But then Roger noticed something, a lump under the coat, left side, under the arm where it oughtn't to be.
"You're armed?"
"Yes, sir. Today and every day."
Roger sort of slid around and, looking across the chest, he could see the grip of a pistol protruding just half an inch from the shoulder holster that contained it. He brightened, because he recognized it.
"Oh," he said, "your old.45? I carried one, too."
"Close enough," Earl said. "Yeah, it's a Government Model, but not a.45. It's what's called a Super.38."
Roger knew just a little about guns.
"Super? It must kick?"
"Much less than a.45. The point is, it holds two more rounds. Nine. It shoots a little small bullet, about half the weight of a.45, but much faster. It'll go through most anything. I figured down here if I'm shooting-and I hope to hell I'm not-I'm shooting through or at a car. Sometimes a.45 won't even get through a car door."
Roger suddenly lit up. He had it!
" Say," he said, "I know! You're a shooter, a hunter. Would you like to shoot pigeons while you're down here? You know what, I'd like to put you together with Hemingway. He's a great shotgunner. Damn, that would really be something. You're a hero, he's a hero, he'd love you. I'll bet you're a great shotgunner."
"I've shot ducks. In Arkansas, we flood the rice fields in the fall, and the mallards come in. Many a fine morning I've spent there with a good friend. I hope to take my boy duck hunting soon."
"Hemingway," said Roger, from his reverie. "Let me work on that! A little shooting party. You, Hem, possibly the ambassador, down at Finca Vigia. We'll hunt, then roast the ducks, drink wine, or rum punch or vodka. I've known him since the war. You'll love Hemingway. He's a man's man. Wait till you see his place, his trophies. He has a buff you simply would not believe. Oh, say, won't this be something?"
"Uh," said Earl, "who's this…Hemingway?"
Before Roger could register incredulity at the fact the state policeman had never heard of America's most famous writer, a new presence swirled in on them. It was Lane Brodgins, a little drunk, clearly on a mission from Harry.
"Evans, Sergeant Earl, howdy. Great party, Evans. You boys know how to throw a hoedown and damn if Harry doesn't appreciate it."
"Ah, yes," said Roger. "Well, as I was telling Sergeant Swagger, this is just the warm-up. Next Monday, the stars come out."
"Say, that's a great idea! Harry will like that one, he will. Earl, you should relax. You're off duty now."
"I'm fine."
"I have a feeling Sergeant Swagger will only relax in his grave, if there," said Roger.
Swagger, for the first time, let a crease of a smile play across his face. Roger had been flattering him hard, not easy work but he was good at it, and finally the effort was beginning to tell.
"Tell you what," he said, "maybe I'll have a Coca-Cola."
"That's the spirit, old man!" said Roger. He snapped his fingers, a waiter appeared. "El Coca-Cola, por favor," he said, sending the man off on his mission.
"I was just telling Sergeant Swagger I thought I could put an afternoon of pigeon shooting together. He's a great sporting shot, I hear. It happens I know Hemingway a bit and we could all go down to Finca Vigia and shoot pigeons. Hem's a shotgun man."
"Who's Hemingway?" asked Lane Brodgins. Then he turned to Earl.
"Sergeant Earl, you'd better finish that Coke and then head back to quarters for your beauty sleep. The congressman has decided he has to see the Cuban criminality firsthand, for himself. So that means tomorrow we've arranged for a tour of certain areas. Who knows what we'll run into."
"Good God, where are you going?" asked Roger.
"Zanja Street," said Brodgins. "You know, in Centro, where the whores and the Shanghai theater and the―"
"Zanja," said Roger, with a shudder that indicated how tasteless he considered the mention. "Sergeant, you'd better bring two Super.38s."
Chapter 6
The Soviet Trade Legation was located on the upper floor of the new Missiones Building, nos. 25 and 27, in a section of Centro Havana formerly known as Las Murallas-the Walls. At one time the old city's walls had been the dominant feature, but they were now being dwarfed in the building boom as American-financed and — designed skyscrapers were taking off like rocketships all over the landscape, as Havana transfigured into Miami. The Missiones Building, however, had been designed by a Frenchman, and so it lacked the bold, soaring modernism of the New Havana of Batista's second regime; it looked, in fact, like something out of Barcelona or Madrid in the twenties, rather than something out of Las Vegas in the fifties.
And so it was that Speshnev, in espadrilles and loose-fitting peasant's trousers and shirt, found himself sitting across from a rather intense young man in a suit, with hair brilliantined back glossily, who looked more like an American investment banker than a Soviet spymaster. Young Arkady Pashin was brilliant, feared, despised, connected, vigorous, tireless, ruthless, ambitious and oh such a pain in the ass.
"Speshnev, you were supposed to be here at 10 A.M. It is 10:05 A.M. This is not acceptable, it is not permissible, it is not desirable. We must maintain tight discipline here. We are outmanned, under-budgeted and without adequate resources. Only discipline and dedication will see us through here, through these difficult times. Do you see?"
"Pashin, they told me you would be a monster. But, young man, I had no idea that you would also be such a little prick." He smiled warmly.
"Look, old goat," said bloodless Pashin through thin lips, "this was not my idea. I have a number of very promising projects going on here. This came from some doddering genius at Moscow Control who knows nothing of the complexities of the situation. I don't need a hoary old myth who's disobedient and insubordinate, eating up my time and budget for nothing."
"It was a nice day in the spring sunshine. An old man wandered a bit on the way over, to smell some flowers, to smell the warm sea. The Boss would have sent me back to the gulag for such treason, but at least for now, Pashin, you lack the power. You have to play along. It has been ordered. So any shit you give me is unsanctioned, pure sport on your part."
"And they said you'd be a proud one. Still the Comintern movie star. The vanity, the narcissism, the love of self. That is why you'll never be a true Soviet man. You can't let the love affair you have with your mirror go; you're too used to being special."
"I am a humble servant of the people. Just make certain you get the name right. It's Zek 4715."
"All right, all right. This is getting us nowhere. You have a job to do, that is why you are here. I'm assuming you're already on it."
"I don't report to you, Pashin."
"No, but my reports will help you or hurt you. Wouldn't it be nice if mine helped you and yours helped me."
"Both our reports should help the revolution, that's all. But to get through the business, yes, I've nosed around. I've seen our young prince. Did you know he has a nickname? I assume he was initially your discovery? So you have a lot riding on this and are probably annoyed I was brought in to handle him, because you were not considered experienced enough. Well, his nickname speaks of his power, his promise, his grand possibilities and your excellent nose for such matters. Do you know what it is?"
"I am not interested in―"
"It's 'Greaseball.' Evidently, he's so anxious to hurtle into the socialist future, he periodically forgets to bathe. Ugh. Did you smell him before you saw him? I can't stand a dirty fellow when there's no excuse for it. I have quite recently gone nine years without a bath. Not pleasant. I will bathe every day of what little life I have left."
"Forget his odor. Concentrate on his potential. Have you heard him speak? It's magnificent."
"I have heard accounts. He likes long ones, or so I hear. And I hear also he likes the spotlight."