Havana

'You're a cop yourself, I can tell.'

'That's true. But I'm not on any kind of duty here. I'm just telling you what I think would work for you.'

'Yes, that would work in Manhattan. But this is Havana and this guy's a god around here. These cops and the barkeepers all love him.'

'Well, I could walk you out and get you a cab a block away. Don't want no trouble.'

But trouble, alas, was already there.

Earl felt a hand on his arm, and he was spun around with just enough force to imply the possibility of violence, and he found himself staring into the square, handsome face of a large American male. The fellow looked like some kind of Viking, bronze and broad and incredibly alive with hostility, a gristle of white beard clinging to but not quite obscuring his pugnacious jaw.

'Say, bub,' the man said to him, 'what the hell is going on here? Is he bothering you, Jean-Marie?'

'No, he is not bothering me. You are bothering me. Please, I just want to get out of here.'

'You hear that, mister?' the man said. 'You've upset the gal and she wants to leave. Who do you think you are, anyway?'

Earl was aware immediately that this was a strange situation. Everybody was staring at him. A semicircle had formed around them, the music had stopped, even the clink of the glasses landing on the marble tabletops had stopped.

'Sir, the lady asked me to call her a cab, that's all. I think I'll just go ahead and do that, if you don't mind.'

'Well, pal, it seems I do mind. Hmmm, don't we have a problem here though. It's called face. I'm bracing you so I can't back down, and you don't look like you've got much back-down in you either.'

'Sir, I don't want any trouble.'

A broad grin spread across the man's face, as if he'd just drawn better cards against good cards.

'Do you know who I am?'

'No, sir.'

'Sure you don't. You know, this happens to me all the time. Guys get lit up when they see me and they get all scratchy because they want to be the lion. So they come up to me. Oh, and when I don't back down, then all of a sudden they don't want to be the lion anymore. That's all right. I'm going to go easy on you. I'll just walk away with my female friend here and you go back to your little soda pop and it'll be?'

'That'd be fine, sir, if that's what she wants.'

'I don't want to go away with you, Mr. Hemingway,' said the Asian woman, Jean-Marie. 'I want to stay here.'

'Well,' said Earl, 'there you have it.'

The big man looked Earl up and down.

'I'm a boxer,' he said.

'Done some of that myself,' said Earl.

'I could flatten you in two seconds.'

'I don't think so.'

'Oh, well, I guess you showed me. Look, pal, let's part friends, okay?'

And with that the man threw his punch. It was absurdly telegraphed, as he pivoted just a bit, cocked his right shoulder, cocked his arm, and set his right foot before launch. The big fist flew at Earl like some sort of softball pitch from a woman, and as it swept toward him, Earl almost cracked a smile.

He ducked under it easily enough, then slipped an equally slow and oafish thing thrown with the left, where the man was not nearly as coordinated, and then Earl kicked hard, and both the man's legs flew out from under him and he hit the tiles with a crash. His arms and legs flew akimbo as he rolled, breathing hard, then he drew himself together as if to make another rush at Earl.

Earl bent close.

'Now, sir, I'd stay down. You could get hurt. I can use either my left or my right to work jabs into your middle and then knock you into 1965 with the other. I'll kill your guts so your hands quit and when they die, I'll kill your head. I don't want to go to no prison for breaking your jaw or nothing. You just stay put, and have a good laugh along with the rest of the folks.'

The man just glared at him, but made no move to get up.

Earl stood, turned to the exotic woman and said, 'You know, let's get you that cab.'

'Excellent idea,' she said.

They walked out hastily, pushing through the crowd that parted to let them by, turned left at the sidewalk, and soon separated entirely from La Floridita, down another nameless street, also choked with bars and people.

'Who are you?' she said.

'You wouldn't know the name. I'm nobody. Earl Swagger,' he replied.

'Oh!' She leaned back and appraised him. 'The bodyguard. Yes, that's who you'd be, all right. You're the big hero. Everybody says you're joining the bright young men on the third floor.'

'I don't know what that means,' Earl said.

'Oh, you can't keep secrets here, in a little town like this one. Really, I'd have thought you're a little straight-ahead for those boys. They think they're really clever. I wouldn't get too close to them. Roger's all right, but that creepy little assistant of his? I hate the way he pretends like he's not paying attention but you can see him writing everything down in his subconscious.'

'Thank you for the advice.'

'And I have to know. You really didn't know who that man was?'

'No.'

'Mr. Swagger, you are priceless. Really, I love it. Served him right, the blowhard. Hemingway. The writer. Famous, rich. He's a big fisherman and game hunter.'

'Seems I've heard the name,' said Earl, trying to place it, 'but I can't say where. Shotguns, is that it? He's some kind of shotgun expert.'

'I'm sure he is. Well, you made him look foolish.'

'I can't worry about that. He made himself look foolish.' Earl scanned the street for a cab. 'Look, there's one. Cab! Cabbie!'

His command voice got through the babble and the cab pulled over.

Earl escorted her to it, opened the rear door.

'There you go,' he said.

'You're not even going to buy me a drink or wait for me to invite you over?'

'Ma'am, I probably got myself in enough trouble back there. I don't need no other tonight.'

'No, I think the little boys you play with will think you're really cool. Not that you care. That's what I like about you, Mr. Swagger. You really don't care what people think, do you?'

'To be honest, no, I guess I don't, ma'am.'

She reached in her purse, and pulled out a card.

'Please don't call me ma'am. I'm not your great aunt. I'm Jean-Marie Augustine. I manage the TWA office here in town; my husband's a pilot, not that he's ever here. Anyway, this is a dangerous town, Mr. Swagger. I'm giving you my card. If you need a friend, you give me a call. I know people, I can make phone calls, I speak Spanish like it's my own language, because it is my own language. I can help you.'

'Thank you,' he said, 'but I'm not planning on staying around long.'

She laughed.

'That's what I said when I got here ten years ago. Good night, Mr. Swagger.'

'Goodnight, Mrs. Augustine.'

'By the way, you belong on this street. This is the street where you live.'

'My street?'

'Yes, look.'

She gestured to a painted sign on a building front right at the corner that identified the thoroughfare: Calle Virtudes, it said.

'Kai-yay Ver-tude-ez,' she said hard and fast, with a particularly forceful roll to the R's of Verrr-tude-ez.