stable doors had been bricked over, and the lone entrance was a metal door halfway down the block. A pair of young fighters exited as Jack approached, and they held the door open for him and Theo.
“Gracias, chicas ,” said Theo.
Jack let the door close and said, “You just called them girls.”
“Those were girls, dumbshit.”
Jack had been so on-mission, wrapped up in his thoughts, that he hadn’t noticed.
The sounds of the gym were at the end of the hallway, and the sweaty smell of hot, stale air welcomed them to the training area. Jack counted six rings and two windows, neither of which was open. It had to be ninety degrees inside.
Jack walked up to the old man behind the desk. He was absorbed in his copy of the Granma , the official newspaper of the Cuban Communist Party—the name “Granma” borrowed from the yacht that had carried Fidel Castro and his band of rebels to Cuba’s shores in 1956, launching the revolution. Jack translated the above-the-fold headline to himself. The oil spill, front-page news across America, was apparently not as big a story as the 88 percent voter turnout in the election of delegates to the People’s Power Municipal Assemblies.
“Josefina Fuentes?” asked Jack.
The old man looked up from his daily. With a jerk of his head he indicated a ring to Jack’s right, where a young woman was sparring with a male fighter. Jack and Theo walked around the weights and mats on the floor and stood outside the ring. It was impossible not to admire the quick hands, sculpted arms, and amazing footwork.
Theo smiled at what he saw. “That girl is ripped.”
Jack took a step closer to the ring. Theo followed, unable to tear his eyes away from her. They watched for several minutes until the sparring ended. Josefina went to the ropes, where her coach gave her pointers as he removed her headgear and unlaced her gloves. Josefina’s trainer was beyond boxing age but looked as though he’d spent some serious time in the ring in his not-too-distant youth. He gave her a fist bump and moved to the next pair of fighters. Josefina was dripping with sweat as she walked toward the watercooler.
“Josefina?” Jack asked.
She stopped, removed her mouth guard, and smiled. Her face was a little puffy from the workout, but she still qualified as an athletic Latin beauty.
“Do you speak English?” asked Jack.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Jack Swyteck, from Miami. I’m the lawyer for Bianca Lopez. Rafael’s husband.”
The ambush was necessary to gauge her reaction. If Jack had caught her off guard, she didn’t show it.
“What took you so long?”
“Can we talk?”
Josefina glanced toward the next ring. Her trainer, though working with another fighter, was watching Josefina—like a hawk.
“Not now,” she said. “And not here. My trainer misses nothing.”
Jack understood. “You name the time and place.”
She glanced again toward the next ring, then back at Jack. “Four o’clock. Heladería Coppelia.”
“An ice cream parlor?”
“ The ice cream parlor. El Vedado neighborhood. Packed with tourists.”
Obviously she wanted no one she knew to see her talking to an American lawyer.
“Okay,” said Jack. “It’s a date.”
Chapter 17
J ack ordered strawberry and chocolate, a nod to the famous film Fresa y Chocolate , in which the main characters meet at the Heladería Coppelia in Havana. Theo did him one better and ordered one scoop in every flavor. To his disappointment, only two of the twenty-six sabores on the state-owned menu were available— fresa y chocolate .
The claim of “world’s largest ice cream parlor” was debatable, but Coppelia was both a local landmark and a tourist magnet. The main pavilion was a modernist design, shaped like a flying saucer, and the park surrounding it occupied an entire city block that was within easy walking distance of Hotel Nacional de Cuba and other signature hotels in the relatively expensive Vedado district. Tourists could pay
“Gracias, chicas ,” said Theo.
Jack let the door close and said, “You just called them girls.”
“Those were girls, dumbshit.”
Jack had been so on-mission, wrapped up in his thoughts, that he hadn’t noticed.
The sounds of the gym were at the end of the hallway, and the sweaty smell of hot, stale air welcomed them to the training area. Jack counted six rings and two windows, neither of which was open. It had to be ninety degrees inside.
Jack walked up to the old man behind the desk. He was absorbed in his copy of the Granma , the official newspaper of the Cuban Communist Party—the name “Granma” borrowed from the yacht that had carried Fidel Castro and his band of rebels to Cuba’s shores in 1956, launching the revolution. Jack translated the above-the-fold headline to himself. The oil spill, front-page news across America, was apparently not as big a story as the 88 percent voter turnout in the election of delegates to the People’s Power Municipal Assemblies.
“Josefina Fuentes?” asked Jack.
The old man looked up from his daily. With a jerk of his head he indicated a ring to Jack’s right, where a young woman was sparring with a male fighter. Jack and Theo walked around the weights and mats on the floor and stood outside the ring. It was impossible not to admire the quick hands, sculpted arms, and amazing footwork.
Theo smiled at what he saw. “That girl is ripped.”
Jack took a step closer to the ring. Theo followed, unable to tear his eyes away from her. They watched for several minutes until the sparring ended. Josefina went to the ropes, where her coach gave her pointers as he removed her headgear and unlaced her gloves. Josefina’s trainer was beyond boxing age but looked as though he’d spent some serious time in the ring in his not-too-distant youth. He gave her a fist bump and moved to the next pair of fighters. Josefina was dripping with sweat as she walked toward the watercooler.
“Josefina?” Jack asked.
She stopped, removed her mouth guard, and smiled. Her face was a little puffy from the workout, but she still qualified as an athletic Latin beauty.
“Do you speak English?” asked Jack.
“Yes. Who are you?”
“Jack Swyteck, from Miami. I’m the lawyer for Bianca Lopez. Rafael’s husband.”
The ambush was necessary to gauge her reaction. If Jack had caught her off guard, she didn’t show it.
“What took you so long?”
“Can we talk?”
Josefina glanced toward the next ring. Her trainer, though working with another fighter, was watching Josefina—like a hawk.
“Not now,” she said. “And not here. My trainer misses nothing.”
Jack understood. “You name the time and place.”
She glanced again toward the next ring, then back at Jack. “Four o’clock. Heladería Coppelia.”
“An ice cream parlor?”
“ The ice cream parlor. El Vedado neighborhood. Packed with tourists.”
Obviously she wanted no one she knew to see her talking to an American lawyer.
“Okay,” said Jack. “It’s a date.”
Chapter 17
J ack ordered strawberry and chocolate, a nod to the famous film Fresa y Chocolate , in which the main characters meet at the Heladería Coppelia in Havana. Theo did him one better and ordered one scoop in every flavor. To his disappointment, only two of the twenty-six sabores on the state-owned menu were available— fresa y chocolate .
The claim of “world’s largest ice cream parlor” was debatable, but Coppelia was both a local landmark and a tourist magnet. The main pavilion was a modernist design, shaped like a flying saucer, and the park surrounding it occupied an entire city block that was within easy walking distance of Hotel Nacional de Cuba and other signature hotels in the relatively expensive Vedado district. Tourists could pay
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