Havana Red Read Free

him at Headquarters and the Count didn’t like the idea of bumping into them in a place like this.

    The cheap marble tables were round, iron legged and piled high with bottles. A cold bright light lit the space and a cassette recorder played at top volume the mournful songs of José Feliciano, whose voice did its best to drown out the drinkers’ voices. By the sink, two metal tanks sweated ice against the heat. Candito walked over to a table in one corner, occupied by two awesome-looking specimens. He spoke quietly. The men agreed to give up their seats: one was huge, fair-haired, a good six feet tall with long, dangling arms, a face as cratered as the moon’s surface; the other was smaller, his skin so black it was blue, and he just had to be a direct grandson and universal heir to Cro-Magnon man himself: Darwin’s theory of evolution was reflected in the exaggerated jutting of his jaw and the narrow forehead where the eyes of a wild beast of the jungle glinted yellow. Red Candito gestured to the Count to push Carlos’s chair nearer and to the men to bring three beers.
    â€œWhat did you tell that pair of troglodytes?” the Count mumbled as they sat down.
    â€œCalm down, Conde, calm it. You’re anonymous here, right. Those guys are my business legs.”
    The Count turned to look at the big blond, who was now approaching the table with their beers; he placed them on the table and then, without a word, walked over to the tanks.
    â€œThey’re your bodyguards, you mean?”
    â€œThey’re my legs, Condesito, and they have a hundred uses.”
    â€œHey, Candito,” Skinny butted in. “What’s a lager cost these days?”
    â€œDepends how you get it, Carlos. Right now it’s tricky and I sell it for three pesos. But yours is on the house, and no arguing, OK?” And he smiled as Cuqui
appeared with a plateful of strips of ham, and cheese with biscuits. “All right, darling, carry on relaxing with that soap.” And he stroked her backside farewell.
    The ice-cold beer restored a degree of peace to the Count’s over-heated spirit, and he regretted gulping down the first bottle almost in one go. Now he was only irritated by the aggressive volume of the music and the sensation of vulnerability he felt at turning his back on the other customers, but he realized it was Candito who had to survey the remaining tables and decided to stop worrying when the blond guy replaced the empty bottle with a full one. Efficiency was returning to the island.
    â€œWhat are you up to, Conde?” Candito drank in small gulps. “I’ve not seen you in ages.”
    The Count tried the ham.
    â€œI’m in the doghouse, because they suspended me after I had a row with an idiot there. They’ve put me on form-filling and won’t let me as much as look into the street . . . But you’ve switched tack completely.”
    Candito took a long swig from his bottle.
    â€œNo choice, Conde, and you know it: you can’t let yourself get burnt in any business. The shoes thing was half down the shoot and I had to change track. You know it’s real hard in the street and, if you don’t have a peso, you’re no longer a player, you know.”
    â€œIf you get caught, you’ll be in dire straits. God won’t spare you one hell of a fine . . . And if they catch me here, I’ll be in the doghouse for the rest of my life.”
    â€œDon’t get like that, Conde, I tell you there’ll be no dire straits.”
    â€œYou still go to church, I suppose?”
    â€œYes, sometimes. You’ve got to keep on good terms with some people . . . Like the police, for example.”
    â€œStop talking shit, Candito.”

    â€œLeave off, gents,” interrupted Skinny. “These beers are dead and gone. Tell them to pour me another, Red.”
    Candito lifted his arm and said: “Three more.”
    The fair-haired guy served them again.