Havana by Stephen Hunter Page B

bodyguard, his eyes ever watchful, his hand never far from his automatic, his movements lightfooted and prepared, shadowed him in.
    Another ten minutes passed.
    Speshnev had another cup of coffee and a Cuban sweet roll. It was delicious.
    And then, the door of the brothel flew open and a bleeding man crab-walked out groggily, holding an arm atilt from breakage.
    Oh, my, thought Speshnev. Somebody tried to get tough with the wrong fellow.
    Then, its sirens bleating savagely, its red lights pumping illumination into the night, the first police car arrived. And then another and another. The no. 1 assistant rose to intercede from his place in the car, but was rudely pushed aside by the Cuban coppers as they assaulted the stairs, clubs and guns at the ready.

Chapter 10
    Why are they always green? But they are, and he should know, having been in whorehouses in Shanghai and Panama City and Nicaragua and Pearl Harbor and San Diego and Hot Springs. They were always green, but a thin wash of green, pale and sloppy enough so that the grain of stucco or stone or drywall shone through. The Asian ones were smokey and sedate and dark, as if sex were a form of narcotic. The Spanish ones all had crucifixes, gaudy and wracked, hanging on the walls, while in America the tendency was toward calendar art, with preposterous hourglasses of womanflesh showing garters and thighs and a hint of pink-tipped breasts. This one had the crucifixes, the candles, the stench, the beaded curtains, the dark corridor leading back to small rooms, a toilet somewhere—you could smell it—and a mama and her girls.
    Earl checked it out, wondering if there was a bouncer somewhere. If so, he wasn’t visible. He poked a look down the dark hall and saw nothing, and peered into a small kitchen and again saw nothing. Maybe he was downstairs, maybe he was on the roof. But he would be there.
    Meanwhile, Pepe negotiated. It was brief and intense and it turned out that Pepe had talents along these lines, suggesting that he’d done this ten or possibly fifteen thousand times before. It was all done in advance, so that when the boss arrived, all the embarrassing financial details would be worked out, all questions settled, all bills paid in full, and only the pleasure remained.
    There were three girls, the one the boss had chosen and two others. Mamasita told the two others to take a hike and they disappeared down the dark hall, leaving Esmeralda, as she was called, to face her fate, which was Boss Harry the American humanitarian politician. The yellow negress had rolling shoulders, breasts and buttocks; in fact everything about her was somehow rolly and quivery, fleshy and powdery and sweaty meat, and dankness and moisture. A sheen of wet glittered on her forehead. She looked nervous and forlorn. But the boss wouldn’t notice.
    Earl heard Pepe, after some lengthy hassles in Spanish, divert to English.
    â€œDrink the Coca-Cola bottle, no? El Coca, si? That’s what he wants.”
    â€œHe pays the extra, he gets.”
    â€œThen it’s done, Mama?”
    â€œIt is done.”
    He turned to Earl and just nodded. No expression at all lit his eyes, the mark of a professional.
    Earl went down the dark stairs, opened the door and went to the car, its engine still running to provide the power for air conditioning. A window wound down under the power of a miraculous modern pushbutton.
    â€œHe says it’s set,” Earl said to Lane.
    â€œYou sure, Swagger?” asked Lane.
    â€œI’m sure that’s what he said. What that means, I don’t know and can’t say. This ain’t a good idea.”
    â€œJust do the job, Swagger.”
    The window clamped shut.
    Earl looked about and around. It was a familiar whoretown scene: when a customer came to call, it was as if he entered a bubble. The commerce was sacred and invisible, and the Cuban throngs massing along the sidewalks of Zanja walked blankly on, watching nothing. Earl looked