Jeff Lindsay - Dexter by Design

They were all packed so full of people that it seemed impossible for anyone else to get on, but as I watched one of them stopped and sure enough, another clump of people crowded in.

“Camels” Chutsky said, and I stared at him curiously.

“Excuse me?” I said.

He jerked his head at one of the strange buses. “They're called camels” he said. “They'll tell you it's because of the shape, but my guess is it has to do with the smell inside at rush hour.” He shook his head. “You get 400 people inside there, coming home from work, no air conditioning and the windows don't open. Unbelievable.” It was a fascinating tidbit of information, or at least Chutsky apparently thought so, because he had nothing more profound to offer, even though we were moving through a city I had never seen before. But his impulse to be a tour guide was apparently dead, and we slid through traffic and onto a wide boulevard that ran along the water. High up on a cliff on the other side of the harbor I could see an old lighthouse and some battlements, and beyond that a black smudge of smoke climbing into the sky. Between us and the water there was a broad sidewalk and a sea wall. Waves broke on the wall, sending spray up into the air, but nobody seemed to mind getting a little wet. There were throngs of people of all ages sitting, standing, walking, fishing, lying and kissing on the sea wall. We passed some strange contorted sculpture, thumped over a rough patch of pavement, and turned left up a short hill. And then there it was, the Hotel Nacional, complete with its facade that would soon feature the smirking face of Dexter, unless we could find Weiss first.

The driver stopped his car in front of a grand marble staircase, a doorman dressed like an Italian admiral stepped up and clapped his hands, and a uniformed bellboy came running out to grab our bags.

“Here we are” said Chutsky, somewhat unnecessarily. The admiral opened the door and Chutsky climbed out. I was allowed to open my own door, since I was on the side away from the marble stairs. I did so, and climbed out into a forest of helpful smiles.

Chutsky paid the driver, and we followed the bellboy up the stairs and into the hotel.

The lobby looked like it had been carved out of the same block of marble as the stairs. It was somewhat narrow, but it stretched away past the front desk and vanished in the misty distance. The bellboy led us right up to the desk, past a cluster of plush chairs and a velvet rope, and the clerk at the desk seemed very glad to see us.

“Senor Freeney” he said, bowing his head happily. “So very good to see you again.” He raised an eyebrow. “Surely, you are not here for the art festival?” His accent was less than many I had heard in Miami, and Chutsky seemed very pleased to see him, too.

Chutsky reached across the counter and shook his hand. “How are you, Rogelio?” he said. “Nice to see you, too. I'm here to break in a new guy” He put his hand on my shoulder and nudged me forward, as if I was a sullen boy being forced to kiss Granny on the cheek. “This is David Marcey, one of our rising stars” he said. “Does a hell of a sermon.”

Rogelio shook my hand. I am very pleased to meet you, Senor Marcey.”

“Thank you” I said. “You have a very nice place here.” He gave a half-bow again and began to tap on a computer keyboard. I hope you will enjoy your stay” he said. “If Senor Freeney does not object, I will put you on the executive floor? That way you are closer to the breakfast.”

“That sounds very nice” I said.

“One room or two?” he said.

“I think just one this time, Rogelio” Chutsky said. “Gotta watch the old expense account this trip.”

“Of course” Rogelio said. He tapped out a few more quick key strokes and then, with a grand flourish, slid two keys across the desk. “Here you go” he said.

Chutsky put his hand on the keys and leaned in a little closer.

“One more thing, Rogelio” he said, lowering his voice. “We have a friend coming in from Canada” he said. “Name of Brandon Weiss.” He pulled the keys toward himself over the counter, and a twenty dollar bill lay on the counter where they had been. “We'd like to surprise him” he said. “It's his birthday” Rogelio flicked out a hand and the twenty dollar bill disappeared like a fly grabbed by a lizard. “Of course” he said. I will let you know immediately”

“Thanks, Rogelio” Chutsky said, and he turned away, motioning me to follow. I trailed along behind him and the bellboy with our bags, to the far end of the lobby, where a bank of elevators stood ready to whisk us up to the executive floor. A crowd of people dressed in very nice resort-wear stood waiting, and it may have been only my feverish imagination, but I thought they glared in horror at our missionary clothing. Still, there was nothing for it but to follow the script, and I smiled at them and managed to avoid blurting out something religious, possibly from Revelations.

The door slid open and the crowd surged into the elevator. The bellboy smiled and said, “Go ahead, sir, I follow in two minute” and the Right Reverend Freeney and I climbed in.

The doors closed. I caught a few more anxious glances at my shoes, but no one had anything to say, and neither did I. But I did wonder why we had to share a room. I hadn't had a roommate since college, and that hadn't really worked out very well. And I knew full well that Chutsky snored.

The doors slid open and we stepped out. I followed Chutsky to the left, to another reception area, where a waiter stood beside a glass cart. He bowed and handed us each a tall glass.

“What's this?” I asked.

“Cuban Gatorade” Chutsky said. “Cheers.” He drained his glass and put the empty down on the cart, so I allowed myself to be shamed into doing the same. The drink tasted mild, sweet, slightly minty, and I found that it did, indeed, seem to be kind of refreshing in the way that Gatorade is on a hot day. I put the empty down next to Chutsky's. He picked up another one, so I did, too. “Salad,” he said. We clinked glasses and I drank. It really did taste good, and since I'd had almost nothing to eat or drink in the scramble of getting to the airport, I let myself enjoy it.

Behind us the elevator doors slid open and our bellboy dashed out clutching our bags. “Hey, there you are” Chutsky said. “Let's see the room.” He drained his glass, and I did too, and we followed the bellboy down the hall.

About halfway down the hall I began to feel a little bit odd, as if my legs had suddenly been turned into balsa wood. “What was in that Gatorade?” I asked Chutsky.

“Mostly rum” he said. “What, you never had a mojito before?” I don't think so” I said.

He gave a short grunt that might have been intended as a laugh.

“Get used to it” he said. “You're in Havana now.” I followed him down the hall which had suddenly grown longer and a little brighter. I was feeling very refreshed now. But somehow I made it all the way to the room and through the door. The bellboy heaved our suitcases up onto a stand and flung open the curtains to reveal a very nice room, tastefully furnished in the classical style.

There were two beds, separated by a night stand, and a bathroom to the left of the room's door.

“Very nice” said Chutsky, and the bellboy smiled and gave him a half-bow. “Thanks” Chutsky said, and held out his hand with a ten dollar bill in it. “Thanks very much.” The bellboy took the money with a smile and a nod and promised that we only had to call and he would move heaven and earth to help fulfill our slightest whim, and then he disappeared out the door as I flopped face down onto the bed nearest the window. I chose that bed because it was closest, but it was also much too bright with the sun rocketing in through the window so aggressively, and I closed my eyes. The room did not spin, and I did not suddenly slip into unconsciousness, but it seemed like a very good idea to lie there for a while with my eyes closed.