The Film Club by David Gilmour Read Free Book Online Page A

through the trees; having a cigarette by the statue. Just beyond was the dome of the Museum of the Revolution.
    Jesse stepped into my view on the sidewalk below, baggy pants, turned-around baseball hat. He lit a cigarette as if he was in a movie, looked this way and that (I caught a glance of his mirror face) and then started across the street to the park bench. I was just about to yell down to be careful when a dark-skinned man in a yellow shirt came out of the darkness. He made straight for Jesse, his hand extended. I waited to see if Jesse would shake it. He did. Mistake. Two other Cubans materialized, smiling, nodding, standing too close. Pointing up the street. Incredibly (I could hardly believe my eyes), they headed off with Jesse in between them, diagonally, across the park.
    I put on my clothes and took the elevator down to the lobby. Big, high-ceilinged room, marble floors, chilly as a skating rink; canned music; a couple of security guys in grey suits and hand-held radios by the front door. They gave me a salute and buzzed open the door for me. The hot air hit me outside.
    I crossed the street and stepped into the park. A hooker picked up on me. She rose like smoke from a park bench and drifted across to me. I said no thank you, and went through the park, looking here and there, for Jesse. He must have headed down some side street with his new pals. But which one?
    I was moving down the east side of the park, near the taxis and three-wheel cocos , when I noticed, through the vegetation, a street heading alongside the city’s grand theatre. A bright light at the end. I followed it down till I came to the front of an open-air bar. The place was empty, except for Jesse having a beer, the three hustlers sitting close to him at the same table. He had a sort of worried look on his face as if it was starting to occur to him that maybe something wasn’t quite right here. I went over. “Can I speak to you for a second?”
    The hustler in the yellow shirt said, “You his daddy?”
    â€œYes.”
    I said to Jesse, “I have to speak to you.”
    â€œYeah, sure,” he said and scrambled to his feet. Yellow Shirt followed him out into the street, hovered nearby trying to hear. I said, “These guys aren’t your friends.”
    â€œI’m just having a beer.”
    I said, “You’re going to end up paying for a whole lot more than a beer. You buy these guys anything?”
    â€œNot yet.”
    The owner came out from the bar, a squat guy, very calm. Not surprised by any of this. He came over to Jesse and took him by the shirt sleeve.
    I said, “What are you doing?”
    The guy didn’t answer. He just kept walking back to the bar, holding on to Jesse’s shirt. I could feel my heart starting to thump unhealthily. Here we go. Fuck, here we go.
    I said to him in Spanish, “How much does he owe you?”
    He had Jesse back in the bar now. He said, “Ten dollars.”
    I said, “That’s pretty expensive for a beer.”
    â€œThat’s the price.”
    â€œHere,” I said, and put an American five on the table. “Let’s go.”
    But the owner said, “He ordered a rum. I’ve already made it.”
    I said, “You mean you’ve already poured it?”
    â€œSame thing.”
    I said to Jesse, “You touch that drink?”
    Jesse shook his head, scared now.
    I said, “Follow me,” and we started up the street. The hustlers came out after us. One of them came around and stood in front of me. He said, “He ordered a drink. Now he has to pay.”
    I tried to step around him but he stepped in front of me.
    I said, “I’m going to call the cops.”
    The hustler said, “Okay fine.” But he stepped back.
    We kept walking, the hustler bobbing around, pulling at my sleeve, his friends following behind, me saying to Jesse, “No matter what happens, keep walking.” We went across the