Powder Burn - Carl Hiaasen [53]
Meadows pushed off the wall and headed for room number two. He didn’t have to go in, and he cursed his stupidity. A black-bordered plastic wallboard, the kind in which skinny white letters were inserted one at a time, bore the name Don Richard Lorenzo Edwards de Gutierrez. This had to be the Anglo-Cuban Nelson had told him about. A nameplate would be outside all the rooms; he should have looked.
Meadows took a deep breath and pushed open the door to room number three. Mono’s room.
Mono lay in a rich brown casket draped with a banner that said Brigada 2506, a tribute from the Cuban exile brigade whose invasion had failed at the Bay of Pigs.
The casket was open. Mono wore a white suit. His eyes were closed; his mouth was composed, his hair, neatly combed and lacquered in place. To Chris Meadows, Mono looked cruel even in death.
There were fewer people in this room, perhaps a dozen in all.
Meadows wondered which two worked for Octavio Nelson. There was no sign of the thugs Meadows sought.
He should have left then. But as his eyes cast about the room they fastened suddenly on three young boys, the eldest about ten, who fidgeted on hard-backed chairs in the row closest the coffin.
Three children. Sweet Jesus! Why did Mono have to have three children? Meadows grabbed at the moan, but some of it escaped into the quiet room. It might have been a sigh, a cough, a clearing of the throat, a calculated permission-to-enter? I-have-come-to-mourn-him-too.
Heads turned. Meadows felt himself go pale. Mono’s widow— who else could it be?—rose stiffly from her chair and turned to face Meadows. Ten years ago she might have been pretty. Traces of insouciance lingered in a face traced now by tears. She had grown dumpy, afflicted by the sagging breasts and rice-and-beans ass that are trademarks of Cuban women over thirty.
“Ay, ay, ay,” the widow keened as she approached Meadows.
“No, no,” Meadows gasped.
It must have sounded to the widow like a murmur of sympathy. She embraced Meadows, crushing him tightly against her. Meadows could hear the dress fabric groan as she smothered him. He could feel her girdle and her thick thighs. He could taste her tears. It was like being hugged by a bear. Meadows dared not tear himself away. He stood perfectly still, unwitting and unwilling comfort to the new widow.
Over her shoulder the sewn-shut eyes of the dead killer vowed retribution.
Later Meadows would never be able to recall how he had extracted himself from the widow’s cloying embrace. His last memory as he rushed from the body room was the image of the three young boys, staring wordlessly at him.
Meadows bolted into a neutral passageway to collect himself. He heard the sounds of plates, the whoosh of an espresso machine. Nelson’s words returned to him: “…best sandwiches in Little Havana.” Why not, if people mourned all night? Why not food in a funeral parlor?
The lounge was bright and airy: a half dozen wood veneer tables, a display case with cold drinks, a coffee machine and a cash register, its ring discreetly muffled. One Cuban waiter in a tuxedo stood behind a counter, gracefully carving a thick leg of pork. At the espresso machine a second waiter argued with a mourner.
”¿Cómo que no hay cerveza?” the mourner demanded.
“Lo siento, señor, pero no tenemos aquì.”
Beer. The thought of a sparkling cold glass of beer tugged at Meadows’s throat. How nice it would be. He shared the mourner’s disappointment. If there were sandwiches, there also ought to be beer.
Then Meadows’s thirst vanished, and his heat leaped into his parched throat at a vision from the dog track.
The mourner was one of Mono’s thugs.
Meadows looked hard: ferret’s eyes, small, bulbous nose, ginger mustache, sharply etched cheeks meeting at a small mouth with big lips. Stocky build, about twenty-five, dark complexion. As the killer turned from the waiter, Meadows’s portrait was complete. The man’s left ear was deformed: a cauliflower ear. Meadows pictured the man in boxing trunks, a welterweight.