Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [37]
“Sure,” Garrison said, completely disinterested in Les’ predictions, right or wrong. “Well, take care, Les,” he said, getting to his feet.
“You got to go?”
“Uh-huh,” he said, dropping money to cover the check. “I’ll see you.”
“Well, at least let me pick up the tab—”
Garrison didn’t let him. He left, went to the newsstand in the lobby, picked up a fresh cigar. He took the elevator to his room and let himself in. Everything was as he had left it, and Estrella hadn’t shown yet.
He walked to the window, raised the shade, looked out at the plaza where Castro would be speaking. The big public speech was due on July 26th, of course. The anniversary of the movement. And that was the day Castro was going to die, unless one of the other four got to him sooner.
Which seemed doubtful enough.
July 26th was a little less than three weeks away. He laughed; maybe he should have told Burley to revise his figures, should have told him that Castro would be dead in three weeks, not two months. Good old call-me-Les, with his ear pretty damn close to the ground, let me tell you. He would probably drop dead of apoplexy if he knew that John Harper, boy real estate speculator, was the man who was going to put an extra hole in Fidel Castro’s head.
Garrison yanked down the window shade, went over to the bed again. The hell with it, he thought. There were plenty of little things to laugh at, things like call-me-Les Burley, but the big things weren’t that funny. He had problems of his own.
Estrella was the problem. The easy answer was too easy—get rid of her, forget her, go back to the States and let her rot. That was the right answer but it didn’t take care of the problem.
Because the problem was that he wanted to take her back with him. She was a new type of woman—she didn’t ask for anything, didn’t want anything, didn’t waste words and didn’t get in his hair. She was with him when he wanted her, with him completely and totally. She left him alone when he had to be alone. She knew how to keep her mouth shut.
And he wanted to keep her. That was what it boiled down to—she was a fine little possession and he didn’t want to let go of her. And taking her back didn’t exactly fit in with his plans, with the pattern of his life. He was going to have to leave in a hurry, a hell of a hurry. He didn’t have time to go through war-bride ceremonies. And he might have to lam it hard, might have to bribe some fast-buck pilot to run him home in a hurry. You traveled light in Garrison’s business. The first thing you had to learn was not to attach yourself to anything—not to a home, a city, or a thing. You lived out of one suitcase and you were ready to leave that suitcase behind in a jam.
You sure as hell stayed away from love.
Women were fine—they were part of the rewards of the business—expensive, high-flying, one-night gigs. But not love. God in heaven, not love!
A knock at the door.
“Who is it?”
“Estrella. Let me in, ’arper.”
He opened the door. She was in his arms, soft and warm. The same excitement was there. It happened every time, the heat, the tension, the desire. Every time.
And afterward:
“I love you, ’arper. I love you.”
“I love you, Estrella.”
Three days hadn’t changed anything. Three days, and as many movements along the road toward Santiago, had done nothing to lift the tension in the rebel band. Garth did not talk to Fenton. Nor did he talk to Manuel, and since no one else spoke English, he, consequently, did not talk to anyone. He spent his time watching Maria. He never went near her, but he never stopped watching her.
And the tension grew. Castro was due within the week. They were in position now, a position they presumably could hold when the time came. Their camp was in the hills, but they were near a rock formation that overlooked the road.