it opened, proud yet at the same time a dump.
'Look, it's no place to hide,' said Latavistada, pointing to the window known to be apartment 205, Esmerelda's. 'It's too far to jump to the street. There's no balcony, so he can't swing to another apartment or climb to the roof. There is only the one door as a way in or out, and the one little window. He should have done better.'
Frankie was tense. This guy was slippery, he had to be crushed. Tonight would end it for good.
'You sure this information is fresh? I don't see nothing going on in there.'
'No, that is it. That is where both mamasita and her girls from down the street say Esmerelda lives. Number 162, Calle Zanja, 205, second floor. That's it. He's there, he has to be.'
'Shouldn't we just do this goddamn thing? He knows he can't be there forever. Sooner or later he's going to make a move and we don't want to lose him. Not in this mob.'
Taxis, old cars, even the odd Cadillac wandered up and down Zanja Street. The whores lingered on the street corners. Men crowded into the Shanghai, and also at various loud arcades along that side of the street. There was the Bambu as well, next to the Shanghai, and its tables were full of smokers and drinkers and laughers. It was the human race, gathered to fuck for just a few pesos, here on Zanja Street.
'They start a new movie soon. The crowd will die. Then we move.'
He leaned forward, peering hard into his binoculars.
'Yes, two men are on the roof. Yes, they are in position. Yes, let me check, down the street, yes, down the street the other way. Yes. Frankie, are you ready?'
Frankie made sure his tie was tight, his hat was low. He had the Star machine pistol and this time he knew how to run it good. He'd practiced. It was locked and loaded. A little twitch of the trigger and it was jitterbug time. Plus, he had his two.45 Colts.
The captain made a last check on the Mendoza 7mm, then hefted it. The corporal had a sledgehammer; there was nothing to check. Being methodical, he checked it anyway.
The captain rose from behind the car and nodded to the man at the nearest traffic blockade. That fellow spoke into a radiophone to the other car at the other end of the block, and then he and his partner hauled the sawhorse into the street and halted traffic.
Latavistada led. The three men crossed the street and loped along it, each festooned with his heavy weaponry. They stayed steady with the last knot of cars emptying the street. But then they reached the building and ducked inside, down a central corridor that smelled of garbage.
That passageway yielded to the courtyard, which was encircled by the building's two levels of balconies. They headed up the wooden steps to the first, turned left and went three doors to no. 205.
That was all. There was no ceremony or ritual of preparation. They reached the door, the corporal recoiled with the sledge, then put his massive strength behind it and unleashed a blow: the door blasted open, its locking mechanism shattered.
Frankie was in first, knowing exactly that he owned whatever lay beyond. He moved like a ranger, remembering stuff. He remembered to pinch off the safety so the machine pistol was alive, like a dangerous snake. He remembered to move swiftly in a straight line, as he hunted. He knocked over chairs, he ducked around corners, with the gun always pointing, ready instantly to unleash a burst.
But there were no targets. Or, rather, there was no Earl Swagger. No, there was only a fat gal swaddled in blankets, on her knees in a devotional position before a candle which itself was under a painting of the Virgin. She looked up in horror as Frankie bore down on her with his war face on, his mouth clamped tight in savagery, and she made no attempt to evade or cower as he kicked her in the face, knocking her to the floor so as to continue in his crusade.
But then he realized it was pointless: other than the praying gal, the apartment was empty.
He remembered to put the safety back on the Star so he wouldn't drill himself, set the gun down and returned to the central drama, which had already begun: Captain Latavistada and the woman.
She cowered. The captain yelled at her in Spanish, the full force of his magnificent manhood engaged. He was like a vulture, his wings spread and flapping, his eyes glaring, the beak hungry for blood. When she would not answer, he struck her hard, in the face, knocking out her teeth, which Frankie saw were dentures. The Indian righted her by her hair, and she spat at Captain Latavistada, though he was quick enough to avoid the slow-moving gob, and he repaid her with a terrible blow to the face. He beat her methodically for a few minutes, asking no questions, while the other policemen gathered in the doorway, watching the master at work. He worked her body, her nerve endings, her spine for maximum pain. She bucked spastically in the grip of the Indian as the captain had his way. Finally, he stood back, and the Indian dropped her. She fell in a heap to the floor.
Gently the captain knelt. He cushioned her and drew her upright, soothing her pain and fear, cooing to her.
Esmeralda faced him and spoke.
She spoke in pride and love. She spoke in nobility and triumph.
Latavistada looked over at him.
'We are too late, my friend, I am sorry to say. Half an hour ago, a man and three negro sailors came. The norteamericano went with them. Esmeralda understood that their destination had to be the harbor. If he is there, he is lost. Alas, if he is on a boat, he has escaped.'
The frustration rose like a steam in Frankie's mind, scalding him. He wanted to crumple in agony, the pain was so intense. So close, yet so far. Not quite fast enough. Never had a chance. That fucking guy was always ahead of him. He was a slippery motherfucker, he was-
'Wait,' said Frankie, as inspiration struck. 'I have an idea.'
'It's too late.'
'For most men. Most men'd get on that boat and take off and not look back. Not this one. I know what'll bring him back.'
'Frankie, my friend, you speak in riddles.'
'Come on. And bring the woman,' Frankie said. 'And your scalpel.'
Chapter 58
With each step, each turn, each new smell, his sense of lightness grew more intense. They walked, tightly knotted, down Zanja Street toward the Capitolio, and no one paid them any attention. They were just another knot of men, five of them, two whites and three negroes, tightly clustered, pushing their way through the throng under the gaudy bright lights of the clubs and the bars.
'You see, two men hurrying along together, people might notice. So I brought these fine negro men and we are a crowd, a mob, tribal and instinctive in our lust for pleasure and freedom, sailors or tourists or soldiers, who would notice?'
Skirting El Capitolio, they entered the crazy streets of Old Havana, with its latticework of vivid neon overarching the narrowness, its grottos of tiny bars and bodeguitas, its cobblestones and crowds. They plunged down Lamparilla, straight toward the harbor, and soon a breeze full of sea smells reached them.
They ducked under an arch, and broke out of buildings proper, and the docks were before them. Tankers floated serenely, and huge freighters, like skyscrapers on their sides. Cranes towered above, reminding Earl even in the dark of preying birds, their hungry wings outstretched. Garbage was everywhere; nobody cleaned up the docks.
'Up here. It's not far.'
And it wasn't. In a gap between ships there was a smaller dockage for smaller craft, and they headed toward it. Dozens of fishing boats and pleasure craft-some spiffy, some old wrecks-bobbed at the ends of spidery piers that shot out into the serene harbor. It didn't take long to find a scow called the Day's End, with its one mast, its twists of netting, its low waterline.
'I can't let you belowdecks. There's sensitive equipment there. You understand.'
'I don't give a shit what you have aboard. You can listen to the squids all day long, for all I care.'
Two more blacks lounged aboard the Day's End, and waved as their comrades approached. A white officer
