “You’re on page one.”

  “I’m hoping to write the last page.”

  “Only I can write the last page to your story.”

  “We’ll see about that.”

  “Is that a threat?” Zapata asked angrily. “If it is, I’ll lock you up in the same dungeon where your slave ancestors were kept.”

  “I’ve always been your threat,” Bongo smiled wryly. “You know that. And what’s more important, she knows that.”

  “If it wasn’t for her, I wouldn’t have saved your skinny nine-year-old ass after the hurricane. You’d be dead.”

  “I don’t owe you for that. You got what you wanted.”

  “Yes, I got her.” Zapata slowly drew a finger across the line of his black mustache, then growled, “Get out of my sight before I finish it.”

  Bongo didn’t move until he had the last word. “I know the truth. She’s escaped your cage. Now you don’t have her. You have nothing.”

  Bongo turned his back on Zapata. He pushed his way through the crowd and walked along the path to the parking lot. Before he could open the door of the Rocket, four cars raced up and men jumped out. Photographers popped off flashbulbs as reporters shouted questions.

  Bongo shouted back, “What are you doing? I’m not the story! The story is the muses!”

  “Muses?” a reporter asked. “What muses?”

  “The ones that are dancing on a dead man!”

  The men took off running.

  Bongo, what are you doing here? The Virgins isn’t your kind of joint. Have you gone over to the other side?”

  Bongo swung around on his barstool toward the voice behind him.

  Sailor Girl stood grinning from beneath her jaunty sailor cap, two new boyfriends at her side.

  “I haven’t gone over to the other side.” Bongo winked. “I’m still staying on my side of the bed.”

  “Too bad. You had me excited there for a moment. You see these cute boys?” She pinched the muscled arms of the two men on either side of her.

  “Hard to miss.”

  “Hard and crisp and taste like animal crackers.”

  “Enjoy your picnic,” Bongo said, turning back toward the bar.

  Sailor Girl grabbed his shoulder, eager to fill him in. “These guys are Russian merchant marines. They don’t speak a word of English.”

  “Convenient.”

  “They just sailed in on a big cargo ship.” Sailor Girl leaned in close to Bongo’s ear. “The ship’s carrying rockets and ammunition for the bearded boys in the mountains.”

  “Probably just carrying pickles and pig knuckles.”

  “Hah. My Russians have all the pickles and pig knuckles a girl could want.”

  “I’m glad you’re getting the best of the foreign exchange. Not to change the subject, but—”

  “You want to know what boy toy I use on them?”

  “No.”

  “A big black dildo.”

  “Why black?”

  “That’s the only color they have in Havana. They think all dicks are black.”

  “Interesting theory.”

  “It’s like Henry Ford said: ‘You can have any color Model-T car you want, as long as it’s black.’ ”

  “Maybe Ford has the dildo market cornered in Havana.”

  “We Americans have everything cornered.”

  “To change the subject, I was going to ask if—”

  “You know what I like about sticking it to men?”

  “You don’t have to send flowers after.”

  “I like it that they scream out what they want. Not like women, who never tell you what they want when you’re laying them, expecting you to be a goddamn mind reader. Men are like a car on the road, honking to get your attention.”

  “You Americans are so romantic.”

  “Some of us, anyway.”

  “I wanted to ask you about a bartender here.”

  “I knew it. You have gone over to the other side.”

  “Sweet Maria. What do you know?”

  “You have good taste. She’s creamy and tart, like mango pie.”

  “Tell me more.”

  “She’s my competition.”

  “She hasn’t been around lately.”

  “She’s not working here anymore.”

  “Where can I find her?”

  “She lives out past the Rancho Boyeros airport, in Rincón. She complained what a long bus ride it was, especially since she had two jobs.”

  “Where’s the other job?”

  “The Hotel Nacional. She’s a maid.”

  “She must work the day shift, since she was always here at night.
”

  “I suppose.”

  “What part of Rincón does she live in?”

  “By that church where all the cripples go to get cured. Saint Lazarus or something, it’s called.”

  Bongo gave Sailor Girl a kiss on the cheek.

  “A kiss from the King! I must have pushed the right button.”

  “You did.”

  “You want to come with us to the Mocambo Club? It’s air-conditioned. If there’s no air-conditioning in a place when I’m dancing, I take my shirt off so I can cool my titties. But some people are offended when I act like one of the boys. Pricks.”

  “Can’t join you. I’ve got a date.”

  “So, you’re finally dating after what happened to your girlfriend.”

  “It’s not that kind of date.”

  Sailor Girl leaned close with a big smile. “Don’t lie to me. I can tell you’re ready to date again.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I’m your girl.”

  “I’ll take a rain check.”

  “Rain check?” Sailor Girl laughed. “It never rains in Havana when you expect it.”

  “Don’t expect it.”

  Outside the Three Virgins, Bongo put the Rocket’s top down, climbed in and started the engine. He turned the car onto Avenue de Paula, a mambo serenading him on the radio. He drove along the city’s oldest paseo, a souvenir of Havana’s four-hundred-year-old seaport heritage, past vast shipping docks, curving around the Point of San Salvador and the stone remains of a Spanish castle that once guarded the entrance to the city. From across the bay, the cannons of La Cabana thundered through the salty air. He checked his watch. Nine o’clock. He was late from talking to Sailor Girl, but he had needed her information. He pressed harder on the gas pedal, hitting the straightaway of the Malecón, passing the Maceo monument. On either side of the road men labored in the evening shadows, erecting bleacher seating for the next day’s Big Race.

  Bongo sped by the giant bronze eagle perched atop the Maine monument’s marble pillars, then zoomed through the tunnel beneath the Almendares River and up onto the grand twelve-mile promenade of Fifth Avenue, divided down the middle by a manicured display of exotic plantings. After several miles he cut away from the avenue, driving past streets of impressive homes and well-dressed people strolling beneath the glow of streetlamps. He turned the Rocket through two granite columns and followed a drive to the front of a sprawling Mediterranean-style building. A man hurried out.

  Bongo stopped the Rocket and ordered the man to get in.

  “Sir, this is the Biltmore Yacht Club. Don’t you want me to park your car?”

  “We’ll park it together.”

  “That’s an unusual request.”

  “It’s the way I like it.”

  “If it’s your pleasure, sir.” The man got in.

  “Where do you park the cars?”

  The man pointed through the windshield. “That direction, sir.”

  Bongo drove behind a stone wall and passed several rows of gleaming American automobiles.

  “Sir, you may park where you like.”

  Bongo kept driving. He turned along another row of cars and stopped behind a white Cadillac Eldorado convertible.

  “Sir, there’s no room to park next to Mr. Armstrong’s automobile. Perhaps we can drive on a little farther.”

  “Get out.”

  “Out? Here?”

  “Now.”

  The man got out.

  Bongo handed him a peso.

  “But I didn’t park your car.”

  “You earned it.”

  Bongo stepped on the gas. He drove back through the granite columns, following the road to where it split into two directions around the expanse of a golf course surrounded by mansions. Suddenly he hit the Rocket’s brakes, skidding up behind a long line of cars stopped before a wooden road barricade.

  “Damn,” he muttered.

  He looked at his wristwatch: 9:30. He didn’t have time to wait while cars were searched and IDs were checked. He honked his horn. A soldier with a rifle walked toward him and shined the beam of a flashlight into his face. “What’s the hurry?”

  “I’ve got an emergency.”

  “Do you live up ahead in the Country Club?”

  “No, but I’ve got a hot date waiting for me there.”

  “So what’s the emergency?”

  “She won’t stay hot for long.”

  “Get out of the car. Let’s see your ID.”

  Bongo got out, pulled his wallet from his pocket and then dropped it.

  “Pick it up,” the soldier demanded.

  Bongo picked the wallet up and slipped out a ten-peso bill. “This must be yours,” he said.

  The soldier grabbed the ten. “I have to search you. Nobody gets into the Country Club without a search. Hands on your head and turn around.”

  Bongo did as he was ordered.

  The soldier patted Bongo down. He felt the holster under Bongo’s jacket and slipped the gun out. “It’s going to be a long night for you if you don’t have a permit.”

  “I have one.”

  “Show me.”

  Bongo opened his wallet and pulled out another ten. “Here’s the permit.”

  The soldier took the ten and peered at it. “This permit has expired.”

  Bongo took out another ten and handed it over.

  “Everything’s up-to-date,” the soldier said, “for now. You’ll need to come to central headquarters next week for an extension.” He handed Bongo back his gun.

  “What’s the trouble? Another bombing?”

  “There’s been a threat against the President.”

  “That’s not unusual.”

  “This one’s more serious. Something big is supposed to happen tomorrow. Weren’t you stopped at any roadblocks before this?”

  “No.”

  “You’re lucky. Everything’s screwed down tight. You’d better get going before your luck runs out.”

  Bongo got back into the Rocket and headed around the long line of cars. Two soldiers removed the barricade blocking the road and waved him through. He took the right-hand split in the road, driving past mansions, each becoming bigger and more imposing, boasting their classical pedigrees with elaborate Greek and Roman architectural details. Only one was constructed with no reference to past glories, sustained instead by a streamlined boldness. Bongo stopped in front of its steel gate. The gate magically swung open. He continued to a block-long, one-story-high monolithic wedge of concrete pierced by rows of round windows lit from the inside, giving the illusion of a recently landed spaceship.

  Bongo parked the Rocket and got out. As he approached the house, outdoor lights mysteriously switched on, illuminating human-size shrubs in ethereal topiary shapes.

  He walked up to an aluminum door arched into the flat concrete facade. He raised his hand to knock, but the door swung open by itself.

  A young woman in a short yellow sundress stood at the beginning of a long hallway.

  “I’m King Bongo. Sorry I’m late. But there was a roadblock and—”

  The woman turned away and walked down the hallway. Bongo assumed he should follow, and as he did he noticed that the walls and floor were made of a material he had never seen before, a modern plastic meld with the shine of glacial ice. He could see his reflection in it, and also the reflection of the pretty woman as she led the way. He liked the way her hips were swinging; she definitely had the rhythm. He planned to slip her his business card before he left.

  The young woman opened a set of glass doors and stepped into a large room bare of any furniture except for two sleek sling-back metal chairs with a round Lucite cocktail table between them.

  “Would you like a cocktail?” the woman asked.

  Bongo took in her brown hair and eyes. She had the Latin loveliness that he was partial to. “Do you have Hatuey?” he asked. “I’ll pay.”

  A slight smile curved her pretty lips. “No need.”

  “And a glass of ice,
and a lime.”

  “One slice of lime or two?”

  “Three.”

  “Four,” she said, and left.

  Bongo looked around. On the walls were large paintings of children’s faces floating behind sheets of clear plastic. The children appeared to be on the verge of howling with laughter or weeping inconsolably, as if they had witnessed something hysterically funny or had been raped. Their unsettling eyes were large as plates, ballooning over tiny mouths the size of sparrow eggs.

  The singing of a sultry female swelled into the room. It was the voice of the American, Peggy Lee, sounding like a silky zipper sliding open a velvet dress. Bongo looked around, but he could see no speakers anywhere in the room. The voice floated, disembodied.

  The pretty woman returned. She set a plastic tray on the cocktail table, and poured a Hatuey beer into an ice-filled glass. She left before Bongo had a chance to say a word or offer her his card.

  He sat back in the low-slung chair and took a swig of the drink. Beer and lime tingled in his mouth as Peggy Lee sang:

  Just when I think you’re mine,

  you try a different line and

  baby, what can I do?…

  I went to school and

  I’m nobody’s fool …

  until I met you.

  The singing stopped.

  Mrs. Armstrong stood silhouetted in the arched doorway. Light shimmered through the silk of her champagne-colored dress, a diamond choker glistened around her neck. “You’ve got a lot of courage to come here when my husband isn’t home.”

  “You’re the one who called and invited me.”

  “Not this late.”

  “There was an army roadblock.”

  “You braved the army just to see me?”

  “To ask some questions.”

  “That’s interesting, since I’m the one who invited you.”

  Bongo could smell her, that singular, odd aroma of roses and the scent of a new car’s leather upholstery. She came toward him. Her blond hair was swept up and away from her face, exposing her symmetrical features, like an elegant figurehead on the prow of a ship.

  “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.

  “Like what?”

  “Like I’m an object.”

  “If you were, you’d be too expensive for me.”

  “Don’t play the poor boy and act like you only have two choices with the rich, marry them or—”