King Bongo

by Thomas Sanchez

  “Shoot them.”

  “Since you can’t marry me, you’ll just have to shoot me.”

  “I thought there might be a third choice.”

  “The wealthy don’t allow alternatives.” She sat on a chair across from Bongo. She no longer looked like the proud figurehead of a ship. She looked like a giant precious gem in the window of the world’s most expensive jewelry store. She was changing before his eyes, not allowing him to get a grip.

  “I have an alternative,” Bongo said. “I have information on your husband.”

  Her frosted pink lips curved up, forming the same high arch as her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “Tell me.”

  “I suppose I can trust you.”

  “You suppose you can trust me!”

  “Your husband is at the yacht club, just like you said he would be.”

  “Of course. Guy always goes out with his crowd before the Big Race. They drink all night, then get behind the wheel in the morning. They’re crazy, these racers.”

  “Perhaps you asked me here because you want to insure your husband’s life before tomorrow’s race?”

  “I don’t need any money if Guy dies.”

  “Then why would he take out a policy on his life and name you as the beneficiary?”

  “How do you know that?”

  “He took the policy out with me.”

  “When?”

  “Right before the first of the year.”

  Bongo studied her blue eyes for a reaction, but her gaze remained unchanged.

  “Your husband seems to have mysterious habits, one of them being his friendship with Hurricane Hurler.”

  “Hurricane’s just a friend.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Guy is a sportsman. He prefers the company of other sportsmen.”

  “Sportsmen who dabble in dangerous politics?”

  “If Hurricane is involved in politics, that doesn’t mean Guy is.”

  “I have to explore all the angles. Hurricane has information about my sister. Maybe you do too.”

  “That’s preposterous. I’ve only seen your sister once, onstage at the Tropicana on New Year’s Eve.”

  Bongo studied her blue eyes again. They were direct and unafraid. He needed to rattle her cage.

  “Are you aware that your husband plays both sides?”

  “He’s not a gambler.”

  “That’s not what I mean.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You remember when we were in the shoe store, I mentioned a rough bar on the waterfront called the Three Virgins.”

  “You said Guy was a regular there. That’s preposterous.”

  “A man your husband was involved with at the Virgins was found dead.”

  “What’s your proof of Guy’s involvement?”

  “The dead man was found wearing your husband’s underpants.”

  “What! Is this some kind of monstrous joke?”

  “The laundry number on the underpants was assigned to your husband’s name.”

  “There must have been a mix-up.”

  “There was a tattoo on the dead man. I went to all the tattoo parlors in Havana. I found out the man’s identity.”

  “And?”

  “He was a part-time university professor who made extra money picking up Americans at the Three Virgins.”

  The color drained out of Mrs. Armstrong’s face. She stared coldly.

  Bongo gave her cage a harder rattle.

  “There’s another fact, even more serious.”

  “More serious!” Mrs. Armstrong exclaimed. “What could be more serious than a wife finding out what you’ve just told me?”

  “Murder.”

  “Just because Guy’s underclothes were found on a dead man doesn’t make him a murderer!”

  Bongo leaned forward, determined to shake her loose.

  “The professor was fished out of the ocean. His torso was pierced by a metal bar.”

  Mrs. Armstrong said flatly, “There’s no proof Guy is guilty.”

  “There’s no proof he’s innocent.”

  She glared, the blue color of her eyes intensifying, as if a cold sea were rushing in.

  “I need Johnnie Ray.”

  “What?”

  She stood and left the room.

  Bongo picked up his glass from the table. The ice had melted and the beer was flat, but he drank it anyway. The sound of singing jolted him. Johnnie Ray’s voice blared into the room from the invisible speakers, skinning a song lyric like he was scraping his own skin off with a razor blade:

  If your sweetheart sends a letter

  of gooooodbyyyyeee

  it’s no secret you’ll feel better

  if you crrrryyyyyy

  The tears of lament spurted from a torn heart.

  When waking from a bad dream,

  go right on and crrrrrrrrrryyyyyyyy!

  The song ended. There was silence in the room, then a motorized whir. On hidden rollers, one of the walls rolled back, exposing a shimmering blue light reflected from a rectangular swimming pool outside. Standing at the distant edge of the pool was Mrs. Armstrong, a pink towel wrapped around her.

  Johnnie Ray’s voice filled the air again with a different swoony suicidal swan song:

  Sooooothe me with your caressss

  sweeeet lotus blossoooom.

  Help me in my distresss!

  Mrs. Armstrong smiled at Bongo from across the blue chlorine glow.

  You alone can bring my loverrrrr

  back to meeeee, even thooough

  I know it’s just a fantaasssyyyy!

  Bongo didn’t have many rules when it came to women, but one rule he did have was no married ones. But Mrs. Armstrong wasn’t married in a real sense; he knew the truth about her duplicitous husband. He stepped outside to the pool, facing Mrs. Armstrong.

  Johnnie Ray wailed, a saxophone gasped, a trumpet wept.

  Knoooock me clear ouuuut

  sweet lotus blossoooom!

  At the far end of the pool Mrs. Armstrong reached up and undid the knot of the towel. The towel dropped to her feet. The water’s vaporous haze reflected off of her smooth white flesh. She untied the bun of her hair. It shimmered down over her bare shoulders and breasts.

  She dove into the blue water.

  Bongo kicked off his shoes, pulled off his clothes, and stood at the pool’s edge.

  Mrs. Armstrong surfaced in the water beneath him. She floated on her back, her arms spread, water caressing her. Her blond hair spread out like a halo.

  Bongo gazed at the revelation. If he took the plunge, he didn’t know if he would return. He dove in.

  Watery bubbles burst around Bongo’s submerged body, then a silken skin was next to his. He raised his head above the surface. Mrs. Armstrong’s arms were around his neck. His hands cupped her breasts, her legs wrapped around his waist. The perfume of her breath came fervently into his face. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited. How long I’ve been without.”

  “Then I don’t feel guilty.”

  “Neither do I.”

  Their lips met in a rush that tumbled their bodies back beneath the water.

  From hidden underwater speakers, Johnnie Ray cried out a gut-wrenching plea:

  You alone can bring my loverrrr

  back to meeeeee,

  even though I know it’s fantaaasssyyy!

  Bongo held his kiss with Mrs. Armstrong. When he opened his eyes he was still underwater. He could see through the liquid haze to the glass wall of a belowground observation grotto. On the other side of the glass was the young woman in the yellow sundress, watching. He was suddenly reminded of the pretty salesgirl from the California Shoe Store, the one he thought he saw magnified larger than life on the movie screen, with only a plastic beach ball between her and Mrs. Armstrong’s naked bodies.

  Bongo tightened his hold around Mrs. Armstrong’s waist and pushed with her to the surface.

  They burst through the water. Mrs. Armstrong’s arms
clung to his neck. “What’s wrong, darling?”

  “I need to see if one of your breasts has three beauty marks.”

  “There’s plenty of time for that.” Mrs. Armstrong laughed in a sultry voice. “Just shut up and love me!”

  Her lips came onto his with a crush as Johnnie Ray’s words rushed in:

  Knoooock meeee clear ouuuut!

  2.

  All Bad Actors

  From the broad expanse of the Hotel Nacional’s rooftop, two five-story turrets soared into the sky, suggesting a majestic castle in medieval Spain. When out at sea, fishermen looked to the turrets to guide them safely home in both good weather and bad.

  Beneath the red-tiled roof of the east turret, Zapata took in the far view through a pair of binoculars; from the Morro fortress at the mouth of the bay to the shipping docks lined with cargo-lifting cranes, to the oil-storage tanks dotting the cluttered industrial horizon. In the middle distance, the Capitolio’s white dome dominated central Havana, and from there an unbroken line of high-rise office and apartment buildings marched to the sea. Closer in was the raw beginning of the new Hilton, a towering, block-long steel skeleton destined to be Cuba’s largest hotel. Nearby, on the rooftop of the recently completed Capri Hotel, tourists floated on their backs in the swimming pool, staring at a sun-white sky, unaware of the overlay-ered centuries of construction and conspiracies surrounding them.

  Zapata trained his binoculars on the roadway of the Malecón. It was empty and lined with a crowd waiting for the cars of the Big Race to come speeding into view. Zapata tipped the binoculars up. Stationed on the rooftops of the buildings facing the Malecón, army sharpshooters aimed rifles at the crowd, ready for trouble. Only the rooftops of the Nacional and Capri hotels were free of obvious marksmen. Zapata himself commanded the Nacional, and across from him, by the Capri’s rooftop pool, some of the lounging tourists were actually his own men. Zapata’s tip from Shines was that the assassin would be firing from one of these two hotels. His strategy was to catch the gunman in the act, then torture the truth out of him as to who was behind the conspiracy. He glanced at his watch. 2:45. According to Shines, the hit was scheduled for 3:03. Eighteen minutes to go.

  Directly below Zapata, on the top floor of the Nacional, Sweet Maria stepped out of the elevator. Dressed in her maid’s uniform, she pushed a cart of sheets, towels, mops and brooms. She stopped at the end of the hallway before the last door on the right. She opened the door with her master key and switched on the light. The departed guests had had a real party the night before. The blankets on the bed were twisted in knots, the ashtrays overflowed with cigarette butts, empty rum bottles were scattered across the floor.

  Maria pulled opened the drapes and pushed up the window to let the stale air escape. In the garden below, excited spectators waited in a viewing grandstand. Beyond them, across the empty roadway of the Malecón, was the glittering sea. Maria inhaled the tropical air and sighed, grateful to be living on such a lovely island.

  She went to the bedroom closet. Leaning at the back was a rifle, just as planned. She took from her apron pocket two gloves, a white one with shiny buttons and a pink suede one. She pulled them on, then picked up the rifle and cradled it in her arms.

  In a suite one floor below, Johnny PayDay gazed at his face in the bathroom mirror. He slapped Old Spice cologne onto his cheeks. He hated the smell of the stuff, rotten limes and nun farts, but his wife loved it. He picked up a tube of Wildroot Cream-Oil Hair Tonic from the countertop and squeezed the goop into his palm. He slapped it onto the shiny pate of his bald head and rubbed hard until the white slime disappeared. Betty didn’t like him to go out without a good dose of hair cream on his dome.

  He walked into the bedroom. On the bed was a leather shoulder holster with a gun. He slipped the holster on and cinched it, so the gun was snug against his ribs. He put on his sport coat and knotted his tie, ready for work. He went to the open window. Noisy chatter floated up from people crowded into the grandstand below. PayDay shook his head in disdain. To him racing was stupid, just guys in cars going fast. He didn’t watch racing or bet on it. It wasn’t like boxing, where two guys are caught between the ropes and only one will walk away. That was sport.

  He took out a PayDay bar, carefully removed the slick wrapper and slipped it into his pocket. He popped the slab of candy into his mouth and chewed. Nuts and caramel slid thickly down his throat. He kept his eyes on the grandstand below; to shoot someone there from this distance would take a true marksman. He knew of only one rifle in the world that could throw a bullet that far and still be lethal—a Czech rifle made for Russian Army snipers. Its recoil could knock a man flat on his ass. The Commies had some good modern hardware, but PayDay was old-fashioned, with a penchant for the close and personal. Given a choice, he preferred a knife across the throat.

  King Bongo stopped the Rocket beneath the arched entrance portico of the Nacional. The usual parking attendants were not there. He left the car and walked into the lobby; it was deserted. He rang the bell on the reception counter. No one came. He rang louder. A man appeared from a back office. His lapel pin read, “Concierge.”

  “Sorry, sir. Almost everyone is outside watching the race. Are you checking in?”

  “I’m looking for a girl.”

  “Aren’t we all.” The concierge grimaced. “The cliché of life.”

  “She works here.”

  “This is a proper establishment. We don’t have working girls here. I suggest you try some of the lesser-known hotels.”

  “I don’t mean that kind of girl. I mean a maid.”

  “We have many maids, more than any other hotel in Havana.”

  “Her name is Maria.”

  The concierge tried to hide a laugh behind his hand.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Half the maids in the hotel are named Maria. Maria Teresa, Maria José, Maria Antonia, Maria del Mar.”

  “I don’t know her last name. Statuesque, long black hair, brown eyes, long eyelashes.”

  “That describes all of our Marias.”

  “She works nights at the Three Virgins Bar.”

  The concierge wrinkled his nose in disdain. “I doubt if any of our Marias would also be employed in such a place.”

  “She is. She’s a poor girl, lives out in the Saint Lazarus district.”

  The concierge made the sign of the cross piously in front of him. “God bless Lazarus. I make the pilgrimage to his shrine every year. He cured the boil on my mother-in-law’s face. He makes miracles.”

  “This makes miracles too.” Bongo opened his wallet, took out a crisp five-peso bill and laid it on the counter.

  The concierge eyed the bill. “Sometimes miracles do happen.”

  “Check to see which Marias are working and what rooms they’re assigned to.”

  The concierge placed his hand over the bill and slid it discreetly into his palm. “I’ll be right back.”

  Bongo turned around. In the expanse of the extravagantly tiled lobby, dark-suited men had appeared, pretending to read newspapers through their sunglasses. Bongo wondered why the secret police were inside, instead of outside, protecting the President from his adoring countrymen?

  The concierge returned with a clipboard holding a sheaf of papers. “Let’s start on the top floor and work our way down.”

  “Good idea.” Bongo took out a notepad and pen.

  “On the top floor we have one Maria working. No Marias on the next floor. Two Marias after that, and—.”

  “Give me the room numbers of where each Maria is right now.”

  “Certainly.” The concierge read through all the pages, giving Bongo the information, then looked up. “That’s the end. Twenty-nine Marias in all.”

  “Thanks.” Bongo slipped the notepad and pen back into his coat pocket.

  “Anything for dear old Saint Lazarus.” The concierge winked. “By the way, there was someone here earlier looking for a Maria.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me? W
hat was his name?”

  “He didn’t give one.”

  Bongo took out another five and slapped it on the counter. “What did he look like?”

  “Average height, pencil-thin mustache. Linen suit, straw hat, sunglasses. Kind of a dandy but shifty, like a guy in a bad detective movie.”

  “Did you find his Maria?”

  “I gave him the same list I gave you.”

  “What then?”

  “He took the elevator up.”

  “And?”

  “He never came back down.”

  In the penthouse suite of the Capri, the Bad Actor soaked in a massive marble bathtub fit for a Roman emperor. He had a lighted cigarette at the end of a holder clenched between his teeth. His hair was plastered down by a tight black hairnet, and white cold cream was slathered on his face.

  Within view of the open bathroom door was a heart-shaped king-sized bed. Sitting cross-legged in the middle of the heart was the redheaded Teenager, wearing nothing but a pair of cotton panties printed with laughing pink elephants. She kept putting her thumb under the elastic waistband, pulling it back and then letting it snap against her pale skin with a smack. Her golf-ball-sized breasts were two-thirds nipple, the same strawberry color as her hair. Her gaze was riveted on the television set in the corner. Tears welled up in her eyes, formed and fell, hitting her sharp chin, bouncing off a strawberry nipple and landing on the bedsheet in small damp spots.

  The Bad Actor talked around the cigarette holder clenched in his teeth, so his words had the tinny ring of an old-time bandstand crooner singing through a cardboard megaphone. “Why so gloomy?” he asked.

  “Timmy’s lost Lassie,” the Teenager whined.

  “For Christ’s sake, it’s just a show about a mama’s boy and his kiss-ass dog that never pees on camera.”

  “Don’t talk about them like that.”

  “It’s all phony made-up crap.”

  “It’s not. These are true stories.”

  “TV is only a baby-sitter for kids like you.”

  “Hah!” the Teenager blurted. “What about Milton Berle? Uncle Miltie’s a grown-up?”

  “If you call a guy who comes out at the end of every show in a woman’s dress a grown-up.”