Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [25]
He reached for her, caught her. She squealed with delight as he lifted her into the air and dumped her down on the bed. Then he was on the bed beside her, his hands busy with the white cotton dress. She laughed and giggled, pushed his hands away playfully. He grabbed her and kissed her. His tongue went between her lips and suddenly she moaned out loud; all the playfulness turned instantly to passion now and she was urging her body against his, kissing hard, holding tight.
They took her dress off. His hands went over her body, stroking the silken luxury of perfect skin, rubbing the slightly rounded stomach, cupping full breasts taut with womanliness, then kissing the upthrust nipples while she writhed wantonly on the bed. She said ’arper, ’arper, ’arper, repeated again and again a name that was not really his.
There was no element of time, no sense of space. Reality was suspended momentarily; rather, reality consisted only of Garrison and the girl, only of the meeting of bodies. There was one instant of irony when he realized again that they were making love on top of a high-powered rifle, but the thought was submerged by a wave of passion.
Then he was on his back looking at the ceiling without seeing it, waiting for his heartbeat to return to normal. He breathed deeply, closed his eyes, opened them again. He turned and saw her beside him, her eyes watching him. She looked like a cat by the fireplace, like an infant in the fetal posture. She looked beautiful.
“’arper,” she said, her sleek, naked body arching toward him.
“Mmmmm?”
“When you go back to America?”
“Not tonight. I’ll be busy tonight.”
“Don’t kid aroun’. When you go back?”
“I don’t know. Not for a while.”
“When you go,” she said softly, “you take me with you. No?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Because I’m a killer, he thought. Hired killers don’t carry pretty little whores in their suitcases. They travel light.
“’arper? You married, ’arper?”
It was a convenient lie but he passed it up, shaking his head.
“Then why not take me with you? I love you, ’arper. An’ you love me. I get in your blood.”
“And I get in your—”
“Don’t talk dirty. Why not, ’arper?”
“I’m sleepy,” he said. “Stay here tonight. We’ll talk about it in the morning. Right now I want to go to sleep.”
“You wan’ me to stay tonight?”
“Yeah.”
“An’ when you leave Cuba, you take me with you?”
“Maybe,” he said. “We’ll see.”
That seemed to satisfy her. He watched her close her eyes and drift off to sleep almost at once, like the contented little animal she was. He did not fall asleep that quickly. He rolled over onto his side, found a pack of cigarettes, smoked one in the near-darkness. He watched the tip of the cigarette glow with life when he drew on it. When he had finished, he stubbed it out in the ashtray on the bedside table, and closed his eyes again. But sleep didn’t come.
Take her back to the States? That was a cute idea now, wasn’t it? Jesus, he thought, she’s just another little piece and Havana is full of a million sluts just like her. And they would all tell you how much they loved you. So he should bring this one home with him? Like a war bride, he thought. A goddamned war bride. Just another little piece, maybe a little better than most of them, but still nothing special. So why didn’t he hand her her walking papers and get rid of her before she got in his way? Why not?
And it was the damnedest thing. He didn’t like her calling him ’arper. He wished she would call him Ray.
A dry, hot, lazy afternoon. Maria sat by the ashes of the dead campfire. She was cleaning her Sten gun. Only a fool let his gun become dirty. Once she had seen such a fool with a dirty gun. A troup of Castro’s forces had attacked, and one of their men fired his weapon. And it had blown up in his face, had disintegrated it.
She went on cleaning her gun, humming softly to herself. Her mind was busy with thought and she did not hear Garth until he was at her side.
Then she whirled. This big man frightened her; twice already he had put his hands on her, bothering her.
“You be nice to me,” he said now.