Dennis Lehane - Live by Night

“But how will you hold the power now that you have it? That’s an interesting question, I think.”

“You think I’m not strong enough?” He looked back at her again and she allowed him to because she’d covered her upper body with a white blouse.

“I don’t know if you’re cruel enough.” Her dark eyes were very clear. “And if you are, then that will be sad.”

“Powerful men don’t have to be cruel.”

“But they usually are.” Her head ducked below the screen as she stepped into her skirt. “Now that you’ve seen me dress and I’ve seen you shoot a man, can I ask you a personal question?”

“Sure.”

“Who is she?”

“Who?”

Her head appeared above the screen again. “The one you love.”

“Who says I’m in love with anyone?”

“I say so.” She shrugged. “A woman knows these things. Is she in Florida?”

He smiled, shook his head. “She’s gone.”

“She left you?”

“She died.”

She blinked and then stared at him to see if he was putting her on. When she realized he wasn’t, she said, “I’m sorry.”

He changed the subject. “Are you happy about the guns?”

She leaned her arms on the top of the screen. “Very. When the day comes to end Machado’s rule—and that day will come—we will have a…” She snapped her fingers, looked at him. “Help me.”

“An arsenal,” he said.

“Arsenal, yes.”

“So these aren’t the only weapons.”

She shook her head. “Not the first and they will not be the last. When the time comes, we will be ready.” She came out from behind the screen in the standard clothes of a female cigar worker—white blouse with string tie over tan skirt. “You think what I’m doing is foolish.”

“Not at all. I think it’s noble. It’s just not my cause.”

“What is?”

“Rum.”

“You do not want to be a noble person?” She held her thumb and index finger close together. “A little bit?”

He shook his head. “I’ve got nothing against noble people, I’ve just noticed they rarely live past forty.”

“Neither do gangsters.”

“True,” he said, “but we eat in better restaurants.”

From the wardrobe, she selected a pair of flats the same color as her shirt, sat on the bed to put them on.

He stayed at the window. “Let’s say someday you have this revolution.”

“Yes.”

“Will anything change?”

“People can change.” She put one shoe on.

He shook his head. “The world can change, but people, no, people stay pretty much the same. So even if you replace Machado, there’s a good chance you’ll replace him with a worse version. Meanwhile, you could be maimed or you could—”

“I could die.” She twisted her torso to put on the other shoe. “I know how this probably ends, Joseph.”

“Joe.”

“Joseph,” she said. “I could die because a comrade betrays me for money. I could get captured by damaged men, as damaged as the one today or even worse, and they will torture me until my body can no longer endure it. And there won’t be anything noble in my death because death is never noble. You weep and beg and the shit flows out of your ass as you die. And those who kill you laugh and spit on your corpse. And I will be quickly forgotten. As if”—she snapped her fingers—“I was never here. I know all that.”

“So why do it?”

She stood and smoothed the skirt. “I love my country.”

“I love mine but—”

“There is no but,” she said. “That’s the difference between us. Your country is something you see out that window. Yes?”

He nodded. “Pretty much.”

“My country is something in here.” She tapped the center of her chest and then her temple. “And I know she won’t thank me for my efforts. She’s not going to return my love. That would be impossible, because I don’t just love the people and the buildings and the smell of her. I love the idea of her. And that’s something I made up, so I love what isn’t there. Like you love that dead girl.”

He couldn’t think of anything to say to that so he just watched her cross the room and pull the dress she’d worn in the swamp off the screen. She handed it to him as they left the room.

“Burn that, will you?”

The guns were bound for the Pinar del Río province, west of Havana. They left St. Petersburg on five grouper boats out of Boca Ciega Bay at three in the afternoon. Dion, Joe, Esteban, and Graciela saw them off. Joe had changed from the suit he’d ruined in the swamp to the lightest one he owned. Graciela had watched as he’d burned it along with her dress, but she was fading now from her time as prey in a cypress swamp. She kept nodding off on the bench that sat under the dock lamp yet refused all offers to sit in one of the cars or let someone drive her back to Ybor.

When the last of the grouper captains had shaken their hands and shoved off, they stood looking at one another. Joe realized they had no idea what to do next. How could you top the last two days? The sky had grown red. Somewhere down the jagged shoreline, past a clump of mangroves, a canvas sail or tarp fluttered in the hot breeze. Joe looked at Esteban. He looked at Graciela, who leaned against the lamppost with her eyes closed. He looked at Dion. A pelican swooped over his head, its bill bigger than its belly. Joe looked at the boats, way out there now, the size of dunce caps from this distance, and he started laughing. He couldn’t help himself. Dion and Esteban were right behind him, all three of them roaring in no time. Graciela covered her face for a moment and then she started laughing too, laughing and crying actually, Joe noticed, peeking out from between her fingers like a small girl until she dropped her hands entirely. She laughed and cried and ran both hands through her hair repeatedly and then wiped her face with the collar of her blouse. They walked to the edge of the dock and the laughs became chuckles and then echoes of chuckles and they looked out at the water as it grew purple under the red sky. The boats found the horizon and slipped past it, one by one.

Joe didn’t remember much about the rest of that day. They went to one of Maso’s speaks behind a veterinarian on the corner of Fifteenth and Nebraska. Esteban arranged to have a case of dark rum aged in cherry casks sent over, and word got around to everyone involved in the heist. Soon Pescatore gunsels mingled with Esteban’s revolutionaries. Then the women arrived in their silk dresses and sequined hats. A band took the stage. In no time, the joint was hopping enough to crack the masonry.

Dion danced with three women simultaneously, swinging them behind his broad back and under his stubby legs with surprising dexterity. When it came to dance, however, Esteban proved to be the artist of the group. He moved on his feet as lightly as a cat on a high branch, but with a command so total that the band soon began to fashion songs to his tempo, not the other way around. He reminded Joe of Valentino in that flicker where he played a bullfighter—it was that degree of masculine grace. Soon half the women in the speak were trying to match his steps or land him for the night.

“I never saw a guy move like that,” Joe said to Graciela.

She was sitting in the corner of a booth, while he sat on the floor in front of it. She leaned over to speak in his ear. “It’s what he did when he first came here.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was his job,” she said. “He was a taxi dancer downtown.”

“You’re putting me on.” He tilted his head, looked up at her. “What doesn’t this guy do well?”

She said, “He was a professional dancer in Havana. Very good. Never the lead in any productions but always in high demand. It’s how he supported himself during law school.”