Jeff Lindsay - Dexter by Design

“What is it, buddy?” Chutsky said.

I think Weiss has already checked in” I said.

Chutsky lumbered up from the bed and over to the closet. He stared for a moment and then said, “Shit.” He reached his hand in and felt for a pulse —rather unnecessarily, I thought, but I suppose there's a protocol for these things. He felt no pulse, of course, and mumbled, “Fucking shit.” I didn't see how repetition would help, but of course, he was the expert, so I just watched as he slid a hand into each of Rogelio's pockets in turn. “His pass key” he said. He put that into his pocket. He turned out the usual junk —keys, a handkerchief, a comb, some money. He looked carefully at the cash for a moment.

“Canadian twenty here” he said. “Like somebody tipped him for something, huh?”

“You mean Weiss?” I said.

He shrugged. “How many homicidal Canadians you know?” It was a fair question. Since the NHL season had ended a few months ago, I could only think of one —Weiss.

Chutsky pulled an envelope out of Rogelio's jacket pocket.

“Bingo” he said. “Mr B Weiss, room 865.” He handed the envelope to me. “I'm guessing it's complimentary drink tickets. Open it up.” I peeled back the flap and pulled out two oblongs of cardboard.

Sure enough: two complimentary drinks at the Cabaret Parisien, the hotel's famous cabaret. “How did you guess?” I said.

Chutsky straightened up from his ghoulish search. I fucked up” he said. “When I told Rogelio it was Weiss's birthday, all he could think was to make the hotel look good, and maybe pick up a tip.” He held up the Canadian twenty dollar bill. “This is a month's pay” he said. “You can't blame him.” He shrugged. “So I fucked up, and he's dead. And our ass is deep in the shit.” Even though he had clearly not thought through that image, I got his point. Weiss knew we were here, we had no idea where he was or what he was up to, and we had a very embarrassing corpse in the closet.

“All right” I said, and for once I was glad to have his experience to lean on —which was assuming, of course, that he had experience at fucking up and finding strangled bodies in his closet, but he was certainly more knowledgeable about it than I was. “So what do we do?”

Chutsky frowned. “First, we have to check his room. He's probably run for it, but we'd look really stupid if we didn't check.” He nodded at the envelope in my hand. “We know his room number, and he doesn't necessarily know that we know. And if he is there then we have to, what'd you call it, play OK Corral on his ass.”

“And if he's not there?” I said, because I, too, had the feeling that Rogelio was a farewell gift and Weiss was already sprinting for the horizon.

“If he's not in his room” Chutsky said, “and even if he is in his room and we take him out —either way, I'm sorry to say it, buddy, but our vacation is over.” He nodded at Rogelio. “Sooner or later they find this, and then it's big trouble. We gotta get the hell out of Dodge.”

“But what about Weiss?” I said. “What if he's already gone?” Chutsky shook his head. “He's got to run for his life, too,” he said. “He knows we're after him, and when they find Rogelio's body somebody will remember them together -1 think he's already gone, heading for the hills. But just in case, we gotta check his room. And then beat feet out of Cuba, muy rapido!

I had been terribly afraid he would have some high-tech plan for getting rid of Rogelio's body, like dipping it in laser solution in the bathtub, so I was very relieved to hear that for once he was speaking sound common sense. I had seen almost nothing of Havana except the inside of a hotel room and the bottom of a mojito glass, but it was clearly time to head for home and work on Plan B. “All right” I said. “Let's go.” Chutsky nodded. “Good man” he said. “Grab your pistol.” I took the cold and clunky thing and shoved it into the waistband of my pants, pulling the awful green jacket over it, and as Chutsky closed the closet door I headed for the hallway.

“Put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door” he said. An excellent idea, proving that I was right about his experience. At this point it would be very awkward to have a maid come in to wash the coat hangars. I hung the sign on the door knob and Chutsky followed me out of the room and down the hallway to the stairs.

It was very, very strange to feel myself stalking something in the brightly lit hall, no moon churning through the sky over my shoulder, no bright blade gleaming with anticipation, and no happy hiss from the dark back seat as the Passenger prepared to take the wheel; nothing at all except the lump-thump of Chutsky's feet, the real one and the metal one alternating, and the sound of our breathing as we found the fire door and climbed up the stairs to the eighth floor.

Room 865, just as I had guessed, overlooked the front of the hotel, a perfect spot for Weiss to place his camera. We stood outside the door quietly while Chutsky held his pistol with his hook and fumbled out Rogelio's pass key. He handed it to me, nodded at the door, and whispered, “One. Two. Three.” I shoved the key in, turned the door knob, and stepped back as Chutsky rushed into the room with his gun held high, and I followed along behind, self-consciously holding my pistol at the ready, too.

I covered Chutsky as he kicked open the bathroom door, then the closet, and then relaxed, tucking the pistol back into his pants.

“And there it is” he said, looking at the table by the window. A large fruit basket sat there, which I thought was a little ironic, considering what Weiss was known to do with them. I went over and looked; happily, there were no entrails or fingers inside. Just some mangos, papayas, and so on, and a card that said, “Feliz Navidad. Hotel Nacional.” A somewhat standard message; nothing at all out of the ordinary. Just enough to get Rogelio killed.

We looked through the drawers and under the bed, but there was nothing at all there. Aside from the fruit basket, the room was as empty as the inside of Dexter on the shelf marked “soul'.

Weiss was gone.

AS FAR AS I KNOW, I HAVE NEVER SAUNTERED. To BE completely honest, I doubt very much that I have even strolled, but sauntering is far beyond me. When I go somewhere, it is with a clear purpose in mind and although I hesitate to sound boastful, more often than not I tend to stride.

But after leaving Weiss's empty hotel room and stepping into the elevator, Chutsky spoke as he stuffed the guns back into the briefcase and impressed upon me the importance of looking casual, unhurried and unworried, to such an extent that as we stepped into the lobby of the Hotel Nacional, I believe I actually did, in fact, saunter. I am quite sure that's what Chutsky was doing, and I hoped I looked more natural at it than he did —of course, he had one artificial foot to deal with, so perhaps I really did look better.

In any case, we sauntered through the lobby, smiling at anyone who bothered to glance at us. We sauntered out the door, down the front steps and over to the man in the admiral's uniform, and then sauntered behind him to the curb as he called up the first taxi in the row of waiting cars. Our slow and happy meanderings continued inside the cab, because Chutsky told the driver to take us to El Morro Castle. I raised an eyebrow at him, but he just shook his head and I was left to puzzle it out for myself. As far as I knew there was no secret tunnel out of Cuba from El Morro. It was one of the most crowded tourist destinations in Havana, absolutely overrun with cameras and the scent of sunscreen. But I tried to think like Chutsky for a moment —which is to say, I pretended to be a conspiracy buff and after only a moment of reflection, I got it.