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Chapters (40)
  1. Sin determinar
  2. ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
  3. ONE
  4. TWO
  5. THREE
  6. FOUR
  7. FIVE
  8. SIX
  9. SEVEN
  10. EIGHT
  11. NINE
  12. TEN
  13. ELEVEN
  14. TWELVE
  15. THIRTEEN
  16. FOURTEEN
  17. FIFTEEN
  18. SIXTEEN
  19. SEVENTEEN
  20. EIGHTEEN
  21. NINETEEN
  22. TWENTY
  23. TWENTY-ONE
  24. TWENTY-TWO
  25. TWENTY-THREE
  26. TWENTY-FOUR
  27. TWENTY-FIVE
  28. TWENTY-SIX
  29. TWENTY-SEVEN
  30. TWENTY-EIGHT
  31. TWENTY-NINE
  32. THIRTY
  33. THIRTY-ONE
  34. THIRTY-TWO
  35. THIRTY-THREE
  36. THIRTY-FOUR
  37. THIRTY-FIVE
  38. THIRTY-SIX
  39. EPILOGUE
  40. THE END

“Then why are you carrying them all over Havana?” He held the briefcase down with his hook and opened it with his hand. “Because” he said, “they're not maracas anymore.” And sliding his hand into the briefcase, he pulled out a very serious looking automatic pistol. “Hey presto” he said.

I thought of Chutsky lugging the briefcase all over town to meet Ee-bangh, who then came in with an identical briefcase —both of which were shoved under the table while we all sat and listened to “Guantanamera'.

“You arranged to switch briefcases with your friend” I said.

“Bingo.”

It does not rank among the smartest things I ever said, but I was surprised, and what came out of my mouth was, “But what's it for?”

Chutsky gave me such a warm, tolerant, patronizing smile that I would gladly have turned the pistol on him and pulled the trigger.

“It's a pistol, buddy” he said. “What do you think it's for?”

“Um, self-defense?” I said.

“You do remember why we came here, right?” he said.

“To find Brandon Weiss” I said.

“Find him?” Chutsky demanded. “Is that what you're telling yourself?

We're going to find him?” He shook his head. “We're here to kill him, buddy. You need to get that straight in your head. We can't just find him, we have to put him down. We've got to kill him. What'd you think we were going to do? Bring him home with us and give him to the zoo?”

I guess I thought that sort of thing was frowned on here” I said. I mean, this isn't Miami, you know.”

“It isn't Disneyland, either” he said, unnecessarily, I thought.

“This isn't a picnic, buddy. We're here to kill this guy, and the sooner you get used to that idea the better.”

“Yes, I know, but—”

“There ain't no but,” he said. “We're gonna kill him. I can see you have a problem with that.”

“Not at all” I said.

He apparently didn't hear me —either that or he was already launched into a pre-existing lecture and couldn't stop himself. “You can't be squeamish about a little blood” he went on. “It's perfectly natural. We all grow up hearing that killing is wrong.” It kind of depends on who, I thought, but did not say.