Havana Bay by Martin Cruz Smith

Author:Martin Cruz Smith [Smith, Martin Cruz]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 9780307809759
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Published: 2012-01-24T23:00:00+00:00

Ofelia reached the pool at the Casa de Amor and heard Los Van Van on the radio in a room overhead singing “Muevete!”—Move it!—and it was as if wooden claves were dancing down her spine and she thought, not for the first time, how she distrusted music. So it had been a shock for her to put her fingers on the Russian’s vein and feel the rhythm of his pulse. “Don’t mess unless you want to be messed with” was one of her mother’s favorite sayings. Along with “Don’t move your ass unless you’re advertising.” Sometimes she thought, Moving your ass, that was the Cuban Method. That was why life was such a mess, because at the worst times and with the worst of men some signal would trickle down from her brain and say, “Muevete!” On the street in the shade of a ceiba tree sat a ’57 Dodge Coronet with private plates she had been allotted for surveillance work. Its front bumper hung on wires from too many collisions. She knew the feeling.

Since the shore on this stretch of Miramar was stone flats and coral rubble, the Casa de Amor was built around a pool area, empty except for two boys playing table tennis. Early afternoon was the time when most jineteras and their new friends from abroad would be riding rickshas around Old Havana, sipping mojitos in the Bodeguita del Medio or listening to romantic music in the Plaza de la Catedral. Later, boutique hopping and dinner in a paladar, where a plate of rice and beans could cost a Cuban’s weekly salary, back to the Casa de Amor for a little sex and then the long evening out at the dance clubs.

When Cuban couples came to the Casa de Amor to consummate their passion, no rooms were ever available. But for “love couples” of jineteras and tourists, yes, there was always a room with fresh sheets, towels and a vase with a long-stemmed rose. Ofelia had discovered that complaints to the police had gone nowhere, which merely meant that the police themselves were protecting the motel. At the room rate of $90 a night, the cost of first-class accommodations at the Hotel Nacional, there was reason to protect such a gold mine, even if the gold was mined with the sweat of Cuban girls.

A heavyset woman in coveralls swept the street with a branch besom at a steady six strokes a minute. Ofelia stationed herself by an ice machine under the stairs to the second floor and listened to the music and occasional footfall from the rooms overhead. Only the middle two units were occupied—just as well, since her manpower and time were so limited. The boys at the Ping-Pong table finished one game and started another.

The Russian, she had decided, was a disaster to be avoided. Just the light in his eyes was like the ember of a banked fire warning, “Don’t stir.” It was bad enough he was a danger to himself; his story about Luna was insanity.

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