Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [35]
“And you sold them some?”
Ernesto frowned sadly. “Of course not. Young, pink-faced boys—the marijuana would have them walking across the sky, skipping like lambs from cloud to cloud. I told them to wait for me. I went to my garden and harvested weeds—plantain, grasses. I dried these in my oven and added catnip. I rolled a huge quantity of cigarettes. These I sold to your countrymen for a fine sum of money. And there is no danger, because they may smoke them forever without being affected.”
Turner laughed.
“So I shall pay,” Ernesto continued. “The girls at this house are a delight, my friend. Young and clever. There is one girl I think you shall like. A Chinese. Her father was Chinese, her mother Cuban. A lovely girl.”
They finished the wine and walked to a hotel several blocks away. In the lobby Ernesto talked volubly to the madam, a fat Cuban woman with pendulous breasts. Two girls came out—the Oriental Ernesto had spoken of and a young Cuban girl with dyed blond hair. Ernesto went off with the blonde and Turner followed the Chinese girl to her room.
She had tiny hands and feet, delicate features. She spoke Spanish with a Chinese accent. She kissed like a child and made love like a woman. Her skin was soft, her body firm.
She stood still, her hands over her head, while Turner removed her clothing. His hands moved over her silky skin, fondling her beautifully resilient breasts, fascinated by their tautness, his tongue circling the dark, saucy nipples. Then she made him stay still while she took off his clothing. She touched his naked body, stroked him in new and delicious ways that aroused him subtly and undeniably.
He took her in his arms, and they went to the bed.
They were on the bed for a long time before they made love. The girl was an artist with the caress, the kiss. Her hands were everywhere, her lips active, her seeking tongue industrious. She set Turner on fire. He kissed her firm little breasts again, squeezed the ripe globes of her buttocks and stroked her inner thighs, making her leap with anticipation.
Then they made love. It was warm, intense, demanding. She was anxious to please. Turner felt like a master, a god, a man.
Afterward, he and Ernesto walked through the streets of downtown Havana, stopped for a glass of beer here and there, smoked Cuban cigars and relaxed in the soft warmth of Havana at night.
“And you wish to leave this?” Ernesto demanded. “This ease, this blissful atmosphere? This for Brazil?”
“I enjoy Havana,” Turner admitted.
“Of course you do. You will stay.”
“Perhaps.”
“You will go to the government,” Ernesto said, “and you will tell them that in the United States you killed a man and a woman, and that you stole into Cuba illegally. They will permit you to stay. They will assist you.”
And Turner started to laugh. The irony of it was magnificent—he would be asking for help from the man he proposed to kill!
“Good food and good drinks,” the businessman said. “And good little women, best in the world. But I’m getting out of here, Harper. I’ll tell you, give me the States any time. You can relax there. They appreciate business, don’t try to push a man out once he gets where he belongs. Here it doesn’t work that way.”
Garrison looked at him. The man was fat and he perspired easily. He had said that his name was Burley, Lester Burley—call me Les. Garrison neither liked nor disliked him. They were in the bar at the Nacional and they were drinking. Soon Garrison would go upstairs, and then Estrella would join him for the evening. He didn’t mind putting up with call-me-Les Burley until then.
“You’re in business here, Burley?”
“Les,” Burley corrected. “Yes, I’m in business here. Nothing fancy, import and export, actually. Mostly cigars, buying tobaccos and selling them to a few cigar makers in Tampa. Ever been to Tampa?”
“No,” Garrison said.
“You’d like it—good town. Couple factories there—Havana Royale, Garcia Supreme—I sell ’em a lot of their stuff. Handle it, you might