Topaz - Leon Uris [28]
The Sugar Cane Kid felt the same stiffness now. He pivoted on the swivel stool at the lunch counter of the coffee shop across the street from the San Martín Hotel.
That’s him! Benny thought as Pepe Vimont entered. Yeah, that’s him all right. Doubleday book bag and a green necktie.
Pepe found an empty booth, ordered a milk shake and waited.
Benny slipped in opposite him, set down a pack of British Players cigarettes. Pepe opened the box and saw the folded two-dollar bill in it and closed it and handed it back.
“Benny García?”
“Look, man,” Benny said rapidly, grabbing Pepe’s sleeve. “Something’s gone wrong. Jesus.”
“Cool it. Get your hands off me. Talk softer and slower.”
Benny sucked in a half-dozen deep breaths. “Rico Parra was supposed to go to a party uptown at the Russian’s hotel. That’s why we figured on tonight. Luis Uribe could get in and out easier. But Rico’s sick. He’s in his room screaming and hollering and throwing up. People are running in and out like crazy.”
“Shouldn’t Uribe be able to get the papers out during the commotion?”
“Suppose he gets caught?”
The milk shake came. It was watery. Pepe fished around for the blob of ice cream with a long spoon.
“What did you and Uribe work out?”
“He needs the bread so he says he’s gonna try to get the papers down to my apartment come hell or high water.”
“Good. Let’s get over there and wait for him.”
Benny García’s leather-scarred face contorted with fear.
Rico Parra stood by the telephone in a faded robe, slapped his forehead and screamed at the man on the other end of the line. The floor was littered with newspapers, empty bottles, and unreclaimed dishes. Rico slammed the phone down, paced, puffed his cigar, and went into a coughing spasm.
“I want to see the doctor!”
“Get a doctor” was aped by a half-dozen flunkies, one of whom scurried out.
A waiter was passed into the room by the outer guards. He rolled a table up to the great man. Rico Parra plopped before it. The waiter lifted the lid of the soup tureen and ladled the contents into a bowl. Rico surveyed the table. “I asked for Coca-Cola! Where the hell is my Coca-Cola?”
Luis Uribe had entered the room quietly and went to Rico’s desk, a familiar place to him, and began to gather up the papers on it.
“I’ll bring your Coke right away, sir,” the waiter said.
“You speak Spanish!”
“Yes, sir. I am Puerto Rican.”
Rico arose, coughed, spat, missed the waste-basket, then put his hand on the waiter’s shoulder. “Don’t call me ‘sir.’ There are no servants in Cuba. Only servants of the Revolution. You are my compañero, and one day you will be liberated. Make that a large Coke.”
“Yes, sir.”
Luis Uribe moved toward the door.
“Uribe!” Rico shouted.
“Yes?”
“Where are you going with those papers?”
“You asked for translations and notes for tomorrow’s meeting with the Soviet delegates.”
“I told you to work on them here and not take them from the room.”
“You were supposed to go out for dinner, but you’re sick. How do you expect me to work with all this noise? I can’t get them done in time.”
“Well ... all right ... you can do it in your room, but be careful. Hernández, you go and stay with him.”
Luis Uribe crossed the hall, trying desperately to think out what to do as the hulking Hernández lumbered after him and closed the door behind them.
Uribe stacked the papers on his own desk and flicked on the lamp. Perhaps he should call down to Benny García. No, that would be too risky.
He scratched a halfhearted note on the foolscap pad. God! He needed the money. He had been utterly determined to go through with it when he knew he was coming to America.
Maybe try to deal with Hernández. To guess wrong on him would mean his life. Hernández was oversized for a Cuban. A thug who could destroy with either hand and a devoted bodyguard of Rico Parra.
Minutes ticked off as he played listlessly with the translation. How long