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“I like this club,” Gomez said, following Ling-Ling into the cool shade of the main house.
She stopped and looked at him. “There is one rule,” she said. “There are many famous people here. If you recognize someone, you don’t look at them or speak to them. Okay?”
“Got it,” Gomez said, searching the faces at the roulette tables for someone he recognized. He saw one cat looked a lot like Bruce Willis, but he wasn’t a hundred percent sure because of the dark glasses.
They found her brother sitting at the far end of the long mahogany bar, talking quietly to some guy with a long black ponytail. “Ciao, Manso,” her brother said to him, and the ponytailed guy immediately stood up and turned away.
“Rodrigo,” Ling-Ling said. “This is Seсor Gomez. He is someone I thought you would like to meet.”
Rodrigo stood and stuck out his hand to Gomez. Manso, the ponytailed guy he’d been talking to, wandered off through the casino. Probably famous, because he was careful not to show his face. Swishy walk, Gomez thought, watching the guy. Gay bar? No way. Too much stuff ru
“Buenas tardes,” the man said. “A cordial welcome to Club Mao-Mao.” Smooth as silk, man.
Still, Gomez almost lost it.
The man’s eyes were completely colorless.
There was the normal white part. And then, in the middle, where the color usually is, they were totally transparent. Like the guy had a pair of clear marbles in his eye sockets.
“Do I frighten you, seсor? Sorry. I sometimes have that effect on strangers.”
“No. I just—”
The guy was a piece of work all right. Tall and thin and movie-star handsome. Dressed in a white linen suit with a pale blue silk shirt. Thin gold chain around his neck. Had the same mocha latte skin as his sister. Same peroxide blond hair, too. But those eyes were out of some horror movie.
“What do you do, Seсor Gomez?” Rodrigo asked. “If I may ask?”
“United States Navy. I’m a sailor. Stationed over at Guantanamo.”
“So, what brings you to our ancient capital?”
“A two-day pass. My mother, she’s, uh, in the hospital. She’s dying. Stomach cancer.”
“You are cubano, no?”
“Yes. My mother stayed here when my father took me from Mariel Harbor to Miami in eighty-one. He died last year at Dade County. Prostrate cancer.”
“Prostate.”
“What?”
“I believe the word is prostate, seсor. In any case, I’m sorry to hear of his passing. Won’t you have another drink?” He signaled the bartender and another silver cup arrived.
“Thank you,” Gomez said. “These are great.” He was already feeling the first one, but what the hell. Stuff was frigging delicious.
“You had an unfortunate experience at the hospital, I understand,” Rodrigo said.
“Yeah, this goddamn American embargo. My mother is in such pain that—wait a minute, how’d you know about the hospital?”
“My sister. We talk on the phone all the time. You are opposed to the American policy?”
“You could say that.”
“The americanos try to punish Cuba but they only hurt women and children. Do you like to gamble, Seсor Gomez? Blackjack? Baccarat? Chemin de fer?”
“Twenty-one,” Gomez said. “Is that the same as Blackjack?”
“Exactamente,” Rodrigo said. He opened a white marble box that was sitting on the bar. It was full of chips, one hundred-, five hundred-, one thousand-dollar chips. He counted out ten one thousand-dollar chips and stacked them in front of Gomez.
“Compliments of the house,” he said, flashing a big white smile. “Ling-Ling, would you introduce Seсor Gomez to our head croupier? Make sure he’s well taken care of at the tables, darling.”
“Of course,” Ling-Ling said. “Won’t you come with me, Seсor Gomez?”
“Love it,” Gomez said. “And, could I, uh, get one more of these poison things?”
Gomez followed Ling-Ling’s sashaying little spandex butt out toward the casino floor, thinking, have I absolutely died and gone to heaven here or what?
“Jack!” he said, passing a guy in a very sharp sharkskin suit who was rolling the bones. Guy had to be Nicholson. He recognized the haircut and shades from People magazine. “My man, what’s up?”
“Jesus Christ,” Ling-Ling hissed at him. “Didn’t you hear what I fucking told you?”
“Yeah, right. Sorry.”
Chick was pissed. All right, we can deal with that. How many times in his life is a guy going to rub elbows with Jack Goddamn Nicholson? A little slack here, Ling-Ling, please.
“Autograph out of the question, I guess,” he said, following her through the maze of tables.
“You got a pen?” the chick says, giving him a look over the shoulder. “I’ll autograph your dick if there’s enough space to write on.”
“Hey, ease up. I said I was sorry.”
“Here’s your table, sailor boy. This is Francisco. He will take care of you. Okay? Bo
The chick started to walk away. He grabbed her arm.
“Hey. Question. What’s with your brother’s eyes?” Gomez asked her. “You don’t mind me asking.”
She turned and stared at him.
“My brother was imprisoned for twelve years,” Ling-Ling said. “He was kept in a small room with no light. None. No natural. No artificial. The lack of light just leaches all the color out.”
“Man. So, how did he get out? Seems to be doing okay now, I mean.”
“He said that if they’d let him out for just one day he would do anything. Literally anything they asked. They gave him something to do that was extremely—unpleasant. He was permanently released the following day. Now my brother and I are together again.”
He didn’t know where he was when he came to, but he was pretty damn sure that it wasn’t Hugh Hefner’s bedroom at the Playboy Mansion.
He was sitting in a hard wooden chair in a room with no other furniture. Nothing on the floors or the walls. Not even windows. His hands were duct-taped to the arms of the chair, his ankles bound to the chair’s legs. He didn’t know how long he had sat there with his head pounding before he heard a door open behind him.
“Ah, Seсor Gomez,” he heard a familiar voice say. It was, what was his name, Rodrigo. “Did you have a nice siesta? You’ve slept for almost twenty-four hours.”
“What’s the—what’s the deal here? I thought you, uh, that you—” His tongue felt way too big for his mouth.
“The deal is this, Seсor Gomez. You owe the Mao-Mao Club one hundred thousand dollars.”
The guy pulled out a piece of paper and held it in front of Gomez’s face. He tried to focus but everything was out of whack.
“There is the ten thousand I extended you as a courtesy. When you exhausted that, you indebted yourself to the house for another hundred thousand. At the bottom is your signature. I am forgiving you the ten, because it was a gift.”
“What’s the, uh, what do you—”
“You have exactly one week to repay. You must understand that I am not one who forgives his debtors as they forgive him.”
“I can’t … I don’t … how will I get the money?”
“That is hardly my concern, seсor. Now, turn your left palm upwards.”
The man pulled a pair of nasty-looking silver scissors from his pocket and snipped the blades a couple of times.
“Hey, wait! What are you—”
“Two associates of mine will contact you in a few days. Tell you where to bring the money. I’m going to mark you now so that they will recognize you. Turn your left palm upwards, please.”
“I can’t … please … the tape is too tight.”
“Here, let me help you.”
Rodrigo slashed the tape that bound Gomez’s wrist, flipped his hand over, and crushed his left wrist to the arm of the chair.
“Hey, you can’t—”
Rodrigo looked into Gomez’s face with his two colorless eyes as he slashed the sailor’s palm with the scissors blade. Gomez saw all the bright red blood spattering this guy Rodrigo’s white linen suit, and the lights went out again.