Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [27]
“There will be patrols.”
“Many patrols, many guards. It is a chance.”
Maria nodded thoughtfully. “We must kill him soon,” she said. “Because very soon I shall kill this Garth. I shall shoot him and watch him die.”
Turner stretched, stood up. He took his pack of cigarettes from the nightstand and put them into his shirt pocket. They were Cuban cigarettes which Señora Luchar had given him. He had discovered that he preferred them to American cigarettes.
“I’m going out,” he told Hines.
“You kidding?”
“No. Why should I be kidding? Because I might get picked up by cops? To hell with that.”
“Well, you might.”
Turner was shaking his head. “Uh-uh,” he said. “Look, I know the fugitive routine. I went all over the States with the police looking for me. I got used to looking over my shoulder every time I took a leak. I don’t have to do that here. Nobody’s on my tail.”
“I still think you’re taking a chance.”
“Then you still don’t get it. Hell, you don’t know what it’s like to be hunted. It’s like nothing in the world. You don’t relax. I told you about what happened, didn’t I? About the girl and the pig with her?”
“You told me.”
“Yeah. Afterward I got drunk and slept it off. Then I woke up and remembered. Since then I never relaxed, not once. I kept running and I kept hiding and I kept looking over my shoulder. It’s quite a feeling. Not a good feeling.”
Hines didn’t say anything.
“Now we’re in Cuba. And it’s a hell of a thing, Jim. Nobody’s looking for me now. If I went out in the streets and told the world I killed a whore and her customer in Charleston they wouldn’t give a damn. I’m a free man. I don’t have to spend my time in a stinking basement. I can get out in the open air.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I’ll chance it,” he said. “Take it easy.”
Hines stayed on the edge of his bunk. He picked up an American magazine that the Luchar woman had brought, leafed through it absently. He tossed it onto the bed and wandered over to the heavy wooden work bench. It was like the one his old man had in the cellar. The old man used to like to make things. They were always things that he could have bought for half the price it cost him to make them himself, and they always came out a little wrong, but his old man got a kick out of it.
His old man had never made bombs. And that was what they were making now. Impact bombs with a power charge of TNT that would go off on contact. You took the bomb, gave it a heave, and when it landed it went off like … well, like a bomb. What else?
He didn’t know a hell of a lot about bombs. Neither did Turner, really, but Turner at least knew what was supposed to go into the thing and how it all worked. He had put together a list of materials for Señora Luchar, metal casing for the exterior, TNT for the charge, various other gimmicks and gizmos that ought to work. And Turner had done most of the work, drilling and sawing and fitting the casing, figuring out the right charge. Now they had two bombs almost completed. All that was needed was a few finishing touches and a strong heave in the right direction. And that would be that.
He wondered who the bomb would kill. Besides Castro, of course. God alone knew how much of a bomb they had. It could turn out to be the world’s greatest dud since Primo Carnera or it could blow half of Havana off the map, for all they could tell. They might get Fidel Castro. They might also get some of his soldiers, and some other politicians. And some people in the crowds, some women and children, some—
Hell. This wasn’t a game. He had a score to settle, had a slate to wipe clean. Joe was dead, damn it to hell, and Castro was going to get his, and if some poor clowns got in the way it was their tough luck. It was part of the game.
Like revolutionary justice?
Well, now.
He left the room. He was thinking too damned much and it was just getting him jumpy. Maybe Turner had the right idea—take it easy, do your job, keep your mouth shut, and go out in the streets