Havana Run
Page 14
He’d spent a dozen years in Miami, trying to hold his marriage together, trying to find a way to live down his old man’s mistakes, raising a daughter and trying to make a life. Wasn’t it natural to gravitate toward some release?
Never mind Fuentes and his kill-you-with-kindness manipulation, never mind whether everything that Vines had promised was equally bogus, he told himself. He’d stumbled into an amazing place. He felt a kind of wonder. He’d come out of it with that much, at least.
He returned to the sitting room and sat on the couch, glancing at the blank eye of the television that sat incongruously on a wooden table in a corner. Curiosity alone might have prompted him to turn it on, but he was hesitant to mask the low murmur that rose from the street below his balcony. It was like a stream flowing past, he thought, the notion a comforting one. Despite everything—the hardships, the politics, the separation from loved ones—the stream of life flowed on.
***
He came awake with a start to the pounding at his door—nearly dark outside, he realized, trying to calculate how long he’d been out. He reached to switch on a lamp, then shoved himself up from the couch and padded groggily to open up.
“You in there?” he heard Russell Straight call.
“Hold on,” Deal said, fumbling for the lock.
“I thought maybe you and Raúl took off without me,” Russell said, as he strolled inside the room. He took a moment to survey the room, nodding with satisfaction.
“Yours is almost as big as mine,” he said, “except I didn’t get flowers.”
Deal started to tell him the story, then decided against it. His own moment, he decided. He didn’t need to share it.
“Last time I stayed in a room this big, there was a dozen other guys in it,” Russell said, “most of them with tattoos.”
Deal nodded. “Probably a lot of people in Havana living that way right now,” he said.
“Yeah,” Russell offered, “but even so, the place doesn’t seem beat, you know what I mean?”
“I do indeed,” Deal said. He had finally noticed what Russell was wearing. “Where’d you get that?”
Russell glanced down at the front of the guayabera, then smiled at Deal. “Across the street,” he said, gesturing vaguely out the window. “I took myself a little stroll.” He broke off to smooth the front of the cream-colored shirt with his hands. “What do you think?”
Deal nodded. “It’s you, Russell.” The truth was that Russell, with his strong bronzed features and chiseled build, would have looked good in sackcloth and ashes.
“Hundred percent cotton,” Russell said. “The polyester was a little cheaper, but I like the real thing, you know?”
“I didn’t realize you were such a shopper,” Deal said.
“Hey,” Russell said, lifting his hands, “when in Rome…”
Deal nodded, trying to imagine himself shedding his polo shirt for a guayabera. Maybe there was a limit to this new-man thing, though.
“You been sleeping?” Russell asked, staring at him more closely.
“I guess I dozed off,” Deal said, checking his watch. He’d been dreaming of restoring that amazing tenement building they’d stopped by earlier that day, he realized, only in his dream the Malecón had become South Beach, and Fuentes and Vines were part of his labor crew.
“I’m ready to eat, myself,” Russell said.
“I could do that.”
“Except that joint downstairs strikes me as a little stuffy.”
Deal shrugged. “Then let’s go somewhere else.”
Russell nodded. “The guy who sold me the shirt was telling me about these paladars. They’re like restaurants in private homes, where the ones in hotels and stuff are supported by the government. This guy says you get the best food in a paladar.”
Deal shook his head. “You amaze me, Russell. Guayaberas, paladars…”
Russell gave him a look. “You got to go with the flow, bro’.”
“Let’s do it, then,” Deal said. He reached into his pocket to make sure he had his key, then stepped for the door.
Russell took a last look around the room. “Nice flowers,” he said, then followed Deal out.
Chapter Seventeen
“I’ve got a great idea,” Deal told Russell as they reentered the hotel from dinner at the paladar that Fuentes’ driver had taken them to, a made over apartment on the third floor of a crumbling building in Central Havana. “We find the worst, beat-down warehouse district in Miami, and we put a restaurant on the third floor of the scroungiest building we can find. We’ll call it El Paladar. We’ll make a fortune.”
Russell glanced over. “You have to admit the food was good, though.”
Deal nodded. There’d been no steak, no shrimp, no shellfish of any kind on the menu—all such items reserved for the state-sponsored restaurants, they’d been told—but the items that had been available were as inventively prepared as in any chichi restaurant in Miami Beach, he thought. “I’m going to take this up with Fuentes in the morning,” Deal persisted. “What a concept—terrific food in Albanian surroundings.”
“You must have had one too many mojitos,” Russell said.
“Or one too few,” Deal said.
He heard the muffled sounds of a bass from the direction of the vast atrium and turned to find Russell rubbing his hands in anticipation. “Well, what do we have here?” Russell was saying.
The big man was pointing across the courtyard at a set of French doors behind which it seemed a party was in full swing, a blast of salsa issuing clearly, as a pretty young woman in a cocktail dress stepped outside.
“It is the discoteca,” one of the bellmen flanking the entrance offered. “Live music,” he added, with a meaningful nod at the señorita, who ducked into a nearby rest room. “Very good place.”
Russell gave Deal an inquiring look. “How about a nightcap, then?” he asked.
Deal shook his head. “I’ve had enough for one day,” he said. He glanced at his watch. He’d tried getting in touch with Isabel earlier and had meant to try again before he turned in, but it would have to wait for tomorrow, now. The last thing he wanted was to get up close and personal with a bass-pounding band. “You go ahead,” he told Russell. “I’ll catch up with you in the morning.”
The young woman had emerged from the rest room, her gaze sweeping over them and holding on Russell for the tiniest fraction of a second. If she’d held it an instant longer, Deal thought, fire alarms would have gone off.
“You sure?” Russell said, his own gaze drawn to her retreating profile.
“I’ll call you as soon as I hear from Fuentes,” Deal said. “You go ahead and have fun.”
***
Deal took the tiny elevator up alone, its cage lurching along in fits and starts as if driven by the pounding bass beneath him. The look that girl had given Russell had started him thinking of Angie again, and the wave of confusion that followed was trending toward a headache that threatened to spring into life with the same beat of the discoteca’s band.
The door of the elevator finally shuddered open and he stepped quickly out of the tiny compartment, vowing to find the stairs in the morning. He never took elevators one flight up. Why was he doing such a thing now?
He moved along the corridor toward his room, trying to banish the thoughts that had crept into his brain. He had enough things to worry about without getting involved with someone at this point. It had been a godsend, really, this trip, whatever else came of it. He and Angie, that had been one of those crazy, unexpected things. Better it should stay that way. But what was this pang that kept gnawing at his gut?
He stood at the door of his room, hesitating. Maybe he should go down and have one more mojito with Russell Straight. Maybe that was all he needed to get his mind off things. But that was crazy, too. He was tired, and if he knew anything about his job foreman, the man would already be deep in conversation with the girl who’d glanced at him, even if n
ot a word of the other’s language was being spoken.
He smiled then and moved to slide his key into the lock of his door, surprised to find it swinging inward freely at his touch. What the hell, he was thinking, one foot already inside the doorway before he thought better of it.
He was poised, hesitating between the impulse to flip the wall switch just inside the door and the urgent warning that told him to turn and flee, when a hand clamped onto his shirtfront, yanking him violently forward, and another clamped over his mouth.
“Forgive me, Mr. Deal,” he heard a familiar voice whisper at his ear. “But these walls have ears.”
A flashlight beam snapped on, illuminating a face before him in a garish glow. Vedetti, he realized. Another man in the shadows at his side. A third was holding Deal firmly in a powerful grasp.
“We mean you no harm,” Vedetti said in an urgent whisper, holding his finger to his lips.
The faint chirping of a cell phone sounded, and the man at Vedetti’s side answered in Spanish. The man than handed the tiny phone to Vedetti.
The first cell phone he’d seen on the island, Deal thought dumbly, his mind a whirl of thoughts. “Listen,” Vedetti said, thrusting the phone to Deal’s ear.
“John,” Deal heard the woman’s voice on the other end. He knew it instantly and felt that he had somehow slid into a dream. “It’s Angie. Please listen. Go with them, John. I’m here, in Havana. They’re going to bring you to me. Go with them. I’ll explain everything when I see you. Please go with them, John.”
Vedetti pulled the phone away then and snapped the connection off. “Can I trust you?” he asked, his gaze boring into Deal’s. Deal did his best to nod against the powerful grasp that held him.
Vedetti gestured with his chin, and Deal felt the grip loosen at his neck. In the next instant, brain gone white with fury, he was lunging toward Vedetti, his hands outstretched…
…and then everything was black.
Chapter Eighteen
“You dance very well,” the woman said to Russell, smiling at him from her place at the bar. The band was on break now, and while recorded music still blared from the speakers, it was almost possible to hear. Delia, she’d said her name was. A tawny woman with a lithe body that moved about the dance floor with enviable grace. She was dark-skinned, but fine-featured, her blood a blend of African and Indian, he guessed.
“Not half as well as you,” Russell said. He mopped at his brow with a bar napkin, trying not to let his gaze go too far down the plunging neckline of her dress.
“It is what I do.” She gave him a measured smile. “If you come to my studio, I will give you a lesson.”
“I bet you could,” Russell said.
“In the samba,” Delia said.
“That’s exactly what I meant,” he said.
She patted his knee, then turned to finish her drink. The bartender leaned in, and Russell made a signal for another round. The woman intervened, however, holding up a finger to stop the barman.
“Perhaps you would like to go someplace quieter?” she said.
Russell regarded her more carefully. “What about your friends?” he asked, gesturing at a corner table where several couples were gathered, chatting animatedly in Spanish.
She turned to share his gaze. “It is fine,” she said, unconcerned. She turned back to him, her gaze neutral. “There is a café nearby. A different kind of music.”
“Quieter,” Russell repeated. The thought crossed his mind that he was sitting with a working girl, but he could always deal with that issue later. Whatever she was, she was a stunner: jet-black hair that made even her coffee-colored skin seem pale in comparison, full breasts and a flat belly, legs that stopped the show when she danced. He’d seen old movies where smooth-talking white guys dropped into clubs and discovered babes they promised to turn into stars. Here he was looking at one.
She gave him a shrug. “Whatever you like,” she said.
Over her shoulder he saw the members of the band beginning to reassemble on the tiny stage. “Sure,” he said, “let’s do quieter, then,” and held out his hand.
***
“And what is it that you do in Miami?” she asked, her hand resting lightly on his arm as they walked down the narrow street, away from the hotel.
“I work for a builder,” he said. “I go around, make sure guys stay busy on the job.”
“There would be plenty of work for you in Cuba,” she said.
“How’s that?”
“In our system, everyone works,” she said, “but sometimes not so hard.”
Russell nodded. “Some things are the same all over.” He heard a car motor start and glanced down a side street, where a dark sedan of a type he’d never seen was pulling out of the lot, pausing to let someone standing at the curb get in.
“What is it?” she asked.
He shook his head absently. “Just a guy who looked familiar,” he told her, as the car sped away down the side street. It was dark, and he’d just had the briefest glimpse, but it was hard to mistake that wild head of hair.
“An American?” she asked.
He shook his head. “Somebody I ran into down here.”
She gave him an appraising look. “You know what a man from your country told me once?”
“No,” he said, glancing after the departing car once more. “What?”
“You all look so much alike.”
He turned back. “Are you kidding me? Some cracker said that to you?”
She shrugged, then looked at him more closely, “What is cracker?”
“That’s American for dickhead,” he told her. He put his arm around her shoulders and moved them on down the street. “A blind dickhead,” he added, feeling her snuggle in tight.
***
“We call this music son,” she told him. They sat together on a wicker love seat at the rear of the tiny club, watching a group energetically at work on what he thought of as a bluesy version of the salsa they’d been dancing to earlier. “Do you like it?” she added, glancing up at him.
He nodded. Count Basie does Cuba, he was thinking, but kept it to himself. “It’s quieter,” he said, bringing a smile from her. “How old are those guys, anyway?”
She turned back to the stage. “Some are in their seventies,” she said. “The singer is eighty. He has a granddaughter in Miami,” she added, pointing to the gray-haired leader keeping languid time with an oddly elongated percussion gourd. “Maybe they will tour there one day.”
He stared at her. “Tour?”
“They are famous, you know. All around the world.”
“Except in Miami, I guess.”
She raised her eyebrows. “It is difficult, going to America, even for them…” She gestured with her glass, then turned back to him, her gaze unflinching.
“You want something else?” he asked her.
She shook her head and put her glass down on the table in front of them. “I don’t think so,” she said. “How about you?”
“I’m ready,” he said, his eyes on hers.
“Good,” she said. And they got up to go.
***
When they returned to the hotel, the discoteca was still going strong. If anything it looked to Russell as if the crowd inside the room had grown, if that was possible.
She stopped him just outside the doors and nodded to the young man who now stood sentry at the entrance. “Just one moment,” she said, then ducked inside.
Russell and the bouncer stood regarding each other silently. He had an inch or two on the guy, and maybe twenty pounds, but the kid didn’t seem intimidated. After a moment, Russell gave him a nod, and the kid nodded back. Some things were the same everywhere.
She came back out just as the group segued from one number directly to the next, smiling up at him. “There,” she said, taking his arm. The kid was staring elsewhere now.
“You went to talk to your friends?” Russell asked her.
It took him a moment to understand. Finally he took her arm and moved them along toward the elevator. “You mind if I ask you?” he said, as he pressed the call button.
“Yes?” she said, her gaze unflinching.
“You’re not working here, are you?”
Her expression darkened momentarily, then just as briefly the shadow passed. She squared her shoulders and stared back at him, evenly. “I am having a very enjoyable evening,” she said, before pausing. “How about you?”
He smiled as the elevator door slid open. “Our chariot awaits,” he said, offering her his arm, and then they stepped inside.
***
“You are still awake,” Delia said, nuzzling close beneath the single sheet that covered them.
“Just now,” he corrected her. He’d been dreaming of floating on his back on a soft, spongy cloud while a beautiful woman rose and fell above him, her face shrouded by the tumbling dark locks of her hair, one soft cry after another issuing from her throat like music that couldn’t find a way to stop.
No dream, at all, he was thinking, just a drowsy replay. His arm went about her smooth shoulder and pulled her close, heat from her hips and breasts like coals.
Just about as likely as a dream, though, given what he’d come through. Who’d believe him if he went home and told about it—Russell Straight in a grand hotel in Havana, Cuba, with this woman too impossible for words—and no one left to tell besides.
His brother gone, and his mother, too, heartbroken to have one son killed and another go to prison. His father dead, too, but that one with good riddance. Someone Russell might have had to finish himself if another man hadn’t beaten him to it.
Then he pushed all that from his mind and focused instead on the feeling of that mass of curls resting on his shoulder. “You are very much awake,” she said, her hand slipping down beneath the sheets.
“Never going to sleep again,” he told her, rising up on one elbow. He flung the sheet aside, saw nothing but paradise ahead. In no time the clouds were rocking once again.