Havana

Chapter 28

It was a quiet night at the little bar called La Bodeguita del Medio. The first wave of johns had gone off with the first wave of marias, the gamblers hadn't won or lost enough to come to celebrate or drink themselves into oblivion, no marine regiments or naval crews were on liberty, and so Earl sat alone, under a slowly spinning fan that looked like the prop on a Wildcat, and contemplated the bottle.

It lured him.

It beckoned him.

He didn't want to give in.

It sat before him on the bar, in the darkness, glinting magically, promising so much.

Fuck it, he said, and gave in.

He swallowed half with one swig, sucking greedily.

"Doesn't it go down better with something to drink?" asked someone next to him.

Earl set the aspirin bottle down before him, took a long swallow on a concoction he called a ginless-and-tonic and washed the dry, scratchy feel of the tablets from his throat.

"Yes," he said. "It does."

"How's the wound?"

"It hurts like hell."

"Why don't you take something stronger?"

"Boy, do I want to. But if I do, three weeks later I wake up in Shanghai with a Chinese wife, seven kids, four sets of grandparents and six new tattoos."

"Ah," said the man, "you are such a creature of discipline-the secret, I suppose, of your many excellent accomplishments."

Earl didn't have to look, but he did anyway. The man was still thin and papery, with dry skin, sharp, hard, bright eyes, a gray crewcut, dressed in a baggy suit.

"The last time I saw you, you was selling vacuum cleaners. What was the name then?"

"Actually, I've forgotten. I sometimes grow hazy on details."

"I think it was Wormer or Wormhold or Wormgeld."

"That sounds like something I'd come up with."

"Vurmoldt. Yeah, Acme Vacuums or some such. Maybe Ajax. Of Nebraska."

"I wonder where I got the Nebraska from? There can't be any vacuum cleaner companies in Nebraska, can there?"

"Wouldn't know."

"You're certain you're not drinking anything with alcohol in it? I rather enjoy the blur at the end of a busy day of selling vacuum cleaners. I'd be pleased to buy you one."

"I'd be pleased to accept one from you tonight and damned tomorrow. That's how it is. Sorry, but I do appreciate the offer. Anyhow, I should buy you one. I think I owe you one."

"Very well. I will have a mojito. This place is famous for its mojitos. Movie stars come here for the mojitos."

Earl got out a wad of bills, hailed the bartender and ordered another ginless-and-tonic for himself and a mojito for the gent on the next stool.

The two men watched the ritual as the waiter crushed sugar and rum and mint sprigs together, added lots of rum, a little spritz water, a few ice cubes, and, to top it off, still more rum, puncturing it with a straw. Then he added a little American flag on a toothpick before handing it over.

"Why, how patriotic," the vacuum salesman said. "Here's to the U.S. of A.!" and he took a nice long draught through the straw.

"I do like a man who enjoys his drinking," said Earl. "You know what, I am glad I ran into you. Here, take a look at this."

Earl reached into his pocket and came out with a brass casing less than an inch long. He set it on the tile of the bar.

"Now what do you suppose that little thing is?" he asked.

"Why, could it be from a gun?"

"You know, I believe it is."

"Guns are very dangerous, you know."

"So I've heard. Anyhow, it took some digging, but I finally figured out this came from a Soviet PPsH 41 tommy gun. It's in 7.63mm."

"A commie tommy! How alarming!"

"Yep. The commiest tommy there is. Anyhow, the other day I was busy getting killed. Seems some feller didn't like me and he was about to part my hair with an automatic. Suddenly he goes all swiss-cheesy. Someone stitched him six times with that commie tommy. Then, before he could fall, he stitched him six times again."

"Ah! Well, one can hardly miss with those guns, I'd imagine."

"Actually, it ain't so damned easy. Most folks, they squeeze the trigger and the gun runs away on them. They miss the target but redecorate the room. I had a gun something like that in the war; they're pretty hard to master."

"Your point is?"

"Whoever saved my bacon knows how to shoot. Has been around a long time. Knows infantry weapons, the way a soldier would. Would that fit you?"

"Ah, well," said the man. "One hates to tell stories on oneself. I learned some of those skills recently. If I recall correctly, it was called World War II."

"Yep, believe I heard of that one. You said you was in the German army."

"Did I? Well, possibly I meant a European army. There are so many countries over there, one can hardly keep them all straight."

"But there's a big red one, isn't there? Seems I read about that one. They had lots of commie tommys. Know anything about that one, mister vacuum cleaner salesman?"

"Oh, it all gets so mixed up, you know? And it's late."

"So I don't reckon I'm getting a straight answer. My question being, who the hell are you, and why have you saved my ass twice? Why do you keep showing up like a movie sidekick? And why did you follow me to this little place? I made you an hour ago as I'm moseying down Emperado, and I'm not even any damned good at this game. I been sitting here waiting. And that's another peculiar thing. I had the distinct impression you wanted me to see you, and a smart fellow like you, if you didn't want that, why there's no way I'd have caught on."

"I'd give you a straight answer if I had one. But I don't. I did, yes, come here for you. Not for questions or answers, but just to tell you something."

"I'm all ears."

"It's just this. I mean to warn you, as one ex-soldier to another ex-soldier: this is not your kind of fight. If you want to fight the wicked communists, go to Korea or Cyprus. They have them also in Malaysia, Kenya, Burma and Indochina. They're all over the place. Fight them straight on, in a war, and kill them, or die, if you're finally unlucky. That's something you're so good at. But, Swagger, not here. This is Havana. Things are different here. Duties aren't as clear as they are in a war."

He smiled, finished his mojito.

"Thanks awfully for the drink. Now I must go."

"It's the least I can do, friend. And I still owe you and I do prefer to pay off my debts."

"Swagger, you owe me nothing. I operate at so many levels that what helps you can also be construed to help me. Enjoy the night, my friend."

He put his Panama on, smiled rakishly, and left.

Earl watched him slide elegantly through the half-empty bar, wondering how the world conjures up a fellow so mysterious and capable at once.