out of other guys. They’re always useful.”
Five seconds after she put two fingers in her mouth and blew the loudest whistle he’d ever heard, the biggest, blackest Chrysler Imperial on earth pulled up in front of the embassy. The driver, some muscleman in a black T-shirt, reached over and swung the door open for her. She hopped in the front, leaned over, and gave the guy a big kiss.
Gomez didn’t see her sliding over for him up front so he climbed in the back. The car was mint, like just off the showroom floor. Even had that smell.
“What year is this?” Gomez asked as the guy took off down the narrow street.
“Fifty-nine,” the guy said, and turned around and smiled at him. Big gold tooth up front. “Está bueno, no?”
“This is my cousin Santos,” the chick said, squeezing the back of the guy’s neck. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Gomez.”
“I’m Ling-Ling,” she said.
“Ling-Ling,” Gomez said, liking the sound of it. “You know how Chinese people name their kids?” he asked. “They throw all their silverware up in the air and name the kids after the sound it makes when it hits the floor. Ling-Ling, huh? Sounds like a salad fork.”
Nobody said another word until they pulled up in front of a big wooden gate set in a high pink wall. Gomez had been following their route on his map. They’d driven all along the Malecón with the Castillo del Morro on his far right, looking like an ocean liner entering the stormy harbor. Big rollers came in from the Atlantic, crashing over the seawall at Punta Brava, the spray misting the Chrysler’s windshield.
Now they were in the shady El Vedado section where all the big old houses were. Most of them built sometime before 1959 B . C . Before Castro.
Gomez and the chick climbed out.
“Hasta mañana,” her cousin said, slapping his meaty brown hand on the door a couple of times. Guy must have been wearing ten gold bracelets. Gomez watched the Imperial slide off into a tunnel of green branches hanging dark and heavy, brushing the top of the car as it slid away.
“Well, this is it,” Ling-Ling said, pushing a button in the wall and waving up at one of the video cameras.
“What’s the club called?” Gomez asked as the heavy doors started to swing inward.
“The Mao-Mao Club.”
They stepped through the gates, and Gomez said, “This isn’t a club, it’s a jungle.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We have every kind of bird and animal. Even jaguars and leopards.”
“No kidding,” Gomez said, trying not to sound scared. He seemed to remember somebody getting eaten by a leopard in a movie.
After five minutes of ducking under trees and climbing over banyan roots that had buckled the old walkway, they came to another gate. This time, the gate swung open automatically into a courtyard and there was a little Chinese guy standing there in red silk pajamas. He had a silver tray in his hand with some kind of drink in a tall silver cup.
“Every new guest receives one,” Ling-Ling said. “It’s called Poison. Try it.”
“I love poison,” Gomez said, and took a sip. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life.
“You make this stuff?” he asked the Chinaman. The little fellow giggled and scurried away. Probably doesn’t speak a word of English, Gomez thought, hardly surprised.
“This way,” Ling-Ling said. “My brother is probably at the bar in the casino.”
They walked around a pool about half the size of a football field that had a huge splashing fountain in the middle of it. The fountain had some guy with a giant pitchfork riding in some kind of Roman chariot pulled by a bunch of dolphins and whales. Guy had his arm around this mermaid. Biggest damn mermaid tits you ever saw. Solid gold? Had to be.
Gomez heard a shriek and saw a girl climb out of the pool, naked, and watched her get chased by this old fat guy into one of the cabanas that lined both sides of the pool. The girl was wearing the same kind of gold
Five seconds after she put two fingers in her mouth and blew the loudest whistle he’d ever heard, the biggest, blackest Chrysler Imperial on earth pulled up in front of the embassy. The driver, some muscleman in a black T-shirt, reached over and swung the door open for her. She hopped in the front, leaned over, and gave the guy a big kiss.
Gomez didn’t see her sliding over for him up front so he climbed in the back. The car was mint, like just off the showroom floor. Even had that smell.
“What year is this?” Gomez asked as the guy took off down the narrow street.
“Fifty-nine,” the guy said, and turned around and smiled at him. Big gold tooth up front. “Está bueno, no?”
“This is my cousin Santos,” the chick said, squeezing the back of the guy’s neck. “Sorry, I don’t know your name.”
“Gomez.”
“I’m Ling-Ling,” she said.
“Ling-Ling,” Gomez said, liking the sound of it. “You know how Chinese people name their kids?” he asked. “They throw all their silverware up in the air and name the kids after the sound it makes when it hits the floor. Ling-Ling, huh? Sounds like a salad fork.”
Nobody said another word until they pulled up in front of a big wooden gate set in a high pink wall. Gomez had been following their route on his map. They’d driven all along the Malecón with the Castillo del Morro on his far right, looking like an ocean liner entering the stormy harbor. Big rollers came in from the Atlantic, crashing over the seawall at Punta Brava, the spray misting the Chrysler’s windshield.
Now they were in the shady El Vedado section where all the big old houses were. Most of them built sometime before 1959 B . C . Before Castro.
Gomez and the chick climbed out.
“Hasta mañana,” her cousin said, slapping his meaty brown hand on the door a couple of times. Guy must have been wearing ten gold bracelets. Gomez watched the Imperial slide off into a tunnel of green branches hanging dark and heavy, brushing the top of the car as it slid away.
“Well, this is it,” Ling-Ling said, pushing a button in the wall and waving up at one of the video cameras.
“What’s the club called?” Gomez asked as the heavy doors started to swing inward.
“The Mao-Mao Club.”
They stepped through the gates, and Gomez said, “This isn’t a club, it’s a jungle.”
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? We have every kind of bird and animal. Even jaguars and leopards.”
“No kidding,” Gomez said, trying not to sound scared. He seemed to remember somebody getting eaten by a leopard in a movie.
After five minutes of ducking under trees and climbing over banyan roots that had buckled the old walkway, they came to another gate. This time, the gate swung open automatically into a courtyard and there was a little Chinese guy standing there in red silk pajamas. He had a silver tray in his hand with some kind of drink in a tall silver cup.
“Every new guest receives one,” Ling-Ling said. “It’s called Poison. Try it.”
“I love poison,” Gomez said, and took a sip. It was the best thing he’d ever tasted in his life.
“You make this stuff?” he asked the Chinaman. The little fellow giggled and scurried away. Probably doesn’t speak a word of English, Gomez thought, hardly surprised.
“This way,” Ling-Ling said. “My brother is probably at the bar in the casino.”
They walked around a pool about half the size of a football field that had a huge splashing fountain in the middle of it. The fountain had some guy with a giant pitchfork riding in some kind of Roman chariot pulled by a bunch of dolphins and whales. Guy had his arm around this mermaid. Biggest damn mermaid tits you ever saw. Solid gold? Had to be.
Gomez heard a shriek and saw a girl climb out of the pool, naked, and watched her get chased by this old fat guy into one of the cabanas that lined both sides of the pool. The girl was wearing the same kind of gold
Similar Books
