Chango's Beads and Two-Tone Shoes Read Free

Gardner.”
    “You are clearly a born novelist,” Hemingway said.
    The beautiful brunette had come in with a man maybe twenty years her senior and they were talking head to head. He was tall and thin, well-tailored in a tan cord suit that his shoulders filled out, white shoes, and yellow tie, a handsome figure who seemed overdressed for the very warm and humid night. He was giving close attention to the young beauty, and it was these two who had drawn the wave from Hemingway.
    “What is her relationship to the man?” Hemingway asked.
    “Close, but he wants it closer.”
    “You are closing in on chapter six.”
    “You know her? I saw you wave to her.”
    “I waved at the man, Max Osborne,” Hemingway said. “He works in your abandoned profession—an editor at the Havana Post, very smart and also an American spy who talks about his spying to everybody. Some consider him a political buffoon but that seems to be his cover. I know a great deal about spying. I was a spy for several years and they called me a buffoon. They didn’t know twiddle about the Nazis I hunted. Soon Max will come over to talk to us.”
    “Will he bring the girl?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then I won’t have to contrive how to meet her.”
    “A lucky day for Mr. Quinn. While we wait we’ll continue our analysis elsewhere. Tell me, who is the biggest jerk in this place?”
    Quinn scanned the room and focused on three noisy American men standing at the bar, which was filling up, all tables already occupied. “The man in the sailor straw hat and the orange shirt,” he said.
    “We’ll drink a daiquiri and then test out your intuition,” Hemingway said. He ordered the drinks and told the bartender to ask the man in the sailor straw to come over. The three Americans stared at Hemingway and then the man in the orange shirt came down the bar with a two-day growth of beard and a panatela between his teeth.
    “How ya doin’, bub?” he said through the cigar. “You wanna talk to me?”
    “Just admiring your hat and wondering why you’re in Cuba,” Hemingway said.
    “My wife thinks I’m at a sales convention in Miami. But we came down here on an airplane to gamble and check out the women.”
    “You’re a sly devil. But this isn’t the best place in Havana to gamble or to find women either.”
    “We already found them. Who are you?”
    “I’m Dr. Hemingstein and this is my son Daniel. And you?”
    “Joe Cooney from Baltimore. What kind of a sawbones are you, Dr. Hemingstein?”
    “I’m a doctor of writing. I also actually write stuff.”
    “A writer. Hey, I’m a writer too. I write new lyrics for old songs.”
    “Could you write a new lyric for Daniel and myself?”
    “Sure. Any particular song you like?”
    “You know ‘Sliding Down Your Cellar Door’? I learned it as a boy.”
    “Sure, I know it. You want me to do new lyrics for it?”
    “You think you can?”
    “Give me a few minutes I’ll sing ’em for you.”
    Joe Cooney went away and everybody smiled.
    “So far your intuition is getting high marks,” Hemingway said to Quinn.
    The man and the beautiful brunette got up from their table.
    “Here comes the bride,” Hemingway said.
    Max made his hello and introduced his sister-in-law, Renata Suárez Otero. Hemingway introduced Quinn as his nephew. Quinn stared at Renata to engrave her beauty in his memory. He felt the impulse to take her face in his hand and kiss her before he spoke one word to her. He restrained himself and said only, “ Hola. ”
    “Is she a real sister-in-law, Max, or just cover for your spying on us here?” Hemingway asked.
    “I retired from spying last year,” Max said. “You can’t trust anybody anymore.”
    “We are related,” Renata said. “Max married my sister, Esme.”
    “Esme Suárez. I know Esme,” Hemingway said. “She sang for the troops in Europe during the war.”
    “That’s where she met Max.”
    “I’ve heard her sing. She has a large talent. Isn’t she in New