impel him onward. He had none of that now. He felt tired and old, and his wife and son were oh so far away in Arkansas, as were his friends, his hopes, his ambitions.
Fuck, he thought. I am going to die in a prison.
Maybe the cavalry would get here in time, maybe it wouldn't. But for now he could do nothing but wait and ache and pray.
Some time passed, though here in the Centro tank no sense of a concept called 'time' truly existed. He may have passed out. Possibly it was near dawn. He wasn't sure. He felt human warmth, and blinked.
He looked up. Three men loomed over him. They dangled shivs from hands, blades formed from spoons or screwdrivers or whatever. Their eyes had the blank look of killers. The pride they had in what they were capable of doing-anything-radiated off them. Two of the three had scars, which meant that the one without was really dangerous.
Earl was flat against the wall, on a bench that passed for a bed. He had no room to maneuver. They towered over him, pressing in, all advantage to them, none to him. If he rose, they'd gut him quickly enough. If he stayed down and balled up, they could cut him bad enough that he'd lose his strength, then pry his limbs away in that fashion, longer but going the same inevitable destination, and get their blades into his guts.
'Hey, Joe,' said the scarless one, 'choo got money?'
'I don't have nothing, friend,' said Earl.
'Oh, that is very bad. I want to help you, but my friends here, they want to cut you now.'
'They can cut me all they want, but they're not going to get any money, because I don't have any money.'
'Then maybe they cut you for fun.'
'I ain't done nothing to you. Please leave me alone.'
He had decided on the balled-up defense. It wasn't much but it was all he had. Now it was a question of how quick he could get his knees up to his chest and bury his face and throat in them and lock his arms around his legs.
'We don't like Yankees. El Colorado tells us choo people come here and fuck our women and steal our crops and make us your monkeys, and we don't like it nohow. Cuba libre, motherfucker.'
'Just leave me alone,' said Earl. 'I ain't done a thing to you.'
'I think we have to teach norteamericano a lesson. Charlie, you are the history lesson of the evening.'
Suddenly a fourth party joined the exchange.
He said, 'Excuse me, gentlemen, but would any of you be interested in purchasing a very fine vacuum cleaner?'
'He's where?' said Walter Short.
'The police took him,' said Lane Brodgins. 'I don't know?'
'You idiot! You moron! Who the hell gave you authorization to head to Zanja Street?'
'Congressman Etheridge doesn't need authorization, Short. Who the deuces do you think?'
'You moron! If anything happens to Earl, I will personally see that your career is so completely destroyed you won't even be able to get a listing in the phone book!'
'You cannot?'
'You were to get him here so we could develop him. That was the point. That was the only point. This wasn't a let's-get-Boss-Harry-laid mission.'
'You try and tell a United States?'
' You had an obligation to us. We put money into this, we are picking up the tab, we are getting you great press, you had one job to do?'
But it was pointless.
He slammed down the phone. Then he deslammed it and quickly called Roger, who answered groggily. He explained.
'Oh, Christ,' said Roger.
'We can handle this. I have friends in the Cuban State Police.'
'You would, Short.'
'Roger, I have to do the shit so you can be the golden boy at the Yacht Club tennis tournament. Now please get dressed, get a cab, get over here. Meanwhile, I have to think.'
He hung up, then started dialing.
There was a moment of dumbfoundment.
All eyes-the three thugs', Earl's-went to the vacuum representative, to discover a scrawny scarecrow of a man with a bristle of gray hair, wearing a baggy linen suit. His face looked as if history itself had marched across it several times in several climates. He spoke with some indeterminate European accent and had the palest eyes Earl had ever seen.
Then he smiled.
'Hey, you, get the fuck outta here!' screamed one of the assailants, drawing himself up to full power and stepping forward to thrust his bull-chest against the skinny man. 'You, go, I cut your?'
That assertion was halted by the evening's biggest surprise: what could only be the sound of a small pistol firing.
Everyone looked down to discover that the European vacuum salesman had just shot out the knee of the knife-wielder, who collapsed. As he fell, the European caught him, twisted an arm behind his back, and stuck the muzzle of the small gun into his throat.
He spoke in a commanding Spanish of such intensity it was amazing, not only in fluency, blasphemy and eloquence but also force, for the seriousness of his argument was instantly recognized, and the others backed off.
The wounded man crawled away, howling.
Earl, astounded, watched them go.
The man sat next to him.
'As I was saying, I have a very nice upright model, superpowered, what we call the Atomvac 12. It's not atomic-powered of course, but you know how sales brochures love to exaggerate. Anyhow, it's new to the island, has a thirty-foot extension cord and?'
'Who the hell are you?'
'Ah, yes. Of course. Vurmoldt, Acme Vacuums. This is my territory. I don't seem to have a card on me. Perhaps you have one on you and I could call and make a more formal presentation.'
'A vacuum salesman with a gun?'
'It comes in handy.'
'I'll say, bub.'
Earl stared at him in the darkness. What astounded him was the utter finality with which the vacuum salesman had just shot a man, then forgotten about it. That was the first mark of a professional. Shooting a human being isn't an easy thing and some people never come back from it and you see it in their eyes forever. Yet this Vurmoldt, of Acme Vacuums, had done it precisely, even scientifically, and had not wasted a single breath on it. It was necessary, he did it, and now he had moved on to other arguments.
'You seem to have been in some scrapes, if you don't mind my saying so,' Earl told him.
'The recent ugliness. Oh, it was quite unpleasant. I was shot at in France by French, in Russia by Russians, in Italy, then France again, and finally in Germany itself, all by Americans. Quite annoying, you know. Possibly you and I exchanged shots at Normandy or the Ardennes offensive?'
'I was in the Pacific killing Japanese. Though I'd have been happy to shoot you too, if you'd given me the chance.'
The man's face lit in laughter.
'Say, you are a scamp!'
'My name is Swagger, Mr. uh?'
'Vurmoldt. Lower Silesian. An old family of mercantile disposition. The vacuums, by the way, really are quite an excellent product. You would be pleased.'
'Earl!'
Earl looked up. It was Roger St. John Evans, rushing down the corridor, flanked by nervous-looking Cuban
