Tropic of Darkness (4 page)

The Frenchman's lifted both arms to the sky.

“Like waving on a
king
!”

The girls behind them giggled at his antics, and a few passersby stared.

They must hate us,
Jack thought, watching the quiet people as they frowned and turned away.
Deep down, they must really hate our guts. God, if it were me, I would.

“It's going to go sour on you one of these fine days,” he told the Frenchman quietly. “You must realize that. You're seriously nuts.”

“So what's new?” A big hand clapped him on the back. “I'm crazy as a fox—and very happy. Screw you.”

*   *   *

Later, in the jam-packed Bodeguita del Medio—the tables and walls smothered with the signatures of all the customers who had passed through—Lola leaned across to Nona and the two began conversing in hushed tones, glancing across at Jack and smirking. Their Spanish was so peculiarly accented, when they talked among themselves, that he could barely understand a word that they were saying.

So he looked to Pierre for an explanation.

“Lola's telling how you asked if they were sisters,” the Frenchman beamed. “They reckon you're kinky for that kind of thing.”

Jack thought he heard another laugh directly behind him, exactly like the one he'd heard when twilight had been falling. But there were dozens of women in here.

It could have been anyone.

*   *   *

Later still.

Back in Jack's hotel room. All four of them blasted from a whole evening of cocktails. Jack sitting down hard on the corner of his bed.

A sliding noise of fabric across skin, a clattering of fallen shoes, and then a body moving toward him. He wasn't sure which of the girls it was, couldn't lift his head enough to make out her face, didn't care. It occurred to him that he was simply going through the motions. How long had it been this way? How much of his life, since age nineteen, had followed the same patterns?

Somewhere in the background, Pierre was saying things in French. And now Jack was beneath Lola/Nona and she was fumbling with his belt, and both the girls were making too much noise for a hotel room, it occurred to him, screeching and squealing, but it didn't really matter, because he'd opened the windows when they'd first come in and the combined racket from the disco on the hotel roof and the cabaret across the street was just incredible, no one would hear anything above it.

Such loud music, so much noise, his head was spinning, his thoughts blurring, their shapes altering like a kaleidoscope. And after a few minutes, the girls switched over, laughing.

A while after that, Jack heard a familiar metallic click. He sat up sharply and pushed Nona/Lola off of him.

Lola/Nona was at the foot of his bed, crouched over his music case. She'd opened it, was in the act of reaching down to pick up his cornet.

And he lurched at her so savagely that the girl wailed with fright.

“Who said you could
touch
that?!”

He was out of control. His voice sounded insane, even to his own ears. The woman's eyes became huge and her palms went to her mouth.

“Keep your damned hands off my things!”

Her fright transformed to anger. Her face screwed up and she began swearing at him volubly.

Her companion had sprung off the bed and was yanking her dress back on, shooting him swift, worried glances and muttering,
“Loco! Loco!”

Jack peered around, swaying. Pierre was watching him from the far corner of the room with an amused grin on his face.

“Nice going, Jackie,” the Frenchman sputtered, his voice full of irony. “Really good way to end the evening.”

Pierre turned his attention to the outraged girls.

“We've found out something new about Jack Gilliard this evening, ladies. You can touch his body, but you cannot touch those things that pertain to his soul. Is
that
it, Jack? Is that what you're looking for, these days? A lady who understands your deepest self, your inner being?”

Jack's head whirled. He began wondering if that was true.

Pierre began to laugh out loud. And that sound, too, merged with the blaring music in the darkened, airless night.

And, not for the first time, Jack got the persistent feeling that somebody else was watching him.

CHAPTER

FIVE

Throughout Uncle Sandro's birthday party, Manuel Cruz's manner had been quiet and distant. It was unlike him. He was normally the life and soul of gatherings such as this one, and his wife, Rosita, kept on glancing at him worriedly.

He stood up and made a toast, to dampen her concerns as much as for any other reason. But he found he couldn't keep up even that small show of good humor for long. Ever since that call from Canada this morning, a brooding unease had taken hold of him.

Poor Francis Jackson, dead by his own hand. And only a year back, the Dutchman, Jan Meenders, whom he'd also liked. Two guests that he'd looked after. And two suicides afterward. It seemed like an incredible coincidence. An awful one too, any way you looked at it.

He couldn't understand it, nor think what to do. Maybe there was nothing
to
do. It might only be a trick of fate. But it was disturbing him badly. And perhaps his brother-in-law might have some ideas on this strange subject.

He glanced across the table at Carlos Esposito, who had come directly from the precinct house and was still wearing his uniform and police captain's badge. They'd never got on particularly well—he had always been of the opinion that his sister could do better than this crude, brash fellow. But Manuel had to admit: there were times having a cop for a relative was useful.

Manuel had been waiting for the opportunity to speak in private. It came, finally, when the burly man took out a cigar and made to light it.

Rosita flapped her hands angrily at him.

“Not in here! Not around the children! Out into the garden, you!”

“Ay!”
Carlos grumbled. “The pair of you are getting more like
Norteamericanos
every year.”

He pushed his chair back and then lumbered out. And Manuel followed, on the pretext of keeping him company.

It was only a small square of green at the back of the house, bordered with rusting chicken wire, but Manuel felt a sense of calm out here. A little orange tree stood in the rear corner of his backyard, and clumps of aloe vera formed prickly silhouettes in the darkness.

Around him, in the neighboring yards of San Francisco de Paula, dogs yapped, music wafted from a radio, cicadas chirred. They were on the prow of a hill. The lights of Havana glittered in the distance.

Manuel watched as Carlos bit the end off his cigar, spat it and then sent a billow of smoke up into the night air.

The captain noticed he was not alone. Turned around, his face pale in the moonlight. When he saw who had come out with him, he grinned and clamped a hand to his heart mockingly.

“Christ, Manolito, you shouldn't sneak up on me like that. Lucky for you I'm not wearing my gun.”

Manuel returned his smile with a complete lack of pleasure. He hated the way Carlos used his diminutive, making it sound denigrating rather than familiar. And the way that the man always made joke threats . . .

“Come,” Carlos beckoned. “Over here. Stand next to me, like a good brother should.”

He was rather drunk, Manuel could see. Nothing new in that. Normally, he'd have found some excuse to walk away. But this time, bothered as he was, he did as he was asked.

Carlos clamped an arm around his shoulder, the smell of drink and stale tobacco overwhelming Manuel.

“You've been so quiet this evening, Manolito. Are you sick? I wouldn't be surprised, sitting in that damned office all day, pushing pens around a desk and getting fat, eh?”

He broke into coarse laughter. Manuel just kept quiet.

Carlos swayed a little, and then frowned at him concernedly.

“I haven't offended you, have I? It's just friendly advice. So, what do you need to get off your chest? There's something troubling you, isn't there?”

Manuel told him all about Francis Jackson. And as he'd expected, Carlos looked bewildered by the time that he had finished.

“So? Yanquis bump themselves off all the time. Their existences are pointless, their lives too stressful.”

“But it happened a year back, the exact same thing. I was entertaining another foreign visitor, a Dutch industrialist. He seemed fine. And then when he went home, he killed himself. He slashed his wrists.”

“And how did this Jackson die?”

Manuel felt awkward.

“I'm not sure.”

Carlos gave Manuel a hard look for a second and then let out a surprised bark of a laugh.

“I always thought you were a realist, Manolo. Not given to fantasies. So what are you suggesting? These two men loved Cuba so much that they could not bear the agony of leaving? These two gringos who are not even remotely connected or related went back home to their big houses and giant TV sets and found it all so awful that they ended their own lives?”

By and large, Manuel had been expecting little else. He frowned and turned his gaze toward Havana once again.

Carlos's grip around his shoulder slackened just a touch. The man was now staring at Manuel with a thoughtfulness he never usually showed.

“What
is
this?” he asked. “What the hell is eating you? Why should this bother you so much?”

Manuel realized he wasn't even sure himself. He could only lower his head, staring dumbly at the ground.

“An instinct you have, yes?” the big cop asked him. “A feeling in that flabby gut of yours?”

Manuel shrugged. “Maybe.”

“Not maybe—
yes
. I know you better than you think.” He breathed out heavily and straightened up, pulling the shorter man with him. “Where d'you think I got this captain's badge, a candy store?” he went on, his voice sobering a little. “I'm actually a damned good cop. I know what makes most people tick. You, you're smart. And more importantly, you're sensible, always a good head on your shoulders. So when your instincts start to bother you this badly . . . ”

Carlos seemed to puzzle over it in the way that people who are pretty drunk do, taking far too long about it.

“Is there anything that you can do about this?” Manuel asked.

“I can't see what, quite honestly. But something might turn up. Crazier things have happened. I'll look into it and let you know.”

He thumped Manuel's shoulder, punctuating his words with a rasping chuckle.

CHAPTER

SIX

The girls were gone, and so was Pierre. Music was still blaring through the open windowpanes but, drunk and entirely oblivious, Jack was lying curled up at the center of his rumpled bed, murmuring as he dreamed.

It was like no dream that he had ever had. Even fast asleep, he knew that.

First, it went completely dark inside his head. And then . . .

There was a pair of eyes, moving in toward him through the blackness. They had hazel-colored irises, rather saddened in the way they glistened, as though on the verge of tears. They continued getting closer, larger until—by the time they stopped in front of him—they had become the size of headlamps. This was how a mouse inside a hole had to feel, being stared at by a cat.

They studied him curiously for a while. Then finally they blinked, began to fade away.

But they did not vanish completely. They remained faintly in the background for the whole remainder of the dream, as if they were studying his reactions.

The darkness in its turn gave way to a warm although subdued lighting. Which revealed marble pillars, an ornate ceiling, and massive potted palms. There were tapestries on the walls, revolving fans in the ceiling, a floor so polished it reflected like the surface of a lake.

He was in a hotel lobby, but it was not the Portughese. Instead, it was . . . the Nacional, he understood. From where?

And then he kept wondering how he knew that. Because he'd never even seen the outside of the Nacional.

But something else had changed as well. Something of even greater importance.

He wasn't Jack Gilliard any longer. His name was . . .

Mario Mantegna . . . ?

He turned to straighten his tie in a mirror.

*   *   *

It was a bowtie, on a stiff winged collar of the detachable type. He was wearing a tux—once again, not of any modern style. More like something from an old black-and-white movie. And the face above the collar was a good five years younger than his own. Latino and very handsome. Full and smooth and with a strong, square jaw. Black hair was slicked against his scalp. There were rings on his manicured fingers when he glanced down.

Near the armpit, there was a distinct bulge in the fabric of his jacket. He could feel a solid weight there, and the pressure of a holster. He was carrying a gun.

He'd never owned a gun before. Only the knife. Or had he?

He grinned at his own reflection, pleased with the shape that he was in. And then was brought smartly around by a bellow from the far end of the lobby.

“Mario Mantegna! Welcome to Havana, you good-looking son-of-a-bitch!”

The stumpy figure trundling in his direction was Eddie Lanzarro. “Cold Eyes” Eddie, from Detroit. They had been friends ever since they'd jointly solved the problem of an awkward prosecutor in Seattle.

“Mario, am I pleased to see you!”

The man was barely five-foot-four, but the word “stocky” didn't even begin to describe him. He was like a squat barrel of muscle with a head and limbs attached. His face, below his graying, short-cropped hair, was creased with pleasure. Except that Mario could see that his eyes were as dull and without warmth as they always were.

They embraced each other tightly. Glancing across his shoulder, Mario saw the man had brought along four local girls.

“Well, Jesus!” he beamed, staring at them. They were slender and sultry and quite gorgeous. “Things look like they're as good down here as everybody says.”

Mario waved his hand at his surroundings. “We own this place?”

“Every inch. Meyer always did have taste.”

“He here?”

“Nah, tied up in Vegas for a few more days. He'll
be
here though. He might even take you to meet Batista. But hell, what're we talking business for? We've got a couple days clear and, trust me, you ain't gonna believe this town. These broads are just for starters.”

They went out to the forecourt. Piled, all six of them, into a cab and headed across into the Old Town.

This
—Jack figured, turning in his sleep—
was not the present. It had to be the fifties. The vintage cars were new. The buildings of Havana were not crumbling as yet. There were fresh paintwork and bright lights everywhere he looked. And Batista was still president.

Another era. 1958, to be exact. And how did he know that, either?

They passed restaurants and nightclubs, strip joints and casinos. Mario couldn't even start to take it in.

“Sweet Jesus Christ!” He shook his head. “This place is a gold mine. Ninety miles off the coast of Florida? A boat trip, for Pete's sake. And we're gonna run the whole damned thing?”

Eddie replied with a nod and a wide grin. He'd lit up a cigar and had it wedged between his large teeth while he pawed a couple of the girls.

Everywhere that Mario looked, there was activity. Each of the restaurants was packed and the streets outside were bustling.

They disembarked in front of a grand-looking venue and a doorman ushered them inside.

He'd seen Eddie in strident moods before, but nothing like the way he acted in the Floridita. Shouting and demanding, bullying the waiters. Harassing and insulting them to the point where he was sure they'd snap. But they didn't seem to dare.

“Isn't there supposed to be some kind of war going on down here?” Mario asked, in a lull between the yelling. “Some kind of Red making trouble for the government?”

“Castro? That shithead?” Eddie stuffed some shrimp into his mouth. “He's not a soldier, he's a lawyer, for chrissakes. And when did you last meet a lawyer who could fight his way out of a paper bag?”

“No problem, then?”

“No friggin' way. His ragtag little army's pinned down in the mountains, no more than a thousand of them at the most. And Batista assures us that they'll all be dead by Christmas. You'll like
El Presidente,
kiddo. Hell, he's pretty much like one of us.”

The food was excellent, the surroundings luxurious. But Mario still couldn't understand where Havana's special reputation came from. Until the next stop on their tour.

CUBAN SUPERMAN
, read the banner above the entranceway.

He found himself loosening his collar, his cheeks growing hot. He wasn't a prude, God only knew, but this? Open, naked sex in front of everyone. To a paying audience, for God's sake.

He looked away after a while. Saw the pale, transfixed expressions of the tourists around him, the mesmerized glaze in their eyes. And in that moment, he
knew
what Havana's secret really was.

No one quite believed this town.

Eddie gestured for the check. They'd ordered more drinks in here. The barman simply flapped his hands.

“Compliments of the management,
Señores
,” he told them with a bow.

“You see?!” Eddie shouted as they sauntered out. “We're kings here! Friggin' kings!”

At this point in the dream, Jack rolled over again, mumbling.

For a second, in the course of the dream, Eddie's face had seemed to transform into the features of Pierre Melville.
The exact same words, issuing from his mouth. Almost forty years separating the two men. But the exact same words.

There was another cab ride through a district of tall houses and huge, bizarre-looking trees. Finally, they turned into another forecourt, slowed down to a halt. Mario could make out, through the luscious foliage, rows of colored bulbs flashing over an arched entranceway.

This place was called the Club Karibe.

Inside, it was practically all tourists again. They went through a hall full of gaming tables into the main section of the nightclub—it was open to the skies. And up on the stage, an act was underway.

It was a cabaret, similar to what you saw in Vegas except blown up to a near absurd degree. Dancing girls? Well, here they were, as many of them as you could cope with. A chorus of more than a hundred black and Latina women in gold sequined costumes that showed off a great deal more than they concealed. Tall plumes of white feathers bobbed in their dark hair.

Mario watched them for a while, impressed. But then his attention began to wander. The nearest of the girls that they'd brought with them had begun touching him, down low.

He was bending to nuzzle a soft shoulder when a movement from the stage brought his head back up.

A new dancer had appeared from the shadows at the back. Her olive skin was paler than that of the others. She was tall and slim, incredibly beautiful. In fact, the other women practically looked dowdy when compared with her.

She had begun gyrating, body raised on tiptoe. And as Mario watched her avidly, she spun closer and closer to the front of the stage.

His gaze drank her in.

He was finally able to see, under the hot glare of the spotlights, that she had the most amazing hazel eyes.

Exactly the same color
—Jack realized—
as those that had approached him at the start of this strange dream.

They held Mario entranced. The rest of the nightclub seemed to fade away.

Finally, at last, he leaned across to Eddie.

Breathed, “I want her.”

“Huh?”

“I'm going to have her, if it's the last thing that I do.”

Eddie muttered, “Who?” at him, shrugging.

Mario looked back up at the stage.

Glanced from side to side, trying to find the lovely dancer.

And his jaw gaped. She was gone . . .

*   *   *

Jack woke with a piercing yell, sitting bolt upright on his bed.

The music from outside had stopped. The room was silent and pitch black. Humid night air closed around him like a giant's breath.

But oddly, he felt a little cold. Rubbed at his upper arms.

He was shivering. Why should that be? And why'd he woken so abruptly? Nothing in the dream had been particularly frightening.

However much he turned it over in his head—and he did that for a good long while—he simply couldn't figure it out.