Hell, he was military. U.S. friggin’ Navy.
Not that the Navy could give a rat’s ass, either. He’d spent the last three nights in the Guantánamo brig for breaking into the base dispensary at three in the morning. He’d copped some morphine and Dilaudid and was just easing out the jimmied back door when the MPs nailed him. The fact that he was stealing medicine for his dying mother didn’t even register.
Tell it to somebody who gives a shit, the MP who busted him had said.
He was sitting on the embassy steps drinking one of his little airplane Stolis and trying to figure out his next move when the weird chick appeared. Blond hair, cut short. Green eyes and big red lips and tits out to here. Christmas in July. Tank top and some kind of black spandex thing that stopped way above her knees. Yellow high heels. That clinched it.
He’d definitely died and gone to prostitute paradise.
The girl stopped and looked at him, lounging there on the steps of the Swiss embassy, Mr. Casual. Weird, but she looked familiar. She had these slanty Chinese eyes, but she didn’t look all that Chinese. Her skin was the color of one of those three-dollar mocha lattes at Starbucks.
Couldn’t tell if she was a working girl or not, more he looked at her. She had this gold collar thing around her neck that looked real. Had a little gold ring hanging down at the front. Hooker jewelry? Hell, they were all working girls, weren’t they? One way or another when you got right down to it, everybody and everything was for sale around here.
Amazingly enough, she climbed up the steps and banged on the door. He let her rap it a few times, then said, “It’s closed. Sunday.”
“What?” she said in English. All attitude this chick.
“You want a mink coat?”
She flipped him the finger and said something that didn’t sound too encouraging.
“How about we start with a big pitcher of sangria over at the Floridita?”
She stopped again, thought about it, turned around. She was checking him out. He yawned and stretched his legs out, cool as a Popsicle.
“Americano, huh?”
“Home of the brave, baby.”
“Yeah, right, Ernesto Junior here wants to buy me sangria at El Floridita, Papa’s favorite saloon. You’re just another Hemingway sucker, chico.”
“A who sucker?”
“Never mind. What happened to your lip?”
“You should see the other guy,” he said, liking how fast it came out.
“Yeah, that doctor. You broke his jaw. You’re the one who caused all that trouble at the hospital, right?”
He looked at her.
“You were there? I thought I’d seen you before.”
“My sister is head nurse there. She’s the one who told you about the embassy.”
“So you—like, what, followed me over here?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, chico. I had some business at the embassy, too—something to deliver for my brother.” She pulled a manila envelope out of her shoulder bag.
“Stick it under the door,” Gomez said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s full of money.”
“Oh,” he said, thinking, definitely not a working girl delivering cash to an embassy.
“So, adios,” she said, sticking the envelope back in her bag. He wondered how much money was in there. He could grab it and run. The Malecón was only a block away. He could melt into the crowds. Could she catch him wearing those bright yellow fuck-me shoes? I don’t think so.
“Hey, wait a minute, baby! Where you going?”
“Back to work.”
“You work on Sunday? Christ.”
“My brother has a club. I work there.”
“Yeah, what do you do?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Hey, that sounds good. Can I come?”
“It’s very exclusive. Members only.”
“I could join.”
She laughed so hard it pissed him off.
“You think I can’t afford it?”
“I know you can’t afford it. It’s the most expensive club in Havana. On the other hand—”
“What?”
“My brother might like you.”
“Why’s that?”
“He likes guys who like to beat the shit
Not that the Navy could give a rat’s ass, either. He’d spent the last three nights in the Guantánamo brig for breaking into the base dispensary at three in the morning. He’d copped some morphine and Dilaudid and was just easing out the jimmied back door when the MPs nailed him. The fact that he was stealing medicine for his dying mother didn’t even register.
Tell it to somebody who gives a shit, the MP who busted him had said.
He was sitting on the embassy steps drinking one of his little airplane Stolis and trying to figure out his next move when the weird chick appeared. Blond hair, cut short. Green eyes and big red lips and tits out to here. Christmas in July. Tank top and some kind of black spandex thing that stopped way above her knees. Yellow high heels. That clinched it.
He’d definitely died and gone to prostitute paradise.
The girl stopped and looked at him, lounging there on the steps of the Swiss embassy, Mr. Casual. Weird, but she looked familiar. She had these slanty Chinese eyes, but she didn’t look all that Chinese. Her skin was the color of one of those three-dollar mocha lattes at Starbucks.
Couldn’t tell if she was a working girl or not, more he looked at her. She had this gold collar thing around her neck that looked real. Had a little gold ring hanging down at the front. Hooker jewelry? Hell, they were all working girls, weren’t they? One way or another when you got right down to it, everybody and everything was for sale around here.
Amazingly enough, she climbed up the steps and banged on the door. He let her rap it a few times, then said, “It’s closed. Sunday.”
“What?” she said in English. All attitude this chick.
“You want a mink coat?”
She flipped him the finger and said something that didn’t sound too encouraging.
“How about we start with a big pitcher of sangria over at the Floridita?”
She stopped again, thought about it, turned around. She was checking him out. He yawned and stretched his legs out, cool as a Popsicle.
“Americano, huh?”
“Home of the brave, baby.”
“Yeah, right, Ernesto Junior here wants to buy me sangria at El Floridita, Papa’s favorite saloon. You’re just another Hemingway sucker, chico.”
“A who sucker?”
“Never mind. What happened to your lip?”
“You should see the other guy,” he said, liking how fast it came out.
“Yeah, that doctor. You broke his jaw. You’re the one who caused all that trouble at the hospital, right?”
He looked at her.
“You were there? I thought I’d seen you before.”
“My sister is head nurse there. She’s the one who told you about the embassy.”
“So you—like, what, followed me over here?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, chico. I had some business at the embassy, too—something to deliver for my brother.” She pulled a manila envelope out of her shoulder bag.
“Stick it under the door,” Gomez said.
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s full of money.”
“Oh,” he said, thinking, definitely not a working girl delivering cash to an embassy.
“So, adios,” she said, sticking the envelope back in her bag. He wondered how much money was in there. He could grab it and run. The Malecón was only a block away. He could melt into the crowds. Could she catch him wearing those bright yellow fuck-me shoes? I don’t think so.
“Hey, wait a minute, baby! Where you going?”
“Back to work.”
“You work on Sunday? Christ.”
“My brother has a club. I work there.”
“Yeah, what do you do?”
“Whatever it takes.”
“Hey, that sounds good. Can I come?”
“It’s very exclusive. Members only.”
“I could join.”
She laughed so hard it pissed him off.
“You think I can’t afford it?”
“I know you can’t afford it. It’s the most expensive club in Havana. On the other hand—”
“What?”
“My brother might like you.”
“Why’s that?”
“He likes guys who like to beat the shit
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