Havana

Chapter 55

The pimp was sullen. The pimp was nervous. The pimp was upset because he paid good money and this sort of thing was not supposed to happen. It never would have happened until recently, but now that El Colorado was gone, things were muy loco. Nobody ran the business, no one knew who to pay, who to call, and the policia were getting more and more greedy in their demands on poor working men such as him.

Then the officer hit him in the mouth with a sap. He went down, spitting teeth and blood, and the Indian kicked him savagely in the guts, twice. He curled in pain, whimpering. He could do nothing. There were three of them: the officer Latavistada, the Indian, and a norteamericano.

Latavistada leaned over.

"Friend, you know my reputation. I am the one they call 'Beautiful Eyes' for a certain skill with a scalpel. You will get used to me, as I am soon to be very important down here. So now would be a good time to impress me and get a head start on our relationship. We are looking for someone. A big man, norteamericano, short hair, thatchy, iron gray. Moves like a cat, always watching. You would not mix with this man, amigo; he carries that meaning. You know where he is, don't you?"

"Sir, I swear it. I have only seen the usual Americans. They want to get fucked, they want to get drunk, they want a virgin, they want a negro, they want a yellow woman, they want all three, or they want all three in one, but for all of that they don't want to pay so much. That is all I know."

This conference was taking place in an alley off of Virtue Street, in Centro. It was one of many such conferences Captain Latavistada and his two cohorts had engineered over the past few days, all up and down Virtue, up a few blocks on Zanja, in many of the buildings with the doors with the hatchways, near the rail station, down the twisty pathways of Old Havana.

"Should I kill him?" asked the Indian.

"I don't know. Should he kill you, senor?"

"Please, sir, I just want to make an honest peso."

The captain spoke in English to the American. The American said something briefly.

"Even my American friend thinks you should be killed. We don't feel your hunger to do your duty to your nation, as exemplified by me."

"I swear I know nothing."

"How many women work for you?"

"Five."

"Five! A lie! It must be ten at least. Your teeth are gold, that switch knife had an ivory handle, the chain you wear around your neck, it too is gold. Your dying Jesus is gold. A man could not accumulate such wealth on five whores. That is ten-whore wealth if ever I saw it."

"I don't know. My gut hurts so bad I can't think straight."

"Get him up, Corporal," said the captain.

The Indian, immensely strong, lifted the pimp and rammed him against the wall. He put his forearm heavily into the sweating man's throat, so that the pimp felt death but seconds away if the Indian so decided.

"I will come back tomorrow," said the captain. "I had better see ten whores with black eyes and swollen heads and big blue lips, so that I know their master has spoken to them thoroughly and that they have held nothing back. The whores talk among themselves, they know things."

"Yes, sir," said the pimp.

"Now go do the necessary," he said, nodding to the corporal, who released the pimp and shoved him roughly on his way.

"Well, sooner or later," Latavistada said in English to Frankie, "one of these fellows will talk. Meanwhile you and I, we are establishing our bona fides down here."

"This is good, but I ain't getting rid of the buzz in my head until I see that fucking guy in a gutter with his fucking face blown off. Oh, I want that fucker," said Frankie.

"We will get him. You'll see. Havana is really a village, and everybody talks. He's down here, where else could he go? And some whore or pimp will give him up rather than face Beautiful Eyes and his American friend."

"I hope you're right. I'd hate to bring more bad news to Mr. L."

They walked back to the car. There wasn't much point in getting into it. They'd spent the evening cruising. They only took one break when Frankie felt a sudden need to drill three Chinese hookers on the third floor of the Pacifico, a few blocks down Zanja from the Shanghai Theater, but that only lasted a few minutes.

"I should call," said Frankie. "My boss will want to hear what is going on."

"Yes, of course."

And so he did, walking across the street to a pay booth, inserting a nickel, ordering the operator to connect with Meyer's private number, knowing the old man would be up at this hour, totaling the house's take on this night as on all others, and watching as the courier left for the airport with the checks so that he'd get to the Miami bank at opening hour, 10 A.M.

But Meyer wasn't interested in a report.

"What the devil took you so long? I have been waiting for hours for you to call."

"What is it, Meyer?"

"Ah, some other people are interested in helping us find this fellow. And they've put the word out, and now there's a report."

"I'm all ears."

"There's a whore who works a brothel just across from the dirty movie place―"

"The Shanghai. On Zanja. We were just in that neighborhood."

"Yes. Some months ago, when the congressman was in town, he kicked the hell out of her, and our man pulled him off. He saved her life. But the afternoon he escaped, she disappeared. She hasn't been to work since."

"You think he's there?"

"Frankie, go slow. Don't go busting in all in a rush, like you did the last time. Take it slow. Make sure he's there. Be thorough, be careful, be precise. You have to do it this time."

"I won't fail you, Meyer. Not this time."

"Her place is on Zanja Street. No. 165 Zanja. The apartment is 204."

Frankie committed it to memory.

"We're on our way."

"Go end it on Zanja Street," said Meyer.