Suspicion of Rage Read Free Page B

bailar. That means 'Let's dance.' See that man over there? He's been teaching me things to say at the clubs in Havana."
    "Oh, Mother, please, you haven't been talking about it."
    "He's cute, isn't he? And he's not married. No es casado."
    Gail pulled her mother into the hall. "Have you seen Anthony? I've lost him, and we've really got to start making an exit."
    "Already?"
    "You know how Cuban parties are. It's going to take an hour just to say good night to everyone. I haven't finished packing, and we have to be at die airport at eight in the morning."
    "Fine. We'll go." Her eyes went back to her friend.   "Oh, you asked me about Anthony. He was here a   minute ago wanting to know where you were." She   pointed across the foyer. "He went down that hall, he   and that little black man who works for Mr, Pedrosa—   well, not really black. They say mulato, don't they? I've forgotten his name."       
    "Hector Mesa."
    Irene went on," Mulato. Negrito. My friend over there said they use those words all the time in Cuba, and nobody cares."
    Gail gazed along the empty corridor on the opposite side. It led to Ernesto Pedrosa's study. Anthony had been summoned there. For what? Not so the old man could slip him some traveling money. He would be demanding explanations and making threats. Anthony would stand there calmly, letting out a breath through his teeth. He would offer no apologies. He would slam the door on the way out and swear on his mother's grave not to enter this house again. That would last for as long as it lasted, or until everyone else was worn out and begged them to reconcile.
    "Mom, could you find Karen for me? I think she's playing pool in the game room. I'll be right back."
    The corridor ran past a vacant sitting room, then turned. Wall sconces lit her way, and her high heels tapped softly on the tiles. She shifted her weight to her toes. As she neared the door, she could see it was closed, no surprise. She tilted her head to listen. No one was yelling, which was odd. Male voices came from inside, but they were too muffled for her to make out the speakers, not that she doubted who was in there.
    She lifted her hand to knock.
    "Señora?"
    Startled, she turned to find a small, gray-haired man in a somber suit and black-framed glasses. He might have dropped silently down from the ceiling on a web, for all the notice he gave.
    "Hello, Hector. I'm looking for Anthony."
    "He is with el viejo."
    "Yes, I thought he might be. It's late and we need to go."
    Hector Mesa shrugged. "They have a meeting, and some friends of Señor Ernesto will be here in a minute. I'll tell Señor Anthony that you looked for him." Hector
    extended a hand toward the way she had come, an invitation to leave.
    "A meeting at this hour? With whom?"
    Another shrug. "I think some people from out of town."
    There was a separate entrance around a turn in the hall, and if guests came and went, they could do so unnoticed. Gail said, "And you don't know who they could be, or where they're from. How long is this meeting supposed to last? Should Karen and I catch a ride home with my mother?"
    "If you wish, but I think it will be not so long." The creases in his forehead deepened as if it pained him to lie to her. Gail had learned things about Hector Mesa: He had worked in black ops for the CIA. He carried a folding knife in his belt and a .22 Beretta on his ankle; he had used them both. She doubted there was much that pained him. If Hector Mesa was posted outside the door, it meant something was going on. Or not. She could never quite be sure.
    "All right. When you see Anthony, could you please tell him we need to go home?"
    "Of course, señora." The little man made a slight bow, and the sconces in the corridor flashed their dim light on his glasses.
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    A faded Cuban flag, with its blue-and-white bars and red triangle, had been hung like an Old Master behind the desk. The brass picture light picked up spatters of