Philip Kerr - If the Dead Rise Not

“I wouldn’t want to put you to any trouble,” I said.

“It’s no trouble,” she said. “I’ll go and tell Ramón to fix you up a bed.”

She turned and walked away, humming quietly to herself, scooping up a cat, and placing her empty glass on the terrace as she went.

López watched her behind in retreat for longer than I did. I had time to observe him doing it. He watched her with the eyes of an admirer and possibly the mouth as well: he licked his lips while he was doing it, which made me wonder if their common ground wasn’t just political but sexual, too. And, thinking I might prompt him to reveal something of his feelings for her, I said, “Quite a woman, isn’t she?”

“Yes,” he said, absently. “She is.” Smiling, he added, quickly, “A wonderful writer.”

“I wasn’t looking at her backlist.”

López chuckled. “I’m not quite so ready to believe the worst of you. Despite what Noreen said back there.”

“Did she say something?” I shrugged. “I wasn’t listening when she insulted me.”

“What I mean to say is, thank you, my friend. Thank you indeed. Tonight you have undoubtedly saved my life.” He fetched the briefcase off the seat of the Oldsmobile. “If I had been caught with this, they would certainly have murdered me.”

“Will you be safe driving home?”

“Without this? Yes. I’m a lawyer, after all. A respectable lawyer, too, in spite of what you might think of me. No, really. I have lots of famous and wealthy clients here in Havana. Including Noreen. I drew up her will. And Ernest Hemingway’s. It was he who introduced the two of us. If you ever have need of a good lawyer, I would be happy to act for you, señor .”

“Thanks, I’ll bear that in mind.”

“Tell me. I’m curious.”

“In Cuba? That might not be healthy.”

“The pamphlet I gave you. The militia didn’t find it?”

“I threw it away in the bushes at the bottom of the drive,” I said. “Like I told you before. I’m not interested in local politics.”

“I can see Noreen was correct about you, Señor Hausner. You have a great instinct for survival.”

“Has she been talking about me again?”

“Only a little. Despite any earlier evidence to the contrary, she has a high opinion of you.”

I laughed. “That was maybe true twenty years ago. She wanted something then.”

“You underestimate yourself,” he said. “Quite considerably.”

“It’s been a while since anyone said that to me.”

He glanced down at the briefcase in his arms. “Perhaps… perhaps I could prevail on your kindness and courage one more time.”

“You can give it a try.”

“Perhaps you would be good enough to bring this briefcase to my office. It’s in the Bacardi Building.”

“I know it. There’s a café there I go to sometimes.”

“You like it, too?”

“Coffee’s the best in Havana.”

“I don’t think there’s any great risk in your doing this, being a foreigner. But there might be some.”

“That’s honest, at any rate. All right. I’ll do that for you, Señor López.”

“Please. Call me Fredo.”

“Okay, Fredo.”

“Shall we say eleven o’clock, tomorrow morning?”

“If you like.”

“You know, it may be that there’s something I can do for you.”

“You can buy me a cup of coffee. I don’t want a will any more than I want a pamphlet.”

“But you will come.”

“I said I’ll be there. And I’ll be there.”

“Good.” López nodded patiently. “Tell me, have you met Noreen’s daughter, Dinah?”

I nodded.

“What did you think of her?”

“I’m still thinking.”

“Quite a girl, isn’t she?” He raised his eyebrows suggestively.

“If you say so. The only thing I know about young women in Havana is that most of them are more efficient Marxists than you and your friends. They know more about the redistribution of wealth than anyone I’ve ever met. Dinah strikes me as the type of girl who knows just what she wants.”

“Dinah wants to be an actress. In Hollywood. In spite of everything that’s happened to Noreen with the House Committee on Un-American Activities. The blacklist. The hate mail. I mean, you can see how all that might upset Dinah.”

“I got the impression that wasn’t what’s worrying her.”

“There’s any number of things to worry about when you have a daughter as headstrong as Dinah, believe me.”

“It sounded like just the one thing to me. She mentioned something about Dinah’s being in with the wrong crowd. Anything in that?”

“Friend, this is Cuba.” López grinned. “We’ve got wrong crowds like some countries have different religions.” He shook his head. “Tomorrow. We’ll talk some more. In private.”

“Come on. Give. I just saved you from a late night out with the militia.”

“The militia’s not the only dangerous dog in town.”

“Meaning?”

There was a squeal of tires at the bottom of the drive. I looked around as yet another car purred up to the house. I say a car, but the Cadillac with its wraparound windshield was more like something from Mars-a red convertible from the red planet. The sort of car on which the built-in fog lamps might easily have been heat rays for the methodical extermination of earthlings. It was as long as a fire truck and probably as well equipped.

“Meaning, I think you’re about to find out,” said López.

The Cadillac’s big, five-liter engine took a last breath from the four-barrel carburetor and then exhaled loudly through dual exhausts that were built into the bumpers. One of the rakish cut-down doors opened, and out stepped Dinah. She looked great. The drive had stirred her hair a little and made her look more natural than before. Sexier, too, if such a thing was possible. There was a stole over her shoulders that could have been honey-ranch mink, but I wasn’t looking anymore. I was too busy noticing the driver stepping out on the other side of the red Eldorado. He was wearing a well-cut, lightweight gray suit with a white shirt and a pair of flashing gem cuff links that matched the car. He stared straight at me with a mixture of amusement and deliberation, as if noting the changes in my face and wondering how I might have come by them. Dinah reached his side after a long pilgrimage around the farthest point of the car and eloquently threaded one arm through his.

“Hello, Gunther,” said the man, speaking German.

He had a mustache now, but he still looked like a pit bull in a bucket.

It was Max Reles.

SURPRISED TO SEE ME?” He chuckled his familiar chuckle.

“I guess we’re both surprised, Max.”

“As soon as Dinah told me about you, I started thinking, It couldn’t be him. And then she described you, and well. Christ Almighty. Noreen won’t like my being here, but I just had to come down to take a look for myself and see if it really was the same fucking pain-in-the-ass guy.”

I shrugged. “Who believes in miracles anymore?”

“Jesus, Gunther, I thought you must be dead for sure, what with the Nazis and the Russians and that smart fucking mouth of yours.”

“These days I’m a little more close-lipped.”

“Only bullshit shoots its mouth off,” said Reles. “What’s genuine in a man stays silent. Jesus, how long has it been?”

“Must be a thousand years. That’s how long Hitler said his Reich would last.”

“That long, huh?” Reles shook his head. “What the hell brings you to Cuba?”

“Oh, you know. Getting away from it all.” I shrugged. “And by the way, my name is Hausner. Carlos Hausner. At least, that’s what it says on my Argentine passport.”