The Blind Pig by Jon A. Jackson Page B

will permit, we would have our revolución in that most far-flung province of Soviet Russia, otherwise known as Cuba.” The latter statement had a bitter tinge to it.
    The burly Francisco rose now and put a heavy hand on Angel's shoulder. “Angel,” he said kindly, and the younger man subsided in his chair.
    Francisco turned to Mulheisen with a sad expression. “ Mi amigo , he is having too many of Cuervo Especial. It is as he says, señor: we have the luxury of talk.”
    Mulheisen nodded amiably. “You are Cubans, then?” There was a general chorus of" Si ,” but out of the corner of his eye Mulheisen caught someone who had risen quietly and was on the point of stepping out of the room. Mulheisen turned quickly. “And you? You are also Cuban?”
    The man stopped halfway through the door. He was a slight, sallow-faced figure in a nicely cut blue pin-stripe suit, in contrast to the others, who wore bright shirts and tight pants. The slender man smiled slightly. “No, Señor Mulheisen, I am not Cuban.”
    “But you are South American,” Mulheisen said.
    “Yes, I am,” the man said with scarcely a hint of an accent.
    “Brazilian, perhaps?”
    The man pursed his lips irritably, then replied, “Bolivian.” He went out then, closing the door behind him.
    Mulheisen turned to Mandy. “You about ready to go?” She picked up her large leather purse from a chair and slipped the strap over her shoulder. Then she waved to the circle of men.
    “ Adiós! ” they chorused enthusiastically.
    Mulheisen grinned . “ Adiós, amigos .”
    Mandy took his arm and led him from the room. Mulheisen liked her hand on his arm because it brought his arm into contact with a firm but unbrassiered right breast.
    In the hall she muttered, “Always the snoop.”
    “I get paid to snoop,” he said. “Which reminds me: why are you here?”
    “It's a free country,” she said.
    “This place isn't free,” Mulheisen said.
    She smiled and leaned closer. He could smell her perfume,mingled with a sweet musty odor. “This isn't a raid, is it?” she asked.
    “I haven't made up my mind,” Mulheisen said.
    “A one-man operation?”
    “What's the matter, you don't think I could take them?” he replied.
    “Oh, don't be silly,” she said, losing interest in the repartee.
    They walked into the little barroom where the quartet was still ticking along like a good clock. A rather fantastic creature was standing next to Benny. He was six and a half feet tall with a creamy-brown complexion and thick, velvety lips formed in a perpetual pout. He wore an enormous wide-brimmed hat with a long feather drooping out of the crown. He also wore a calf-length fur coat that appeared to be made out of an entire generation of Arctic foxes. He looked out at the world through huge, pale-blue spectacles and flourished a long ivory cigarette holder.
    The creature waved his free hand languidly at Mandy and said, “Ah declayuh, Miss Mandy, ah'd sho love to jump on yo’ bones.”
    Mulheisen flushed, but Cecil replied airily, “Jump, Mother Rabbit, jump.”
    The man laughed, displaying his gold teeth, and slapped Benny on the back. Benny coughed. “Benny,” the man gushed, “this delicious kumquat is known as Mandy. Now, don't y'all wish you was Rastus? But this other person . . .” He frowned, looking at Mulheisen with obvious distaste.
    “That's my friend I was telling you about,” Benny said.
    “I believe I've seen your friend before,” the man said. He extended a bejeweled hand on a long arm and Mulheisen shook it briefly. “I'm Brandywine,” the man said, “and you are Fang.”
    “Fang!” Mandy Cecil said. She looked at Mulheisen and laughed.
    Mulheisen smiled, demonstrating his teeth. He stared intoBrandywine's eyes. “Call me Mulheisen,” he said.
    Brandywine tossed his head extravagantly. “Do I have to?” he said.
    Mulheisen laughed. “Let's go,” he said to Cecil. “I think I've got a ride,” he told Benny. “See you later.”
    It