he toppled over.
“Coleman!”
Felicia dashed for the street. “I’m going ahead. Call you on your cell…”
Calle Ocho
Coleman grabbed a lamppost and panted. “Why did Felicia have to take the car?”
“Coleman, you never smoke a cigar in Little Havana. They’re stronger than the coffee.” Serge shielded his eyes against the sun and looked up the street. “Enough rest. We need to shake a leg!”
Coleman pushed off from the pole and began staggering again. “How much further?”
“Farther. Three blocks.”
“I don’t think I can make it.”
“You’re acting like vultures are circling.”
Coleman pointed at the sky. “What are those?”
“Vultures. Don’t look up anymore.”
“I think I’m going to faint.”
“See the restaurant sign up there?” Serge dragged him toward it. “Cuban cuisine.”
“Versailles?” asked Coleman. “Is that Spanish?”
“No, ironic,” said Serge. “Like back at the Official Little Havana gift shop-in arguably the most virulent anti- Communist enclave in the world-selling souvenir domino sets ‘Made in China.’ My own people no less… Just keep walking.”
“Serge?…”
“Whoa!” Serge dashed over and yanked him back onto the sidewalk. “Try to stay out of traffic.”
Coleman tripped over the curb. “How come you always know where you are in Florida?”
“Lots of hours with maps, photos, and an aggressively encouraged obsessive-compulsive order.”
Coleman stumbled forward. “Don’t you mean dis order?”
“Only when it’s a bad thing,” said Serge. “But those people have problems. Like the ones who hoard newspapers and magazines until their homes are stacked to the ceiling with little place to walk until the piles eventually collapse, and the bulldozers find them crushed to death by their own shit. That’s why I only collect small souvenirs like pins and matchbooks.”
“Has it ever collapsed on you?”
“Yes, but I only twisted an ankle,” said Serge. “Speaking of geography awareness, did you notice all the double street signs around here?”
“Double?”
“Saturating idiosyncrasy throughout Little Havana.” Serge steadied Coleman by the arm and continued west. “There are the regular designations on the signs like Fifth Avenue and Tenth Street, and then second memorial names, mainly Cuban patriots, prominent politicians, a Brothers to the Rescue pilot shot down by a MiG, and Jose Canseco. The sign for Miami Sound Machine Boulevard kept getting stolen until Gloria Estefan’s solo career took off. Her father actually participated in the Bay of Pigs.” Serge pointed various directions. “They’ve used up so many signs that they’re running out of space and starting to triple up, like Southwest Seventh Street/Claude Pepper Way/Calle Simon Bolivar… Don’t think too hard about it and just let the magic wash over you…”
Coleman stopped at another lamppost. “How come Little Havana looks so different from all the other places we go in Florida?”
“All the signs are in Spanish?”
“No, I get that,” said Coleman. “Just something… off.”
“I know what it is,” said Serge. “Look around and it’ll hit you.”
Coleman slowly rotated in place on the sidewalk. Transmission shop, pawnshop, bakery, nail salon, farmacia, meat market. He stopped turning when he was facing Serge again. “Still can’t place it.”
“No chain stores!” said Serge. “All independent mom-and-pop’s. Not a single Rooms-to-Fucking-Go in sight. Isn’t it heaven?”
“I think I’m dying.”
Coleman didn’t die. But he wasn’t attractive when they finally reached air-conditioning and the maitre d’s stand inside Versailles.
A spiffy-dressed man cradled menus. A professional smile. “Two for lunch?”
“Three.” Serge angled his head toward a table. “The rest of our party’s already here.”
“Right this way…”
The maitre d’ led them on a winding course through the dining room, toward a seated woman staring daggers at them.
“Great,” Serge said sideways to Coleman. “Another chick pissed at me. The pattern of my life.”
“Maybe she has gas,” said Coleman.
“No, it’s chicks. I’m always in trouble without a clue. Married men are geniuses.”
“Could be her time of the month.”
“You might have something there.” Serge nodded to himself. “That would explain it. When it’s the wrong day-grab a helmet! I just give ’em all my money, point at the door, and say, ‘Call me when The Exorcist is over.’ Now I feel guilty for misjudging her… On the other hand, if she isn’t on the rag, I’m unfairly being taken advantage of for my sensitivity.”
“Why don’t you just come right out and ask her?”
“Used to do that, but funny thing: Even if the answer’s no, it only seems to make things worse. You and I freely exchange information without getting huffy.”
“I always warn you not to come in the bathroom when I’m spanking my monkey.”
“Exactly,” said Serge. “But women clearly don’t want that kind of data. And then they barge in without knocking and have a problem with that.”
“They don’t understand because they use appliances.”
“Better pipe down now-we’re almost there.”
They arrived at the table.
Serge manufactured his most engaging smile and pulled out his chair. “Sorry, we’re late.”
Coleman pulled out his own chair. “Are you on your period?”
“What!”
Serge chuckled awkwardly and punched Coleman in the shoulder.
“Ow.”
Serge scooted his chair in and opened a menu. “What looks good?”
Felicia stared down at her own menu. “Notice the corner booth by the front window?”
“Yeah,” said Serge. “Evangelista, eating alone.”
“The contact went to the restroom before you arrived.”
Coleman nudged Serge and giggled. “Spanking it.”
“Serge!” said Felicia. “What’s wrong with your friend?”
He shrugged. “I keep trying to explain the off-limit topics around women, like how a lot of guys walking down the street are mentally undressing you gals and fantasizing tittie-fucks.”
“Serge!”
“Just giving an example of an off-limit. How else will you know what a gentleman I am?”
“This is serious.” She glanced again at Evangelista’s table. “That’s the contact’s briefcase next to his chair.”
“Recognize this contact?”
“Yes, but I don’t remember where.” Felicia turned a page in her menu. “American. I think he’s famous or something. Was hoping you could peg him when he comes back.”
“Do my best.” Serge squeezed lemon into his water. “Whoever it was did me a favor by picking this place as the meet point. I could eat anything in here, especially the palomilla steaks.”
Coleman knocked over a glass. “Didn’t break. No foul… What’s so special about the joint?”
“Versailles is the cultural dining epicenter of Little Havana. It’s an off hour right now, but at peak times, this place is a humming hive of exile political debate.”
“Looks like a regular restaurant.”
