Killing Castro - Lawrence Block [53]
Turner didn’t say anything for a minute or two. He lit another cigarette, smoked in silence.
Then he said: “I didn’t mean to get on your back, Jim.”
“I know.”
“I was trying to make it easier. Not harder.”
“I know that.” Hines turned away. “You want to make me save myself. I understand. And I’m sorry I called you chicken. That’s a pretty silly word, isn’t it? I don’t know anything about courage, Turner. About bravery, heroism, all that jazz. Sometimes I get the feeling that there’s no such thing as a brave man. A guy does what he has to do and no more. You’ve got an out now. You can stay in Cuba and enjoy yourself. Without that out you’d be braver than hell. If you’ve got a guy cornered then he’s brave. I guess that’s the way it works.”
“Maybe, Jim.”
Hines studied the floor, shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “You want to know something? I’m not even sure any more if I’m getting back at … at Castro because of Joe. Joe was always my big hero, you know, and I had this image of the little brother evening things up for the big brother. That part of it doesn’t fit any more.”
Turner said nothing.
“So I don’t know why I want to kill Castro. Maybe because he ruined my hero for me, maybe some cockeyed reason like that. I don’t know. It’s just something I have to do.”
“Sure.”
“Turner? That bomb’ll go off, won’t it?”
“It ought to.”
“You said something about it turning out to be a dud. Was that just crap?”
“Probably. It should work. But don’t stand around waiting for it, Jim. Throw it and get the hell out.”
“I will.”
Turner stood awkwardly for a moment. Then he clapped a hand on Hines’ shoulder. “Luck,” he said. “I hope you make it.”
“Thanks.”
He turned quickly, took the stairs two at a time.
Señora Luchar was alone in the living room. She asked him if he wanted coffee.
“No thanks,” he said. “I thought I’d go for a walk.”
“Just a walk?”
“A long walk,” he said. “I’ll be staying at a hotel tonight. I’ll meet Hines at the plaza tomorrow. It’s safer that way.”
Her eyes regarded him coolly. “Sit down,” she said. “Have a cup of coffee before you go.”
He had coffee with her. She talked about trivial matters until he had finished the coffee. He watched her, listened to her. Jim was right, he decided. She was like Madame Defarge in the book. She should be knitting a shawl.
“Castro will die tomorrow,” she said.
“I hope so.”
“He had better,” she said.
Her tone accused him of everything from original sin to the crucifixion of Christ. He pretended not to notice the implication in her words, stood up, thanked her for the coffee, left. The old man was still rocking on the porch. Turner smiled at him and kept walking.
He checked into a residential hotel. His citizenship papers were in his wallet and he looked at them in the privacy of his hotel room, smiling quietly to himself. Then he went out to meet Ernesto. He walked easily, arms swinging freely at his sides. He was a free man now. He was safe. Tomorrow Hines would live or die, and tomorrow Fidel Castro would live or die, but neither of these lives or deaths were any of his concern any longer. He had done what he could do.
Now he had his own life to live.
Garrison was alone until a few minutes after ten. This evening, however, was different from all the other evenings he had spent alone. Other nights he had relaxed, listening to music, taking things easy. Tonight he was tense. He paced the floor, walked back and forth until he thought he was going to wear out the carpet or walk the heels off his shoes. He went again and again to the window