Tropic of Darkness by Tony Richards Read Free Book Online Page B

time they stopped in front of him—they had become the size of headlamps. This was how a mouse inside a hole had to feel, being stared at by a cat.
    They studied him curiously for a while. Then finally they blinked, began to fade away.
    But they did not vanish completely. They remained faintly in the background for the whole remainder of the dream, as if they were studying his reactions.
    The darkness in its turn gave way to a warm although subdued lighting. Which revealed marble pillars, an ornate ceiling, and massive potted palms. There were tapestries on the walls, revolving fans in the ceiling, a floor so polished it reflected like the surface of a lake.
    He was in a hotel lobby, but it was not the Portughese. Instead, it was . . . the Nacional, he understood. From where?
    And then he kept wondering how he knew that. Because he’d never even seen the outside of the Nacional.
    But something else had changed as well. Something of even greater importance.
    He wasn’t Jack Gilliard any longer. His name was . . .
    Mario Mantegna . . . ?
    He turned to straighten his tie in a mirror.
    *   *   *
    It was a bowtie, on a stiff winged collar of the detachable type. He was wearing a tux—once again, not of any modern style. More like something from an old black-and-white movie. And the face above the collar was a good five years younger than his own. Latino and very handsome. Full and smooth and with a strong, square jaw. Black hair was slicked against his scalp. There were rings on his manicured fingers when he glanced down.
    Near the armpit, there was a distinct bulge in the fabric of his jacket. He could feel a solid weight there, and the pressure of a holster. He was carrying a gun.
    He’d never owned a gun before. Only the knife. Or had he?
    He grinned at his own reflection, pleased with the shape that he was in. And then was brought smartly around by a bellow from the far end of the lobby.
    â€œMario Mantegna! Welcome to Havana, you good-looking son-of-a-bitch!”
    The stumpy figure trundling in his direction was Eddie Lanzarro. “Cold Eyes” Eddie, from Detroit. They had been friends ever since they’d jointly solved the problem of an awkward prosecutor in Seattle.
    â€œMario, am I pleased to see you!”
    The man was barely five-foot-four, but the word “stocky” didn’t even begin to describe him. He was like a squat barrel of muscle with a head and limbs attached. His face, below his graying, short-cropped hair, was creased with pleasure. Except that Mario could see that his eyes were as dull and without warmth as they always were.
    They embraced each other tightly. Glancing across his shoulder, Mario saw the man had brought along four local girls.
    â€œWell, Jesus!” he beamed, staring at them. They were slender and sultry and quite gorgeous. “Things look like they’re as good down here as everybody says.”
    Mario waved his hand at his surroundings. “We own this place?”
    â€œEvery inch. Meyer always did have taste.”
    â€œHe here?”
    â€œNah, tied up in Vegas for a few more days. He’ll be here though. He might even take you to meet Batista. But hell, what’re we talking business for? We’ve got a couple days clear and, trust me, you ain’t gonna believe this town. These broads are just for starters.”
    They went out to the forecourt. Piled, all six of them, into a cab and headed across into the Old Town.
    This —Jack figured, turning in his sleep— was not the present. It had to be the fifties. The vintage cars were new. The buildings of Havana were not crumbling as yet. There were fresh paintwork and bright lights everywhere he looked. And Batista was still president.
    Another era. 1958, to be exact. And how did he know that, either?
    They passed restaurants and nightclubs, strip joints and casinos. Mario couldn’t even start to take it in.
    â€œSweet