Lawrence Block - Killing Castro

It was something Turner had thought of before. Cuba was as good as Brazil and as safe. But there was still the matter of twenty thousand dollars.

“I would need money,” Turner said. “Where would I work?”

Ernesto shrugged magnificently. “Why work? I do not work. It is not necessary to work.”

“But I have no money.”

“Ah,” Ernesto said. “It is not difficult to get money. One buys, one sells. One acts as an agent in such transactions. One lives cleverly, making oneself useful to others. Look at me, my friend. Before the revolution, I worked for a man named Antonio Torelli. Señor Torelli was a gangster from New York, a man who owned a casino here in Havana. A very important man. I worked at his casino. I was a dealer, a croupier. Señor Torelli also bought a bordello, also in Havana. I managed this house for him, kept the girls on their toes. I earned good money for this work.”

“And?”

“And there was a revolution. So. All at once Señor Torelli is on a plane to Florida and I no longer have a job. The casinos run by American gangsters are closed. The bordellos run by American gangsters are also closed. Have I starved?”

“It would take you years to starve,” Turner said.

Ernesto looked at his own girth and laughed. “You jest,” he said. “But it is true. When one is clever, when one thinks with one’s brain, it takes a long time to starve. It takes eternity.”

Turner finished his wine. He noticed that Ernesto’s glass was also empty and signaled to the dark-skinned waiter. The man came over and filled both glasses to the brim. Turner paid. Ernesto nodded his thanks. They touched glasses with ceremony and sipped the wine.

“You would not starve here, my friend, and you would have money. I am a man who has many deals working, many vistas of opportunity. You could perhaps become a partner.”

Turner smiled. “In crime?”

“A harsh word. There are many men who have more money than they need, and less brains than they ought to possess. One can relieve men of money. Or, if you have scruples, there is always work. You understand construction?”

“I’ve been on crews.”

“Men are needed,” Ernesto said. “Men who can run heavy equipment, men of that nature. Few men in Cuba understand such machines. The pay is high.”

Turner sipped more wine, thinking it over. Either way, he could make a living in Cuba. Either way.

“You said that you have no money. True?”

“True.”

“But what will you do for money in Brazil? It is no more easy to live there without money.”

But I’ll have money then, he thought. I’ll become a criminal again, a murderer again, by killing Castro. And I’ll run again, and I’ll pick up my twenty grand in blood money and hightail it to Brazil. And after a while maybe I’ll even learn how to relax again. How to live and enjoy life without looking over my shoulder for the law.

“I pry too much,” Ernesto was saying now. “I ask perhaps too many questions, and this is not the role of a friend. And I am your friend, Turner, and you are my friend. True?”

“True.”

“So. Let us finish our wine and go to the bordello. I shall pay, if you will permit me. Today—this morning—three of your countrymen came to me. Young boys, students in one of your colleges. They wished to purchase some marijuana cigarettes.”

“And you sold them some?”

Ernesto frowned sadly. “Of course not. Young, pink-faced boys—the marijuana would have them walking across the sky, skipping like lambs from cloud to cloud. I told them to wait for me. I went to my garden and harvested weeds—plantain, grasses. I dried these in my oven and added catnip. I rolled a huge quantity of cigarettes. These I sold to your countrymen for a fine sum of money. And there is no danger, because they may smoke them forever without being affected.”

Turner laughed.

“So I shall pay,” Ernesto continued. “The girls at this house are a delight, my friend. Young and clever. There is one girl I think you shall like. A Chinese. Her father was Chinese, her mother Cuban. A lovely girl.”

They finished the wine and walked to a hotel several blocks away. In the lobby Ernesto talked volubly to the madam, a fat Cuban woman with pendulous breasts. Two girls came out—the Oriental Ernesto had spoken of and a young Cuban girl with dyed blond hair. Ernesto went off with the blonde and Turner followed the Chinese girl to her room.

She had tiny hands and feet, delicate features. She spoke Spanish with a Chinese accent. She kissed like a child and made love like a woman. Her skin was soft, her body firm.

She stood still, her hands over her head, while Turner removed her clothing. His hands moved over her silky skin, fondling her beautifully resilient breasts, fascinated by their tautness, his tongue circling the dark, saucy nipples. Then she made him stay still while she took off his clothing. She touched his naked body, stroked him in new and delicious ways that aroused him subtly and undeniably.

He took her in his arms, and they went to the bed.

They were on the bed for a long time before they made love. The girl was an artist with the caress, the kiss. Her hands were everywhere, her lips active, her seeking tongue industrious. She set Turner on fire. He kissed her firm little breasts again, squeezed the ripe globes of her buttocks and stroked her inner thighs, making her leap with anticipation.

Then they made love. It was warm, intense, demanding. She was anxious to please. Turner felt like a master, a god, a man.

Afterward, he and Ernesto walked through the streets of downtown Havana, stopped for a glass of beer here and there, smoked Cuban cigars and relaxed in the soft warmth of Havana at night.

“And you wish to leave this?” Ernesto demanded. “This ease, this blissful atmosphere? This for Brazil?”

“I enjoy Havana,” Turner admitted.

“Of course you do. You will stay.”

“Perhaps.”

“You will go to the government,” Ernesto said, “and you will tell them that in the United States you killed a man and a woman, and that you stole into Cuba illegally. They will permit you to stay. They will assist you.”

And Turner started to laugh. The irony of it was magnificent—he would be asking for help from the man he proposed to kill!

“Good food and good drinks,” the businessman said. “And good little women, best in the world. But I’m getting out of here, Harper. I’ll tell you, give me the States any time. You can relax there. They appreciate business, don’t try to push a man out once he gets where he belongs. Here it doesn’t work that way.”

Garrison looked at him. The man was fat and he perspired easily. He had said that his name was Burley, Lester Burley—call me Les. Garrison neither liked nor disliked him. They were in the bar at the Nacional and they were drinking. Soon Garrison would go upstairs, and then Estrella would join him for the evening. He didn’t mind putting up with call-me-Les Burley until then.

“You’re in business here, Burley?”

“Les,” Burley corrected. “Yes, I’m in business here. Nothing fancy, import and export, actually. Mostly cigars, buying tobaccos and selling them to a few cigar makers in Tampa. Ever been to Tampa?”

“No,” Garrison said.

“You’d like it—good town. Couple factories there—Havana Royale, Garcia Supreme—I sell ’em a lot of their stuff. Handle it, you might say. You’re in real estate, Harper?”

Garrison nodded.

“Meaning you buy and you sell?”

“That’s right.”

“This trip business or pleasure?”

“A little of both,” Garrison drawled, slipping into his role. “Pleasure before business, I always say. Sort of a motto of mine. But if a chance comes along to make a dollar or two—”