try one.”
“Naw. I just might like cigars. I’ve made it this far without smoking, I’m going to try to go all the way.”
They paused outside a nightclub and listened to the music pouring out. “That’s a good band.”
“If you close your eyes, this sorta feels like Miami Beach.”
“Miami del Sud.”
They walked on. “So what do you hear?”
“The pacifiers are working. All three of them. This afternoon Vargas talked to his subordinates about this and that, the minister of finance had phone sex with a girlfriend, and Castro’s top aide talked to the doctors for an hour.”
“How is the old goat doing?”
“Not good, the man said. The doctors talked about how much narcotics to administer to ensure he didn’t suffer.”
“Any guesses when?”
“No.”
“The Cuban exile, El Gato, where does he fit in?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“He’s in the casino now with three Russian gangsters, people he knows apparently, playing for high stakes.”
“El Gato is supposed to be an influential and powerful enemy of the Castro regime,” Chance muttered. “Sure does make you wonder.”
“Yeah,” said Carmellini. He and Chance both knew that the FBI had an agent and three informers in El Gato’s chemical supply business looking for evidence that it was the source of supply for some of the makings of Fidel Castro’s biological warfare program. So far, nothing. Then El Gato unexpectedly swanned off to Havana. Chance and Carmellini were coming anyway, but now they had a new item added to their agenda.
And Castro was dying.
“I’d like to know what the Cat is going to tell all his exile friends when he gets back to Florida,” Tommy Carmellini said. “Maybe if he winds up in the right offices we’ll find out, eh?”
That reference to the executive pacifiers made Chance grin. He puffed the cigar a few times while holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger.
“You don’t really know much about smoking cigars, do you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chance put the cigar between his teeth at a jaunty angle and puffed fearlessly three or four times. Then he took the thing from his mouth and held it so he could see it. “Wish I could get the hang of it,” he said. “Cuba seemed like a good place to learn about cigars.”
He tossed the stogie into a gutter on the street.
“Makes me a little light-headed.” Chance grinned sheepishly and wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow.
He stood listening to the sounds of the crowd and the snatches of music floating from the bars and casinos, thinking about biological weapons.
Angel del Mar was only a half hour past the mouth of the harbor when the fisherman beside Ocho Sedano pulled at his arm to attract his attention. Then he shouted, “We will reach the Gulf Stream soon. The swells will be larger. We are too deeply loaded. We must get rid of what weight we can.”
The boat was corkscrewing viciously. Ocho nodded, passed Dora to the fisherman, pulled open the wheelhouse door and carefully stepped inside.
The captain worked the wheel with an eye on the compass. The faint glow from the binnacle and the engine RPM indicator were the only lights—they cast a faint glow on the captain’s face and that of Diego Coca, who was wedged
in beside him, the gun still in his hand. Both men were facing forward, looking through the window at the sheets of spray being flung up when the bow smacked into a swell with an audible thud. The shock of those collisions could be felt through the deck and walls of the wheelhouse.
“You are suicidal,” the captain shouted at Diego. “The sea will get worse when we reach the Gulf Stream. We are only a mile or two from it!”
Diego backed up, braced himself against the aft wall of the tiny compartment, pointed the pistol in the center of the captain’s back. He held up his hand to hold off Ocho.
“You took the money,” Diego said accusingly to the captain.
“Don’t be a fool,
“Naw. I just might like cigars. I’ve made it this far without smoking, I’m going to try to go all the way.”
They paused outside a nightclub and listened to the music pouring out. “That’s a good band.”
“If you close your eyes, this sorta feels like Miami Beach.”
“Miami del Sud.”
They walked on. “So what do you hear?”
“The pacifiers are working. All three of them. This afternoon Vargas talked to his subordinates about this and that, the minister of finance had phone sex with a girlfriend, and Castro’s top aide talked to the doctors for an hour.”
“How is the old goat doing?”
“Not good, the man said. The doctors talked about how much narcotics to administer to ensure he didn’t suffer.”
“Any guesses when?”
“No.”
“The Cuban exile, El Gato, where does he fit in?”
“Don’t know yet.”
“He’s in the casino now with three Russian gangsters, people he knows apparently, playing for high stakes.”
“El Gato is supposed to be an influential and powerful enemy of the Castro regime,” Chance muttered. “Sure does make you wonder.”
“Yeah,” said Carmellini. He and Chance both knew that the FBI had an agent and three informers in El Gato’s chemical supply business looking for evidence that it was the source of supply for some of the makings of Fidel Castro’s biological warfare program. So far, nothing. Then El Gato unexpectedly swanned off to Havana. Chance and Carmellini were coming anyway, but now they had a new item added to their agenda.
And Castro was dying.
“I’d like to know what the Cat is going to tell all his exile friends when he gets back to Florida,” Tommy Carmellini said. “Maybe if he winds up in the right offices we’ll find out, eh?”
That reference to the executive pacifiers made Chance grin. He puffed the cigar a few times while holding it carefully between thumb and forefinger.
“You don’t really know much about smoking cigars, do you?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Yes, sir.”
Chance put the cigar between his teeth at a jaunty angle and puffed fearlessly three or four times. Then he took the thing from his mouth and held it so he could see it. “Wish I could get the hang of it,” he said. “Cuba seemed like a good place to learn about cigars.”
He tossed the stogie into a gutter on the street.
“Makes me a little light-headed.” Chance grinned sheepishly and wiped a sheen of perspiration from his brow.
He stood listening to the sounds of the crowd and the snatches of music floating from the bars and casinos, thinking about biological weapons.
Angel del Mar was only a half hour past the mouth of the harbor when the fisherman beside Ocho Sedano pulled at his arm to attract his attention. Then he shouted, “We will reach the Gulf Stream soon. The swells will be larger. We are too deeply loaded. We must get rid of what weight we can.”
The boat was corkscrewing viciously. Ocho nodded, passed Dora to the fisherman, pulled open the wheelhouse door and carefully stepped inside.
The captain worked the wheel with an eye on the compass. The faint glow from the binnacle and the engine RPM indicator were the only lights—they cast a faint glow on the captain’s face and that of Diego Coca, who was wedged
in beside him, the gun still in his hand. Both men were facing forward, looking through the window at the sheets of spray being flung up when the bow smacked into a swell with an audible thud. The shock of those collisions could be felt through the deck and walls of the wheelhouse.
“You are suicidal,” the captain shouted at Diego. “The sea will get worse when we reach the Gulf Stream. We are only a mile or two from it!”
Diego backed up, braced himself against the aft wall of the tiny compartment, pointed the pistol in the center of the captain’s back. He held up his hand to hold off Ocho.
“You took the money,” Diego said accusingly to the captain.
“Don’t be a fool,
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