Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [117]
Victor brooded. Did they think they were in a cantina?
“You can make arroz con pollo, can’t you?”
“It’s not usual, but of course we can make it.”
“Good. Hurry, we are hungry.”
Victor turned to go.
“And more beer,” the Mustache Man added.
“Not me.” The man in the shiny brown suit spoke for the first time. “For me another scotch and Coca-Cola.”
“Yes, sir,” said Victor, mentally deciding how much he could pad their bill without causing a scene.
“And send one to the lady,” the man said, gesturing toward the window where a lovely Latina in a skintight dress slit almost to her waist sat alone.
“The lady,” Victor said icily, “is waiting for her husband.”
“Send her the drink, fat man.”
“That is my dessert,” announced the Peasant when Victor had shambled away.
“I saw her first,” complained the Mustache Man.
“She smiled at me,” said Cauliflower Ear.
“What about the husband?” The fourth man was thin and wore a large emerald ring.
“Fuck the husband.”
“No, fuck her.”
They all laughed loudly while Victor quivered impotently.
When the red-coated waiter brought the drink, the woman shone a dazzling smile of thanks at the four men. Her tongue drew a slow and lascivious circle around full red lips.
“We are all friends now,” the Peasant said tightly. “We will share her.”
THE OLD MAN skillfully dipped a morsel of lobster into the cup of hot butter.
“Excellent, Ignacio, truly excellent. I congratulate you.”
“Yes, it is a good place. I’m sorry you did not bring your wife.”
“Next time perhaps. This is a working trip, too important for her.”
“But not for your two associates.” José Bermúdez gestured through the screen of palms toward the sound of merriment beyond.
“Ah, Pepín and Alberto. I seldom travel without them. Rough men, but their hearts are good.”
“Yes.” Make peace, but prepare for war. Canny old bastard.
“Your men seem to be showing them a good time.”
“Yes.”
“It is well. They should know and respect one another. I believe that specialists should always respect their peers, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“And you and I, Ignacio? When do we exchange information?”
“Tomorrow. If you will come to the bank at nine. I have everything ready.”
“Splendid. I have brought things for you to see, too.”
“We will not be disturbed for the whole day, I promise you.”
The old man smiled thinly. “And what business is it that brings me to the bank tomorrow, Ignacio?”
“Of course, I’m sorry. It is a textile agreement. You want to build a new factory in Cartagena, and we are interested in financing it. The papers are all ready, and we will sign them. In another ten days the deal will collapse in a dispute over mortgage interest.”
The old man speared another chunk of lobster.
“Excellent, Ignacio. Excellent.”
OCTAVIO NELSON HAD not been this tense since the long-ago afternoon he had clung to a rock with a bloody arm and prayed that the Batista patrol would weary of the hot sun. His palms itched. His stomach clenched.
José L. Bermúdez’s big Seville rested peacefully in the parking lot. Nelson had seen that much in his first quiet prowl through the darkness. But what was happening inside La Cumparsita? Was Meadows there? Nelson had not seen him go in. Who else was there, and what were they doing? If Meadows had only given him a little more notice, he could have wired somebody and sent him inside.
Nelson skirted the pale circle of light from the restaurant windows and walked along the left side to the door leading to the bar.
“Reilly, have you got a watch with a second hand?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“Are you sure you know what to do?”
“Captain, relax, I’m not stupid. Exactly one minute after we hear you guys go in the front and the back, me and Bloom seal this door. Our people slide out the door in the meantime, right?”
“How many people?”
“Three people, Captain. Two guys and a gal. Relax, willya? You’re makin’ me nervous.”
“OK, Reilly, OK. Sorry.”
Nelson returned to the front of the restaurant to await Meadows’s signal.
Jesus, he thought silently, I would give my soul for a cigar.
“NOW THAT’S SOME nigger,” the Peasant smirked.